Page 135 of Heartbeat

“St. Yve’s,” I said, and he instantly widened his eyes.

“She wouldn’t—”

“There’s a reason why I can’t skip a session, Ethan. If I do, if she thinks that I’m getting worse in any way, she can just send me back.”

He looked scared now, which was something I’d never seen, but absolutely hated.

“But…” He started but went quiet for the longest time. “We were just starting this,” he finally said, and it absolutely broke me to hear him say it.

“I’m sorry, Ethan.”

“For what? You didn’t do anything. We didn’t—”

I backed away from him. I couldn’t really look at him without feeling as though I would somehow break, right then and there.

“Wait. Tom—” he said, but I’d already started to turn around.

He came out into the rain and beat me to the end of the steps, then placed an open palm on my stomach, making me stop.

“Just wait,” he pleaded quietly.

He turned his hand into a fist and grabbed my T-shirt, then pulled me to him. I climbed down the last step, still unable to look at him; I then let my head fall forward until it found him, pressing my forehead on his chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I finally admitted in a whisper.

“Don’t,” he said, putting his other hand on the back of my neck. “It’s only for a little while, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer him. He was gripping my T-shirt so hard, and I wished nothing more than to have his hands stay on me for as long as possible. Time had been so still until I’d gotten there, but now that I was with him, it was like everything was happening with such speed I couldn’t even see straight.

“Tom?” He leaned back a bit and lowered his head, trying to meet my gaze.

It took everything I had, but I looked up at.

“It’ll be fine. We can do this,” he said, though I wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “We’ll—we’ll figure it out.”

All I could think of was, had I handled things better, had I been better, none of this would be happening. In a single afternoon, I’d gone from feeling almost normal to being unable to differentiate myself from the guy who’d woken up in St. Yve’s Hospital three years ago. Stupid, and I knew it. A few weeks before, I would’ve been the first to remind myself they were the same guy. Maybe I’d convinced myself there was some form of going back to a time in which I felt like… more. Perhaps even moving forward, leaving St. Yve’s behind, and allowing myself to believe I could be happy. He’d done that, almost. He’d gotten me to believe I actually didn’t have anything wrong with me.

And yet.

The biggest piece I had, the one Dr. Foster said I hid so well and kept so safe, was left in front of his building. It was the only one that I didn’t mind leaving me.

It was his, anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Short On Goodness

I got home and went straight to my room, closed the door, and headed to the bathroom. I turned the shower on and stepped inside without even bothering to take off my clothes or shoes. As the water fell on my head, I couldn’t help but fall along with it, leaning against the cold white tiles and letting my body slide until reaching the floor. I didn’t know how long I sat there; I meant to remain inside until warming up, but it seemed to have been taking longer than it should. I kept shaking, even though the water touching my skin was burning hot.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Was this it? Had I finally given up? Properly, that was. The way I had, months before? It didn’t feel the same, but then again, that was what should’ve scared me. I felt tired, but tiredness had become a permanent companion of mine, I thought I was used to it by now. So why did it feel different? Why did it feel as though I lacked strength in a way I had never truly experienced before?

The things I’d shared. The way in which I’d so foolishly opened up. Dr. Foster had been a third party in whatever Ethan and I were starting to have, and to think of how I had let my guard down and told her about things I’d never admitted to, even to myself, was excruciating to consider. She knew it all. She knew it. Maybe Ethan was right, maybe it didn’t really matter that she knew, but then why did it feel the way it did? And I understood. In the back of my mind, I understood this was something we could probably survive, but I couldn’t help but think of him. About what it meant…for him.

Had I outed him? Did she mind that he was with a guy? That I was that guy? What did she think when I talked about how he made me feel? About his tastes, his virginity, and how I took it? Oh my God, I told the mother of the guy I’d deflowered that I’d done it, and as sick as it sounded, she’d actually given me advice regarding how I was to bring up the subject during another hookup.

Oh. My. God.

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