Page 65 of Pieces of Us

“Maison,” he says again, his voice somehow both stern and gentle. He looks right at me, even leaning forward a bit. “Carter’s trauma is not your fault. If you’re going to claim anything, you better claim his survival.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, I guess.”

He smirks. “What I’d much rather agree on is a session with the both of you. Do you think that’s something he’d be willing to do? On that note—is it something you’d be willing to do?”

It feels like my insides flinch. “I’d… be willing. If he was.”

Dr. Singh’s smirk twitches. “We’ll have to try. Until then, how about we try to approach your trauma? You’ve been putting it off.” I open my mouth, but he puts a hand up to stop me. “You’ve been putting it off. I’ve allowed it because usually you’re talking about Carter and that is a situation that’s important to your healing, but your own trauma needs to be discussed too, Maison.”

I slouch in the chair, feeling—and probably looking—like a petulant child. I even cross my arms. Might as well go for the full effect, right?

He doesn’t look impressed. “Are you still having that nightmare?”

“I’m getting enough sleep,” I mumble, even though that’s not at all what he asked.

“Is it the same one?” he presses, ignoring my blatant attempt at redirection. “You locked in the house, Carter outside?”

I bounce my knee. “Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

My brain helpfully supplies me with a series of images. I shove them away. Bury them so deep I can nearly feel myself choking on the dirt. “Sometimes Nolan is outside instead. Or they both are.”

Dr. Singh puts his glasses back on, straightens his posture, and grabs his pen. “I see. When did that start?”

About the same time I started kissing him. It’s a warning, after all. A warning that I’ll hurt him. Ruin him. Because I can’t protect anyone. Because I ruin everything I touch. But don’t worry, I’m still a selfish bastard. I keep kissing him, don’t I?

“Do you ever have nightmares about your own abuse?” Dr. Singh asks, redirecting when I don’t answer.

“No.” I rub my face. “It’s—uh—it’s during the day that I feel that more.”

“Feel it how?”

“Little things. I feel… restless a lot. I startle easily. I—uh. I hate Jake’s voice. Or his hands. I… can’t look at his hands.” I start bouncing my knee, not happy about this line of thinking at all. I hadn’t even really noticed this until I started saying it, but I really can’t look at his hands. Just a glimpse of them can make me sick. The other night I didn’t finish dinner because he’s the one who passed me the bowl of gravy when I needed more. I hadn’t even really thought about the why of it, hadn’t even really thought about the Jake of it, but now… those fingers were inside of me. They shoved into me, making space for when his cock—

“Maison,” Dr. Singh says, and I can tell by his sharp, almost panicked tone that it’s not the first time he’s called for me. He’s loud, too. He’s either shouting or has moved closer to me. I suck in a sharp breath that burns my chest. Or was my chest already burning, like I hadn’t been breathing at all? “Maison, there’s a pillow on your lap right now. Can you feel that? A little heavy? Covered in faux fur? Try to find it with your hands—there you go. Just like that, Maison. Can you feel it? Isn’t that soft? That wasn’t there, with Jake, was it? Nothing was soft that night. But this is, isn’t it? Can you feel it?”

I jerk my head in a nod, clinging to the pillow and taking slow, deep breaths.

“Good,” he says. “That’s really good, Maison. Take another breath. Keep feeling the pillow.”

After a few more breaths, I let out a breathy laugh and drop my hands. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Dr. Singh tilts his head from where he’s perched on the edge of his desk just to the right of my chair. “That pillow has helped plenty of people work through a panic attack.”

I roll my eyes. “That wasn’t a panic attack.”

“Boy,” Dr. Singh nearly growls. “If you weren’t a trauma survivor, I’d hit you over the damn head. Drop the fucking machismo.”

I hang my head, my fingers finding that stupid pillow again. I swallow hard. “Okay.”

“Do you need your medication? I know Dr. Deacon prescribed you something.”

“No. I don’t like the one for the attacks. Makes me feel all fucked up. Floaty. I don’t use it.”

“Okay.” He returns to his seat, but I can feel how closely he’s watching me. Probably because I’m stroking the pillow like it’s a fucking cat. Despite the ridiculousness of it, I can’t seem to get my hand to stop moving. “I’m going to assume you haven’t taken my advice and talked to Jake about what happened between the two of you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

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