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A deafening breath escapes my lips. “I’m starting to realize my reason is a bit different than hers.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know . . . I think I’m just worried about what’s going to happen when her parents find out. Lyric . . . She’s so happy and full of life. She can make anyone laugh, and everyone loves her. Me,”—I internally cringe—“well, I’m not like that at all.”
He writes down a few more notes. “So, you think you don’t fit well with her?”
“No, I think she’s—that I’m—” I rub my hand down my face, releasing a trapped a breath. “Look, I know I’m not good enough for her.”
His hand stops moving across the paper as he peers up. “And what does Lyric say about how you feel?”
“I haven’t told her, but if I did, she’d tell me I’m wrong, because that’s the kind of person she is.”
Silence stretches between us as he slides the notebook aside and overlaps his hands on his desk. “Can I ask why you feel unworthy?”
“Because she’s too good for me,” I reply with a shrug. “I thought that was pretty clear.”
“I think it’s only clear to yourself,” he explains, meticulously assessing my expression. “I think that, perhaps, because of the verbal abuse with your birth mother and with the trauma you endured in your past, your self-perception is a little distorted.”
“I think my past is part of the reason I’m not good enough for her,” I disagree with him. “I think I have this dark, fucked-up past that’s made me a fucked-up person who doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s so happy and good. God, I can barely let her touch me without freaking out. ” The truth slips out of me like venom. My breath turns ragged, and my heartbeat skyrockets. “And, if we do make it too far with the physical stuff, I have to battle down this ugly, wrong feeling inside me. I don’t want to be this way, though. I wish I could change it . . . just get past it.”
“Our past doesn’t shape who we are, and as for the not being able to withstand physical contact, that’s perfectly understandable considering what happened to you. I know we haven’t outright talked about the abuse you went through, but I think maybe, when you’re ready, we should start discussing it.”
“But how can I discuss something I’m not positive ever happened? I just assume it did because of how I feel inside and through bits and pieces of the memories I can remember.”
“We don’t have to discuss the details. We can just discuss your feelings.” He grabs his pen and paper again and scribbles down some notes. “I think that’s something we’ll work on in your next session. In the meantime, I’m going to teach you some relaxation exercises to help calm yourself down when you’re having a panic attack.”
“I wish it were that easy, because I want her to be able to touch me, but I just don’t see it working.” I nervously crack my knuckles. “I always panic whenever things get too far.”
“It’ll take some time, but I have all the confidence that eventually you’ll get to a place in your life where you’ll be able to handle physical contact. Do you want to know why?” he asks, and I nod. “Because you want to get better. I can tell. And wanting to overcome something is the first step to getting there.”
I hope he’s right. God, do I hope. But until I see proof, I won’t be able to believe it.
“What about my memories? I don’t want to stop doing the treatment.” Don’t want to give up on Sadie.
“We’re not stopping,” he promises. “We’re just taking a short break and giving your mind some time to settle.”
I curl my fingers in and stab my nails into my palm as guilt crashes through me.
Sadie, I’m so sorry.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sorry I can’t find you,
Sorry I’ve forgotten,
Sorry you have to suffer.
If I could, I’d take your place.
God, how I wish it were me instead of her.
What I wouldn’t give to make that happen.
Chapter 6
Lyric
“I love the smell of spring,” I declare as I inhale the delicious scent of the air. “It always makes me smile.”
“Everything makes you smile.” Ayden hands me a rag with a hint of a grin on his face.
It’s been a week since he sleepwalked, and for the most part, he seems to be okay. I’d put money on it, though, that he still feels guilty about the ordeal. Guilty because he worried everyone. Guilty because he freaked me out. My dear, shy boy, always worrying about everyone except himself. I wish I could talk to him about it without upsetting him, but after seeing him cry, I worry mentioning anything will trigger a nerve.
His parents—who I call Uncle Ethan and Aunt Lila, even though we’re not related—must have had the same thought process as me, because they seem pretty hush, hush about what happened.
“That’s not true.” I collect the rag from him and duck my head under the hood of my 1970 Dodge Challenger. I’ve been working on fixing it up for the last few months or so, and I’m hoping to have it drivable soon. “Bugs don’t make me smile. Or frowny faces.”
He snorts a laugh. “Frowny faces? Only you would say frowns don’t make you smile.”
“That’s because I’m that awesome.” I pull the dipstick out and wipe it off with the rag before dipping it back inside the oil.
“That, you are,” he remarks, moving up behind me.
“And don’t ever forget that, my friend.” I remove the dipstick, glance at the oil level, then put the stick back in. Wiping my hand off with a rag, I step back from the car. “It looks like it might—” My back bumps into Ayden.
He hardly ever instigates contact first, expect on rare, amazing, wonder-filled occasions, so I allow myself to enjoy the earth-shattering moment and breathe in the feel of his body heat.
I smile stupidly when he doesn’t move away. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.” His voice is uneven, revealing his nerves. “I was just . . .” He releases a breath then places his hands on my hips. Surprisingly, his fingers are steady. “I just wanted to touch you.” He rests his forehead against the back of my head and inhales deeply. “And to make sure you’re okay.”
“Okay about what?” My eyelids drift shut as I lean into his touch.
His simple touches are better than light.
They awaken my body and bring it to life.
More. More. More, my body is craving.
The addiction is potent, consuming, aching.
Leaves my body wanting, pleading, shaking.
Sometimes I feel like I’m withering, fading.
Fading. Fading. Fading.
Into him.
“About . . . about what happened the other day . . . when I sleepwalked.” His fingers grasp onto me, and his chest crashes against my back as his shallow breaths turn ragged. “I know I probably freaked you out. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, but I didn’t want to upset you, so I decided to wait until stuff cooled off.”
“I’m not upset about what happened.” And not surprised one little bit that my theory about him was right. I turn around and loop my arms around him. “I’m just worried about you and how you’re handling it.”
“I’m fine,” he swears, searching my eyes for my true feelings. He forgets, though, that I’m like an open book. “It’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before. But you . . . What did I say to you exactly while I was asleep?”
“Nothing I could really understand.”
“Are you sure? Because, if I said anything weird . . . Then I want to know.”
