Finding Me (The Bad Boy Series) (11 page)

My blood boils. What I did was unforgivable? I am trying to fucking protect her. I may have left her, but every god damn bone in my body was telling me to run to her. Hold her and never left her go.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, Tate. She may be your sister, but she is the woman I love. Don’t you ever question my love for your sister. Ever.”

I’m panting. Tate was towering over me, because I didn't have an ounce of energy to stand up from the sofa I have been hibernating on. He was glowering at me. He looked as though he wants to kick me into next week. Right now, I couldn’t care less if he did.

“Don’t question it? If you loved her, you would be standing by her side and holding her fucking hand!”

If I wasn’t so damn exhausted, I would have punched him square in the jaw. Rising to my feet, I got right into his face, making my intentions clear.

“I’m not standing by her side and holding her fucking hand because I love her. Understand this, and understand it quick, Tate. Your sister is crumbling inside. Do you know how many nights I had to hold her in her sleep while she had those fucking nightmares? Do you know how many times she screamed out like she was in the worst imaginable pain? Do you know how many god damn times I have had to pull her out of her nightmares because if I didn’t she would more than likely stay locked away in them? Do you? She not only dealt with the fact that she was supposed to die at the age of ten, right there in that truck with your dad, but now, she is dealing with the betrayal of a man she claimed to love. The man who she thought she could trust, who not only broke her trust but killed her damn spirit. So, me leaving her side isn’t a pussy way out of not wanting to be with her though it. It is my way of helping her heal. She needs to learn to do this on her own. So I’ll tell you again. Don’t you ever, ever question my love for her!”

I pulled back slightly, waiting for Tate’s response. My muscles were tense, waiting for the blow I knew Tate would love to land in my gut, but it never came. Instead, he just bowed his head and bit his bottom lip.

“She’s my sister. Please don’t hurt her any more than she is hurting right now, Logan,” he said, lifting his gaze back to mine.

“I never want to hurt her,” I whispered. “I never have.”

“I know.” He sighed, running his hand through his messy hair. “I get it, I do. But, if you’re going to leave her alone to heal … then you need to do that. Leave her alone. Please, for everyone’s sake, we can’t watch her crumble and fall again.”

I nodded. I understood, he was hurting for his sister, but why can’t he see that this was for her own good? I was going through hell just to make sure she didn’t have to. I felt Tate’s hand squeeze my left shoulder, a silent understanding passing between us. Maybe he does understand after all.

“She won’t be in classes for a while. The doctor told her to take it easy,” Tate muttered before leaving our dorm.

I heard the click of the door echo around the room. I stood panting like a damn dog. I could feel tears collecting behind my eyes. Roughly, I wiped them with the palms of my hands. Fuck. I miss her. I would give anything just to get a glimpse of her smile, her laugh, her touch.

I threw myself back down onto the sofa, it had become my second home from my bed. I couldn’t sleep in my bed without thinking of her. Everything reminded me of her. The smell of the sea, the taste of vanilla. I could feel my world crumbling as I came to the realization that I let her go, and she may not take me back. 

Chapter Twelve

Neva

             
“Pick a number between one and ten.”

             
I sighed. Every session Dr. Marsh asks me this question. I have no idea why she asks me, but every time, I answer with a different number and she jots something down on that pad of paper on her desk.

             
“Three,” I said.

             
This was my fourth session since being released from the hospital. Every session has been different. My first appointment Dr. Marsh had me crying from just being asked simple, every day questions, and last time I was a blubbering mess.

             
We haven’t talked about the night of my father’s death. It seems as though we were skirting around the issue. Surely, she was supposed to ask about my feelings and how I deal with it? Isn’t that was therapists do?

             
“I can hear those cogs running in your head from here, Neva. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” she asked, looking up from her pad.

             
Today I decided to sit on the sofa instead of the chair in front of her desk, I have no idea why. I suppose it was because I had a feeling that today I would need to be comfortable. I leaned forward nervously, as I grabbed my glass of water from the worn coffee table in front of me. Tentatively, taking a small sip, I thought about where this session could possibly lead us.

             
“I’m just wondering when you’re going to ask me about my father,” I said.

             
My hand starts to shake involuntarily, water all but sloshing out of the glass I'm still holding. Looking down at my hand, I placed the glass back on to the table. I knew Dr. Marsh had noticed it. It’s not hard to spot a woman shaking so badly that she couldn’t keep a glass of water in her hand.

             
“Do you want to talk about your father?” she asked in a soft voice.

             
I think about my answer before I open my mouth. If I tell her too much, she could delve deeper, leading to places or people I really didn’t want to discuss.

             
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

             
Did I want to tell her that every time I think about that night, I have the urge to be by his side? No. She would probably commit me and call me crazy.

             
“Neva, I can’t do this unless you are completely honest. If not with me, then yourself.” She sighed. "Tell me a happy memory about your father.”

             
A happy memory? Is there such a thing? I had spent years holding onto the notion if I remembered my father in any capacity, then eventually it would lead to the reason why I sat here in the first place: every happy memory is tainted by the memory of that night.

             
I closed my eyes and block everything out, trying to find a happy memory that doesn’t remind me of the night my father was cruelly taken away from me.

             
“I was six,” I said, opening my eyes. “My mom had taken my brother to an ice hockey game, it was just me and my dad for the day. He took me fishing.” I smiled as the memory seeps through and takes hold.

