Page 107 of Caught Up In You

Francie nods. “Say more about that.”

I shrug. “Well, you know. You were there when everything went to hell. I tried to be a good boyfriend to you and a good doctor and a good student all at the same time, but it was too much. I couldn’t focus on everything. I made mistakes. I killed Dylan Anders.”

Francie’s eyes go wide, then narrow. “First of all, no you did not. You didnot. He had a freak accident at a playground, and any doctor in the hospital would’ve ordered the same treatment you did. You’re holding yourself to a standard you can never, ever reach and then punishing yourself for it, just like you did then.”

“I—”

Francie holds up her hand. “No, I’m not done.” She breathes in and out, a long, calming breath. “I already knew that was an awful time for you, but hearing you tell it now, I realize it was even worse than I thought. Because in your toxic stew of memories, you’ve gotten one crucial detail wrong.”

“What?” I ask.

She waits for me to see it, but I don’t.

“We broke upbeforeDylan Anders,” she says.

I rear back, trying to make sense of that.

“What? No. I?—”

“Yes. Your brain has reordered events to fit the faulty narrative you’ve been telling about yourself. That you failed at everything that night in the ER. That Dylan Anders was the inciting incident, that your anxiety came from that.” She squeezes my hands. “But you were struggling well before that,Owen. You weren’t sleeping, you were barely eating, you were working way too much. You were vibrating at a frequency so high it’s a wonder you didn’t achieve liftoff. And I tried to talk to you about it, but every time you’d just plaster on a smile and say everything was fine. We drifted apart because I didn’t want to be in a relationship with someone who couldn’t be honest with himself, much less with me, and that was that. Josh and I had our first date the night before Dylan Anders died.”

“How is that possible?” I say, wracking my brain for information that will make everything fall into place.

“You told yourself your anxiety was a result of what happened with Dylan, but I don’t think that’s it. I think you were anxious well before that,” she says. “Maybe even the whole time.”

Something inside of me cracks, and tears stream down my face.

“God, I’m such a fucking wreck,” I say, shocked to hear sobs between my words.

Francie pulls me to her, wrapping me up in another hug, and I sink my face into her shoulder as I cry.

“You’re not. You just need help, Owen. You need to let yourself be a little bit broken for a while and not try to handle everything alone,” Francie says, her voice catching. “Please. Let me help you.”

CHAPTER 44

WYATT

September 3

It’s been more than a month since I walked out of Owen’s house heartbroken and fell sobbing into my mother’s arms.

Like I hoped it would, my heart has slowly knitted itself back together, but I’m still working on filling in the cracks. Some days the pain hits me out of nowhere and takes my breath away, but those days are growing fewer and further between.

On the whole, I’m able to maintain a stiff upper lip. It’s what I do. I make things work. I clean up messes.

And I guess I’m thankful that Owen spared me the trouble of having to clean up his too.

It’s Sunday night, and we’re preparing for our newest Hart family tradition. Well, ouronlyHart family tradition, but it’s a start.

Sunday night family dinner began just after everything went to hell with Owen. I was spending most of my time huddled under the covers, trying to sleep off my heartbreak. I called in sick to work a few nights, terrified I’d see Owen or one of his brothers at the bar and start sobbing like a sap into a pint ofbeer. Libby, who’d been gentle with me in a way I had never experienced, finally burst into my room, trailing the smell of pepperoni.

“Get up, my little misery princess,” she trilled. “I have pizza, and you’re gonna eat it.”

And all four of us—Libby, Hazel, Eden, and me—crowded around the tiny kitchen table and finished off two large pies, though Eden mostly played with the cheese and chomped on leftover crusts.

From there, it became a tradition. At first we got takeout, but soon Hazel started perusing theNew York Timescooking app, claiming we needed more vegetables in our life.

Now that Jonah knows what he’s doing at the bar, there’s been more stability in my work schedule. I can always take Sunday nights off to eat with my family. And now that I have fewer night shifts, I’ve been able to start helping Ernie with management duties. And what has the old man done with his newfound free time? He’s gone and gotten himself a Harley. I keep telling him I’m not heaving kegs for him if he gets himself smeared across the highway, but he just laughs, because he knows I will.

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