Let Love Live (The Love Series #5) (28 page)

Tuesday on my lunch break, I sit in Dr. Baker’s waiting room. Knee bouncing in nervousness and everything, I’m not really sure what to expect. Scenes from every dramatized psychology session play on a loop in my head. Me lying on a couch with the doctor furiously scribbling notes in her file. That’s so not my scene. I’m not sure if my own counseling background makes me more or less nervous, but it’s affecting me nonetheless.

When my nerves get the best of me and I’m just about ready to jump ship, Dr. Baker opens her door and waves me over, calling my name. “Hi, Dylan. It’s nice to meet you.”

She holds her hand out to shake mine. “Dr. Baker,” I greet her. She’s tall and slender with bright blue, compassionate eyes that crinkle in the corner as she smiles at me. Glasses cover those kind eyes, only adding to the level of comfort and trust. I’m not a very good judge of age, especially when it comes to women, but the mostly grey hair at her temples suggests that she’s at least in her early fifties. Something about her immediately puts me at ease, something maternal and caring. Instantly, I can see why Reid would feel comfortable enough to meet with her.

We move into her cozy office. Books, some textbooks, some literature, line every imaginable space on the wall. I’m relieved when, instead of a full sized lay-down-on-me-and-tell-me-your-deepest-darkest-secrets sofa, I find two plush armchairs facing one another. There’s a small table set to the side of one with a box of tissues sitting on top of it.

I guess that’s where I’ll sit.

I push back in my chair, rubbing my hands over my thighs in nervousness. “Uh, well, I…” I stammer. She smirks at me; this is obviously not her first rodeo. If I was in the other chair, I’d probably be laughing as well.

“Why don’t we start small?” She smiles at me as she crosses her ankles, sinking back into her own seat. “Tell me a little about what you do for a living.”

I chuckle. “My job is very similar to what you do.” She shoots me a confused look before I clarify.

“I’m a counselor for Gay-Straight Alliance. My group and I work with local middle and high schools to present seminars and group counseling sessions.”

“That’s quite impressive, Dylan. You must be proud of your work.”

“I am. Very proud in fact.”

“Is that something you always wanted to do?” Dr. Baker leans back as she clicks on her pen and opens her folder.

“Not always. I mean I guess I always enjoyed helping people, but it wasn’t until after my freshman year of college that I made the decision.” Something about her puts me at ease and I don’t even realize I’m opening up about my past as I’m doing so.

“Did something spark the idea?” She’s good. I’ll give her that much credit.

I rub a hand over my face. Propping my ankle up on my other knee, I relax in my chair and make the conscious decision to just open up already. Eight years is too long to keep it all bottled up. Honestly, I have no clue how I’ve made it this long without a major breakdown. “My boyfriend committed suicide.”

Immediately, she clicks her pen closed, and slides her folder onto the table. After taking off her glasses, she pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head subtly. “Wow, I wasn’t ready for that,” she admits, straight-faced. After regaining the composure she seems to have lost, she asks, “How recently?”

“Just under eight years ago.” The words fly out of my mouth, seemingly unaware of how desperate they sound. A snicker slips out of my mouth as I rub my hand over my face. It’s a nervous gesture, not one that’s meant to be dismissive or mean. I think she understands that, because as I try to regain my composure, she waits patiently, wordlessly.

Without missing a beat, she keys into my body language, the one that screams of unease and guilt. “You blame yourself.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I’m caught off-guard by her straightforward approach. Stuttering, I spit out, “Well, uh, yeah, I mean I guess who wouldn’t, right?” It comes out defensive. Anger broils as she glances over my shoulder to the clock hanging on the wall behind me.

I catch the glance, play it off as if nothing has transpired. She wants me out of here. I’m being difficult and she wants nothing to do with me, or she’s at least frustrated with me. I’ve seen the same situation play out too many times in my own office – not that I’d ever dismiss a kid who was in need of real help, but I’ve seen them deflect and avoid to no end.

That’s pretty much what I’m doing.

I decide to cut her some slack and cut out of here early. After looking down at my watch, I get up and make my way to the door. “Look, I should go. Maybe this isn’t working.”

“Do you want it to?” she asks, her words bouncing off my back as my hand rests on the doorknob.

Memories of Shane overpower me. His smile. His eyes. The feel of his hand in mine, of his lips against mine, of his body curled against mine. I know he’d want me to get better. I’m not serving him any kind of justice by just existing. Being able to forgive myself is going to be the only thing that will let me move on and maybe possibly be happy once again.

Sighing and raking a hand through my hair, I turn on my heels and walk back to my seat. “Yes,” I answer definitively. “I do want it to work.”

Her smile is subtle, but it’s one of victory. She’s won and she knows it. Pulling her folder back onto her lap, she clicks open her pen once more and jots down a few notes. “Okay, then. Let’s start from the beginning.”

Dr. Baker and I spend the rest of the session talking about before Shane and I started dating, about how my family was a huge support system and Shane’s wasn’t. Before we get into any of the serious stuff, our time is up.

She leaves me with one last thought that swirls around in my head. “Dylan, we can talk about your past as much as you’d like and I obviously want to know where you’ve been, but the more important part, and the part I want you to think about until our next appointment, is where you want to be.”

After closing her files, she offers me a sympathetic look. “You’re a smart man and an experienced counselor. You know that no matter how much we talk about it, you’ll never be able to change what’s already happened. But if you let me, we can figure out how to change where you are. If you let me help you, I can help you get where you want to be.”