             
“The water was so still, and calm. It was the hottest day of summer. Dad had driven us to the lake a couple of miles out of town, it was stunning. Trees bent over the river bank, and the branches could reach into the water. You could see the bottom of the riverbed the water was so clear. It was such a beautiful day.”

I pause, the tears already building in the corners of my eyes.

              “Why do you remember this particular memory?” Dr. Marsh asks.

             
“Because my dad fell into the water.” I laughed.

We had been there for hours without a bite on the line. Then, out of nowhere, my line pulled and the reel quickly spins. I was so shocked that we had actually had a bite, I forgot to pick up my pole and pull the line in. My dad quickly jumped up and pulled on it, struggling to get the catch towards the river bank.

“He was pulling on that damn thing for a good five minutes before the line became tight and he lost his footing. He went in to the water face first. He was soaking wet, knee deep in a river, with a snapped pole. But he had the biggest grin on his face and he laughed so hard.”

“How big was the fish?”

“It was a tire. Someone must have dumped it into the river.” I laughed. “I picked this memory because even though we came home with nothing, we did it smiling.”

I suddenly gasped as I felt wetness on my cheeks. I was crying. Then I realized that for the first time in a long time, I had cried happy tears when I remembered my father.

“This is what we are trying to work to, Neva. The course of treatment we are working through is called CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. The goal is to help you understand your fears and anxieties and help you change the thought processes surrounding them.” She paused, handing me a tissue. “PTSD is an anxiety disorder. We need to identify your anxieties and re-direct your thoughts.”

“Okay,” I whispered, trying to take in everything she said.

“What runs through your mind when you're having an anxiety attack?”

I quickly flicked my gaze to hers; how did she know I had anxiety attacks?

“Your hands; they shake when you are having an attack.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, bowing my head.

“Neva, anxiety attacks are nothing to be ashamed of. It is a sign that your body isn’t coping with stress. Anxiety is quite healthy in everyday life, but it’s considered a disorder when it becomes overwhelming. We need to find the root of your anxiety. What is it that causes you to panic?”

Oh god, everything. The truth was, I had no idea why I get so anxious. I just thought since I had PTSD, the attacks are just what happens, but they seemed to have gotten worse since Jack's attack.

“I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought it was just what happens when you have PTSD. I just lived with it, I suppose.”

“What do you think will happen if you don’t get the attack under control?”

“I sometimes think that if I can’t control it, I may suffocate because I can’t breathe. It’s the thought of being trapped and suffocated in my own body that scares me the most.”

“Do you think this is because it happened to your father?” she asked, raising her right brow.

“Maybe. I don’t see any other explanation for it.”

“Then we’re making progress.”

After leaving Dr. Marsh’s office, I felt lighter. It’s as if someone had taken a heavy weight from my shoulders. I hadn’t felt this light in years, but I knew the heady high I'm on would fade. It always does. No matter how good something was, it always becomes tainted. Everything I touched became broken, shattered, and useless.

Dr. Marsh told me I needed to distract my mind before I can move forward, and change the way I process things. A distraction. Where did I even begin? I hadn’t touched my guitar in over four weeks. I just couldn’t muster the strength to go back to it again. My guitar served as an open wound, but the lyrics that pour out of me soothed my soul. My guitar was my downfall, whereas the lyrics that dance with them were my distraction. It’s a double-edged sword.

As I let myself into the front door of my mom’s house, I tried to think of something that could distract me from my dark thoughts. Even just trying to find a distraction isn’t distracting me from the fears and anxieties in my mind. My hands start to shake again. Shit.

“Sweetie, is that you?” I heard my mom call from somewhere in the house.

Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my breathing, hoping that the pounding in my eyes from my raging heart would soon slow. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me!” I shouted, trying to hold back the shakiness in my voice.

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Sighing, I pulled on my big girl panties and made my way into the kitchen. Mom sat at the table with her back to me, reading an interior design magazine. Design sketches and fabric swatches were laid out across the table. It looked like Ikea vomited onto my mom’s dining table.

I chuckled and walked into the kitchen and take a seat beside her. She was shuffling between some picture she found in the magazine and some of the swatches laid out in front of her.

My mom was an interior designer. After my dad died, she quit her job in a fit of depression. Eventually, we had to sell the house and buy a smaller place a couple of miles away. Thankfully, with the spare money from the sale, Mom started her own interior design business. Now, she designs interiors for some pretty high end clients.

“Duck egg blue or powder blue?” she asked me, her eyes never leaving the two swatches in front of her.

“What’s the difference?”

“To be honest, I have been looking at them for so long, I don’t even know.” She laughed.

Pulling her glasses from the bridge of her nose, she slid them onto her head. Rubbing her temples, she turned to me.

“How was your session?” she asked, the sadness in her eyes pretty evident.

She's known for a long time I hadn’t been dealing well with my father’s death. When Logan first alerted my mom to the nightmares and my unyielding fear of getting in a car, she sprang into action and took me straight to a doctor. I was diagnosed with Delayed Onset PTSD and referred to a therapist. But, when you are ten years old, it’s not easy discussing the horrific nature of your own father’s death.

“Good. We talked about Dad today,” I whispered. “We talked about the fishing trip.”