Page 73 of Heal For Me

“Oh, sweetie.”

“But last night it wasn’t just Payson I couldn’t save. There was also a little girl . . . our daughter.” The heaviness I felt during the dream multiplies tenfold when I think about the little girl, an equal mixture of Payson and myself, calling me dad. Daddy actually, but I’m doing my best not to think about how conflicted that makes me feel. Payson hasn’t called me that since being here, if I’m remembering correctly, she hasn’t since she woke up. Our relationship has changed since, and she must feel it too. Like we are on a whole new level than that.

I’m not saying I’d never enjoy hearing that title slip from her lips when I’m balls deep inside her. But with marriage, kids will be on our radar at some point. Won’t they call me daddy? And if they do, I can’t imagine wanting to hear the same title from my wife. I certainly feel different about it now after hearing our fictional daughter cry it.

“And what happened with your daughter in the dream?”

Huh? I blink the fog from my thoughts, and my eyebrows dig into my forehead. I remember exactly, but this is a heavy topic to discuss with my mum over morning tea.

“Ashley.”

“I don’t know. She was crying and no matter how much I ran I couldn’t catch her.” A lump forms in my throat, and I do my best to swallow it but my voice still comes out strangled. “Then a large cut appeared out of no where across her throat and they both disappeared.”

I didn’t expect a reply because what do you say to that? She slides closer, and like I’m four years old, she pulls me into her loving arms and pats my back.

After a few minutes, I pull away. “Thanks, Mum.”

“I’m sorry I don’t know what to say.”

“Not sure who would.” I joke.

She flattens her lips, and I’m guessing she does. I’m also guessing I won’t like who she says.

I dread this hideous brown-brick place. The smiley face on the door is to distract you from how mind-numbing inside is. Or who’s inside, I should say.

The little bell on the door jingles, alerting anyone inside of my entrance. Dr. Howard pops his head around the computer, and it takes everything inside me not to turn around after seeing his goofy ass smile. Like he was expecting me or some shit, but that’s impossible because I didn’t call. I was hoping he would be busy and wouldn’t be able to see me, then I could at least say I tried.

“Just in time to be my first client today.”

Bloody hell.

“Great.”

He laughs like someone who has smoked for years, but I doubt this man has even held a cigarette in his life. From the purple-and-orange bow tie around his neck, to his neon-blue glasses I told him not to wear around me, or the way he walks like there is a fucking song in his head constantly, this bloke beats to his own drum, that’s for sure. Mum says it’s because he works with children as well as adults and it can be intimidating for them, so he wants to look friendly. Whatever the reason is, it’s not good enough.

“Come on, then.”

He leads me back to the spare office with only an old desk, an office chair, and a plastic chair for me to sit. His main office is decorated and welcoming—to most. But it looks like Barney the fucking dinosaur threw up in there. I told him if he wanted me to relax enough to talk, we needed a new space. So, here we are.

“What brings you into my office this morning?”

This is why I hate therapy. It’s not Dr. Howard, no matter how weird I think he dresses, it’s not that his office is obnoxious, it’s talking. The only thing you have to do at therapy? Yeah. I bloody hate it.

I’m Ash Pearson. I pretty much grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. I am a three-time Olympic gold medalist and a retired professional athlete. What the fuck do I have to complain about? I have also gone through enough knee surgeries that will eventually make it impossible to crawl around with my future kids and grandchildren after a certain age and will lead to complete knee reconstructive surgeries before I die. I spent years of my life questioning if my relationships with people were because they liked my company or my bank account. Because I have been an athlete for most of my life, my body aged quicker than the average thirty-three-year-old.

None of those issues require therapy. There are people—like Payson—who have had it way worse than me, so why am I here?

Because, just a few months ago, I sliced my girlfriend open because I believed I was doing her a favor. And weeks later, I held her as she bled out from cuts right next to where my scars laid.

I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to Payson. Dr. Howard can say whatever he wants, but I was a huge factor in Payson’s attempt. If I would have gotten her help sooner, done what I knew was the right thing and not what she wanted from me, there never would have been the hospital stay, and I would have never had to watch her die. I’ll never forgive myself, and I don’t deserve to.

The fact she is even here is something I don’t understand. How can she stand to be around me? Allow me into her life after everything I did. How did she accept my proposal so easily? Somehow, she still trusts me, and even though she’s spent months in therapy that allowed her to heal in certain aspects of her life, she still wants me just as before.

Her eyes still dilate when she looks at me. I feel how easily she relaxes when I’m around. Wouldn’t a good therapist tell her to avoid me at all costs? That seems like the smart option. Not that I would let her, but I’m an asshole, we’ve been over this.

I don’t want Payson mentally healed if it would cause her to question our relationship, I just wonder why she doesn’t, and if she’s as good as she seems.

“Ashley?” Dr. Howard asks, his voice light.

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