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“Sure.”
She huffed out a breath. “I bet you don’t have embarrassing sex stuff you need to talk about.”
“Ahh, you never know. There is plenty of stupid shit that I did as a horny teenager.”
“I don’t think it’s the same as realizing you can never have sex again because you were beaten and raped by the man you thought loved you.”
“No. It’s nothing as terrible as that. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t talk to me. Or if you need to, we can find you another therapist to talk to.”
She squirmed. “I don’t have the money for that.”
“I don’t recall saying that you were going to pay.”
“Hack!”
He just raised his eyebrows as he gave her a stern look. “I won’t be hearing any protests out of you, Little girl. I’m going to do whatever is necessary to take care of you. And I’m not just talking about your physical health. Your mental health is just as important. You don’t have to tell me right now. But eventually, we’ll need to talk about this. However, there’s something I want you to know.”
She stared up at him.
“You are my number one priority. Whatever you need, I’m going to give you. And I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”
34
You are my priority.
It felt like someone that one of the heroes in the books she liked to read would say.
She sat at the dining room table and watched Hack move around the kitchen, making a late lunch of grilled cheese.
This all seemed so . . . normal. Ordinary.
Why wasn’t he more upset? She’d basically told him that she couldn’t have sex with him.
He thinks he can fix you.
He set a plate filled with grilled cheese on the table. He’d already put a couple of bottles of water down.
“What if no amount of therapy fixes this?” She waved her hand over herself.
“First of all, I do not like the way you talk about yourself,” he said sternly. “You’re not broken. You were attacked, abused, and traumatized. That doesn’t just disappear on its own or suddenly get better.”
“It’s been eight years. Shouldn’t I be better? Sometimes . . . sometimes it feels like I take one step forward and two back.”
“Are you the same as you were directly after it happened? Have you not changed in those eight years?”
She sat back, surprised at that question. “No, of course not. Back then . . . I could barely even function.”
“Would you have been able to let me hug you? Would you have trusted me to take care of you during a snowstorm?”
“God, no.” She couldn’t even imagine letting him touch her.
“I’m sorry that it feels like you’re going backward, but if you really think about the last eight years you’ll realize you’ve come a long way.”
“I guess so. I just thought . . . hoped I would be better. That coming back here might help.”
“You have to be patient with yourself. And you have to let people help you. Have you spoken to anyone else about everything you went through? When you have bad days is there someone you can call? When you have a breakthrough? Is there someone who cheers you on? Who is there to catch you when you fall?”
“No.”
