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“You’re mourning the girl you lost,” I clarify.
“Her too,” he counters, our fingers knitting together in an intricate dance as old as time itself. “I doubt we’ve changed that much.”
“Grey, we’re very different people,” I clarify.
But he dismissively scoffs.“See, that’s where you’re wrong.We’re different from the people who dated San and had plans with him.You and I, we were irrevocably altered within the confines of that apartment as they fucked with our minds and our bodies.I know that woman.I lived her pain—I still dream of her.”
Greyson isn’t entirely wrong, but he’s not entirely right, either.I want to believe that despite our past, I’ve managed to piece myself together.
“Why are you here?”I question one more time, aware that our stolen moment is ticking away.Soon, someone will come over with a laptop, expecting me to initiate his file and admission process.I’ll have to walk away and leave him to some other doctor who won’t know how to help him and might not let him out for a while.
His chuckle is steeped in bitterness.“Have you read that fucking biography?”
“Obviously, I did, since I wrote it,” I mumble.
Greyson scoffs.“Of course you did.I could hear you, the sweetness underneath every word.Why did you do it, Aerin?”His breath comes out ragged.“Fuck, Ae, you wrote that you gave up.I wanted to do the same.That’s why I’m here.I don’t know how to deal with ...you, the fucking book, my future.”
“First of all, I did it so people wouldn’t look for me.But there’s one thing you have to know: You don’t have to deal with me,” I state, keeping my voice steady.“I don’t need to be part of your life.”
Suddenly, he turns to me, his green eyes fierce.“You’re a fucking part of me.I breathe because you exist.Even when I couldn’t see you, I knew you were around.I can’t live without you, but I can’t ask you to be with me, either.I don’t deserve another chance.”
If my job and therapist license weren’t at risk, I’d pull him into a hug right now and tell him he’s worth it.He’s always been the one who holds us together—our glue.
I recall the first time I met him and how relentless he was about getting me out of my shell and making sure someone cared for me.He was only a year older but took the responsibility of being an adult for a ten-year-old with a cruel mother and an absent father.He taught me how to love and how to accept love in return.
“Why did you write it?”he asks again.
“I’ve been silent for years and couldn’t hold it in anymore,” I confess.“You know how many men and women have to be silent after they are abused?”
He nods.“My family had no idea what happened to me until now.”He clears his throat.“Well, my parents did, but no one else.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Partially.I want to avoid my family’s pity.To avoid Sanford’s ‘I want to fix you’ campaign.The need to disappear vanished when I saw you, but I still don’t want to confront anyone—not even myself.”
I could think of at least three therapists who can help him, techniques to help him cope, and I would keep him away from his amazing yet meddling family.I adore them, but I bet their well-intentioned concern might be too overwhelming for him to handle.More so when they don’t even know what’s going on with him.
“Do you want to come to my office?I have a few things that might help you,” I offer.
His eyes, green and troubled, meet mine.“Why didn’t you call us?It’s been killing me not knowing you were okay.You are okay, aren’t you?”
I offer him a small smile, more for his comfort than mine.Telling him why I didn’t call is a discussion for later.“I want to think that I am doing fine.There are some sharp edges where I put myself together that need some polishing, but I believe I’m in a better place.”
He nods.“Sort out things with him.San ...he needs you,” he says.“The poor bastard hasn’t moved on.”
It’s endearing to see how much they still mean to each other, but it’s also sad to see how lost they are.
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I retrieve the small, folded note Sanford gave me earlier.“You’re not supposed to communicate with anyone for the next seventy-two hours, but San wanted you to have this.”
He sighs harshly, opens it, and though I want to read it, I don’t.
“Fuck, I hate him,” he grumbles, folding the note and shoving it into his pocket.
“What does he want?”
“He’s leaving on a fucking mission,” he complains.
My laugh echoes across the pond.“So, you know about the double-o-seven gig, huh?”
