Damn.
That was deep and mature.
“You sound like Dr. Taft,” I blurted out.
His brows lifted. “Who’s that?”
“He was...” Oh. Hold up. Rider didn’t know I’d been seeing a therapist.
He tilted his head to the side and waited. “He was what?”
Oh no. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Deep down, I knew that having received therapy wasn’t something to feel bad about. With my background—our background—it was, frankly, expected. But just like with not talking, there was an ugly and oftentimes brutal stigma attached to therapy.
And Rider? He appeared to come out of our childhood relatively unscathed. Hadn’t he? He wasn’t seeing a therapist. He talked normally. Was he really unscathed, though? I thought about all the classes he skipped and how he said no one really cared. Rider believed that, so did he expect nothing for himself?
“Mouse?” He tugged on a strand of my hair. “Who’s Dr. Taft?”
I looked away, focusing on the printed speech. What did it matter anyway? I knew Rider wasn’t going to di
sown me as a friend. I drew in a shallow breath. “Dr. Taft was my...therapist. I saw him for about three years. I stopped a little bit ago, because I...I felt like I was ready.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Cool? Okay. How often did he hear seventeen-year-old chicks admit to seeing a therapist, that his only response was cool? I peeked at him, and he was just looking at me, expression open. “Really?”
Rider raised a shoulder. “Makes sense. You saw some—yeah, some rough shit. Dealt with some crazy stuff. I’m actually kind of relieved you saw someone.”
I studied him for a moment. “You...really believe that?”
He nodded.
“What about you?” I asked, and when he blinked, he looked confused. “You grew up...with me. You’ve seen some bad shit.”
“I’m fine,” he replied, shifting his gaze to the books.
I stared at his profile. “I was there, Rider. I remember some—”
“And I’m fine,” he interrupted, lifting his gaze to mine. “I promise. I swear.”
Pressing my lips together, I slowly shook my head. “You said you thought...about that night.”
Rider stiffened and then exhaled slowly. “Sometimes,” he repeated quietly and then louder, “When I do, I’m thinking about what happened to you.”
My stomach churned, and I was for once grateful that I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. “Rider—”
“I should’ve been there,” he stated, his eyes darkening. “I should’ve found a way to get back into that house. I knew that son of a bitch would do something with that doll eventually.”
I opened my mouth, but dammit, I had loved Velvet. Besides the fact that Rider had gotten her for me the day Miss Becky had taken him to the mall, she was the only thing for years that had been simply mine. The doll was not a hand-me-down. She belonged to no one before me and I hadn’t had to share her. The doll was all mine and she was beautiful.
Had been.
At twelve years old, I didn’t carry Velvet with me everywhere. I was too old for that, but Mr. Henry and Miss Becky knew how much I treasured that doll. Mr. Henry had gotten ahold of her and... Yeah, that hadn’t ended well.
Rider thrust his hand through his hair, clasping the back of his neck. “If I hadn’t talked back to him that night, that wouldn’t have happened. You wouldn’t have been left alone in there. You wouldn’t have seen what you did.” Dropping his hand, he tipped his head back. “It’s one of the biggest things I regret.”
“That?” I croaked. “It wasn’t...your fault.”
What happened wasn’t Rider’s fault.