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“I’ll do better,” he says again, his voice taking on that tone I know means he’s done with the conversation. Tears slowly trickle down my cheeks. When he speaks again, it’s louder. “I’ll do better, Nolan.”
My chest aches. I can’t talk or even look at him. I can’t nod either because I don’t know if I fucking believe him. I just wrap my arms around my waist and stare at a jar of cotton balls on a shelf.
“Maison, you said you can’t keep food down. Is that voluntary or involuntary?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“It’s involuntary.”
“Does it seem to matter what you’ve eaten? Or are there other factors?”
“Other factors, I think. Panic attacks make me sick. If I go too hard in the gym. If I’m drinking. If I wake up from a—a dream. Shit like that, you know?”
Dr. Deacon makes a sound that seems to mean he does know. “I’m going to give you something for that anxiety—don’t give me that look, you stubborn asshole. I’m giving you a daily pill and a pill to take when an attack comes on. Cut out the gym—don’t try that look again, Maison, I swear to God. Listen to me. No gym.”
“Doc, I need it.” I turn to look at the two of them, heart in my throat. He does need it. I’ve seen how much his demeanor can change after a trip to the gym. He’ll go out of his mind without that outlet. There has to be something else that would help—something safe. “Please don’t take that from me.”
Dr. Deacon sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Let’s put the decision on hold. We’ll see what your X-rays say and go from there, deal?”
Maison looks like someone just shoved a lemon into his mouth, but he jerks his head in a nod.
“In the meantime, take the pills and follow the dietary plan I’m going to draw up for you. It’s mostly just a way to stagger your food intake so you don’t overwhelm your stomach while still getting the calories you need. Go easy on the heavy and spicy stuff, even if food type doesn’t seem to be a factor.”
“Easy enough.”
Is it? He seems to be struggling to feed himself so far. I wonder if he’d let me manage him a little. As much as he’d probably hate it, I’d love the opportunity to take care of him. To see to his needs. I can’t see him agreeing to that though, not when he fought this appointment so much. Maybe I can do it in a way he doesn’t notice?
I’m distracted, brainstorming ways to do that when I hear my name. I blink, focusing back on Maison and the doctor. They’re both looking at me. “Sorry, what?”
“I’m sorry, I—I changed my mind.” Maison drops his gaze, his eyes closing. “I can’t have you in here, Nol. Do you—do you mind?”
“Oh. Of course.” I eye the doctor before taking a risk by approaching Maison and giving his bicep a gentle squeeze. He turns his chin in my direction, eyes half-open as they meet mine. I feel awful for pushing him to do this. I feel even worse that my relief that he’s finally here outweighs that awfulness. “Come find me after, promise?”
His lips twitch toward a sad attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Okay. Promise.”
“Take care of him,” I tell the doctor next. “He’s obsessed with taking care of all of us. It’s his turn.”
Dr. Deacon looks me directly in the eye. “I will.”
With nothing left to do but trust him, I head out of the room and close the door behind me. I consider waiting in the hall for Maison but decide against it. I don’t want him to ever worry I eavesdropped or something. Plus, he might want a little space before he comes to find me, depending on how the rest of the appointment goes.
It’s too late to make breakfast and too early to work on dinner. I consider tracking down Matt or Bryce, but I’m not really in the mood for company. Not their company, at least. I hear Travis’s voice down the hall toward Ace’s office, so I head in the other direction and sort of wander.
I find myself in the gym of all places.
It’s empty, which isn’t surprising since we’re down to so few people in the house. The only time I’ve seen the room is when Matt and I did an exploration of the safehouse on our third day here after hearing there was a pool and realizing we should probably check the place out. The gym is just as unappealing now as it was then, reminding me of days—weeks, months, years—spent sculpting my body into the perfect football player. All that time wasted pretending to be cocky and loud and dominant when there was an itchy wrongness beneath my skin. It was an itch I never understood growing up. An itch to submit.
Passing all of the familiar equipment, I go to the boxing bag. There’s nothing particularly special about it, nothing that gives away why Maison loves using it so much, but I figure it’s still worth a shot. The way he had begged the doctor not to take this from him means it must really help him. I want to be helped like that. I need it.
I put on a pair of gloves, knowing it’d be hypocritical if I didn’t after asking Maison to do the same.
The first hit feels weird. Stupid, almost. Weak and pointless. I take a breath, square my posture, and try again. And again. And again.
I think of Maison’s calloused hands on me the night he came into my world and flipped it upside down, his voice a comforting thunderstorm. I think of us kneeling on a kitchen floor, a plate broken between us, Maison telling me broken things can still be beautiful. I think of flames and warmth and whispered secrets into the night. I think of sweatshirts, so many fucking sweatshirts, hiding his pain from everyone. I think of all the days that had gone by without me being able to help him.
I think of the cabin dream I can’t seem to stop having. I think of the nightmare where Travis dies, leaving me alone in the compound to fend for myself. I think of the way it feels to be held by Maison, surrounded by his safety and the scent of his spicy deodorant, an intoxicating combination.
I think of the moment I woke up and realized I’d been kidnapped. I think of the first time a man pushed into me without my consent. I think of the first time I came from my own rape. I think of the words good boy.
