Page 25 of Letters to the Lost

“Have you tried speaking to her? Sitting down at her resting place and just talking about how you are feeling,” he suggests.

“She doesn’t have one of those yet, I have her ashes and her teddy Bun, but I can’t bring myself to part with her yet.”

“That is totally understandable. OK, so what about writing letters to her? Getting all of your feelings down on paper.”

“It wouldn't be stupid?”

“Not at all, it can help. This way there’s no judgment. Just you, a pen, and some paper.”

“I can try…”

“Good! Now how did you look after her?”

The rest of the session is spent talking about life at Jane’s, by the end of it I’m left feeling raw and exposed. The part of my wrist above my bandage is red and angry, covered in little scratches.

Wincing because I didn’t realize how bad it was, I decide to try to cool it off with a cold damp washcloth in my bathroom.

As I sit on the toilet lid, the washcloth soothing against my skin, my head falls back against the wall, my eyes closing as I try to process just how hard this is going to be. Once again wishing that one of my guys was here with me to hold me as I feel like I’m falling apart.

???

Standing in the massive reception room, I look around hoping to find a bookcase. I have my e-reader with me, but I want to have a physical book in my hands. The repetitive movements of turning a page are the exact thing I need right now to keep my hands busy. The urge to itch at the same spot as earlier becomes stronger by the moment.

Finally, my eyes lock on the hidden nook. A large wooden bookcase looms in a small crevice, books spilling over every shelf. Getting lost in the titles before me, I barely register the doors to reception opening or Doctor Karskin welcoming a new patient.

Hands snaking around my waist startles me, and the book I was holding in my hand clatters to the floor, a scream lodging in my throat.

“You didn’t think I’d let you leave me for six weeks Cupcake, did you?” A familiar voice growls in my ear.

Spinning around I’m greeted by a ruffled-looking Dominic. His blonde hair stuck up in all directions, and his light blue eyes darker than usual. His usual happy and light demeanor is now a suffocating darkness.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him warily.

“Well, I figured since you were trying to do better, I thought I should too! It can be our first couple thing!”

“Therapy isn’t a couple thing, Dominic!”

“It could be,” he pouts.

“Seriously Dominic, why are you here?” Crossing my arms over my chest and stepping back, I want to be mad that he’s shown up not even twenty-four hours after I got here but a massive part of me feels nothing but relief.

“Come to my room and I’ll explain everything. I refuse to hide anything from you anymore.” He grabs my forearm, being careful of my bandages and drags me along after him, not even giving me a chance to argue.

Dominic drags me into a room that matches my own except everything is sage green and white, he pulls me through the doorway after him before shutting the door. He leads me over to his bed, sitting me on the edge before he retreats and leans against the wall.

“Dominic?” I ask, his eyes shifting over the room and out the window.

“I couldn’t be away from you, I had every intention of staying away and letting you do what you had to do here…” he breathes in deeply before he looks me in my eyes, unable to keep my breath from hitching at how different he looks from the man I left behind not even a day ago.

“Are you ok?”

“So far from okay, it’s not even funny. When we got back home we wondered how Jane knew about everything. Tobias searched your room and found a camera hidden on one of your shelves between a plant. We found the guy who planted it, and I did what I do best and got the information from him. Your therapist was his wife and your mom paid him to plant it there.”

“Ok… So why are you here?” I ask again trying to keep the tremble from my voice, my hands absentmindedly starting to scratch once again at my wrist. Dominic’s eyes narrow on the action before he strides over to me.

He crouches down between my legs, his tattooed hand reaching out and prying my hand away. A frown pulls at his lips as he strokes his thumb over the scratch marks.

“Cupcake,” his voice barely a whisper.

---