We make arrangements for an appointment next week. Walking out the door, the bright sun blinds me. On the short walk back to my office, I think about her parting words. Where
do
I want to be?

Eight years ago, most days, I felt like I was barely breathing. Getting out of bed and showering every now and then was a major feat. Receiving a letter at the end of the fall semester of my sophomore year telling me that I had one more semester to pull my grades up before I got kicked out was my first motivation. I wasn’t going to let Shane’s death be in vain. I was going to fight my hardest to prove that his memory could live through me. But, getting over Shane’s death was all superficial. I graduated college, got a job, helped others, but never helped myself.

Can I say what prompted me to get help now? No, not really. I guess there is a certain point at which too much time spent alone really is too much. Rounding the corner, my thoughts stray to Matt. There was nothing wrong with him, but there wasn’t anything special either. He wanted more, a house, kids, and the whole shebang. I want that, too, eventually; I think. But it’s a definite certainty that I don’t want that now, and I didn’t want it with Matt. He was a good enough guy, but “good enough” isn’t how I want to spend the rest of my life.

As I walk back through the office, Reid pops his head out of his cubicle. The second my ass hits my chair, he’s walking through my door. He’s moved beyond the pleasantries of an invitation. Resting his ankle on his knee, he leans back in the chair as if he owns it. He may as well; he’s in here just as much as I am.

“Can I help you?” Sarcastically, I prompt him to start talking when the silence becomes a bit too much. He shakes his head, and drops a file on my desk.

“We meet with Calhoun High School tomorrow about the Hernandez kid. I thought we could review some stuff.”

“We both know these files inside and out. What do you really want?” Of course, he gets nothing but the “cut the shit” look from me.

“How’d it go, with Dr. Baker?” Reid at least has enough good sense to cut to the chase.

I didn’t tell anyone that’s where I was going, so unless Braden developed an ability to speak in full sentences instead of “uh huhs” overnight, I’m not sure where he’s getting his information from. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You left about an hour ago. You walked. You seem more on-edge than when you left. So let’s just say I’m
that
smart and put it all together. Oh, and you wrote it on your calendar.” Smugly, he chuckles as he watches me shift uncomfortably in my chair. “So, how did it go?”

Shrugging, I admit, “Okay, I guess.” Having barely sorted out how I feel about it, I honestly don’t have much to say to Reid about it.

“You’ll go back?”

“I have an appointment next week, so yeah.” Relief replaces his smugness. “Why are you so worried about my mental well-being suddenly?” I ask, and even though his concern isn’t grating on my nerves necessarily, it’s definitely something I’ve noticed lately.

I half-expect him to tell me to shut the fuck up, but a serious look takes up residence on his face. “We both lost him, maybe not in the same capacity. But I lost you, too. You just up and left. Maddy and Braden have changed my life in the best ways possible and I see how unhappy you are. I just want to see you happy, that’s all. So if it means annoying the shit out of you about talking to someone and dealing with whatever is going on in your head, then that’s what I’ll do. I’m not going to let you fade away and miss out on the life you deserve all because of something over which you had no control.”

His raw honesty cuts through me. His thoughts reflect my own and help abate some of the guilt I feel over moving on.

“Plus, you’ve been kind of an asshole lately.” He laughs, standing from his chair. “You might want to work on that while you’re there, too.” I grab the squeezy stress ball next to my phone and chuck it at his head as he walks toward the door. He turns back to me after it hits him, and he bends to pick it up.

When he looks over at me, he’s trying to stifle a laugh. I shrug. “What? I didn’t do it.” He tosses the ball back at me, and by “tosses”, I mean launches it right at my face. At the last second, I duck and it misses me, bouncing off the window behind me.

When I pick my head up from under my desk, Reid is laughing his ass off. “What? I didn’t do it,” he quips and we both share a loud chuckle.

Though I try to concentrate on my work the rest of the day, I find it nearly impossible with Dr. Baker’s and Reid’s words replaying in my head. It’s five o’clock before I realize it. As I’m packing to go home, my cellphone buzzing from an incoming text pulls my attention out of those thoughts. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but the “how’s the shoulder?” question lets me know it could only be one of two people. And I highly doubt Eddie the trainer would be texting me.

Rather than being annoyed that he’s somehow gotten my number, I find myself smiling at my phone like an idiot as I type out my response.

Good. How’d you get my number?

Membership paperwork. Is that okay?

Yeah, a bit stalker-like, though. Wouldn’t you say?

My parole officer says texts are fine.

I laugh and lean back in my seat.

It’s when you show up at my office that we’ll have a real problem, right?

I already know where that is, remember?

Besides, it’s only a problem if you want me to go away.

A few seconds pass before another ping alerts me to another text.

Do you?

I let my defenses down and in a moment of weakness, or bravery depending on how you look at it, rather than a sarcastic come back, I go for honesty.

No. I don’t want you to go away.
My finger hovers over the “send” button for a second, before I decide to go for it.

Good. Dinner then?

A rush of excitement catches me off guard. There’s something about being around Conner that challenges me, makes me feel alive, turns me on. But wanting to keep him on the edge of his seat, I wait a minute before responding.

Sure. When?

His response is immediate.

Now. I’m outside.

Falling off the wagon, huh? Should I let your PO know?

I’ve kept him informed. Come down.

Now.

Pushy much?

Please.

There, is that better?