16
Kevin
Mr. Andrews crosses one leg over the other and balances a clipboard on his lap. He stares at me with tight lips while we sit silently across from each other—a confrontational gesture for a fucking therapist. If there wasn’t a familiarity between us, I’d probably have told him to shove his clipboard up his—
“Are you ready yet, Kevin?” Mr. Andrews finally says.
“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”
This is how therapy works for us. He stares at me disapprovingly, taps his pencil on his clipboard, and waits until I’m comfortable enough to speak. We’ve sat like this for whole sessions before. He used to pry and push me into speaking, but it always made me feel cornered and defensive. After a while, the silences became shorter and shorter until we got to this point—ten minutes that tick by painfully slow.
“How long has it been since we’ve been face to face like this? A few months? I’m going to dive right in if that’s alright with you.” Mr. Andrews picks up his pencil and puts it to his paper. I’ve never actually seen him write anything. Maybe he does it once I leave. I can only imagine what it would say about me. “Before you stopped coming to therapy, I asked you to make amends with critical support people to help in your recovery. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Did you do that with your mother? Your brother?”
The air thickens the moment he mentions my mother.
“No, I didn’t.” I shift my weight in my seat, making the cushion squeak.
“I told you the importance of having a support system in—”
“We clearly have different definitions of ‘support,’ Mr. Andrews.”
He takes a deep breath. “But you tried to make amends with someone, didn’t you?”
His words make me want to punch him in the face. The accusation in his tone is unnecessary because I fucking told him this already. He knows the answer.
“Sure as fuck did.”
“Why in the world would you do that, Kevin? She’s the one person you were told to stay away from. No contact. Do you remember that?” His tone rises.
I understand his frustration. I’m more than just a client to him, and he’s more than just my therapist. It’s the only reason I allow him to speak to me like a goddamn father. He’s always tried to protect me.
“I don’t know why I did it. I’d been watching her . . . and I just needed to tell her I was sorry.”
“You and I both know you didn’t want to just say you’re sorry. You wanted to see if anything remained between you. If there was or not, you can’t act on it, so there’s no point in putting yourself through that. Have you continued watching her?”
I shift in my seat. “Not really as much. A few times since, I guess.”
“Did you have any infatuation issues like this before you went into the military? That really isn’t how PTSD manifests itself.”
“Maybe a little. But not like this.”
“Let’s see if we can unpack some of these feelings. Did you feel close to your mother when you were younger?” Mr. Andrews places the pencil on the table beside him and drops his chin into his hand.
“No. She wasn’t ever around. I pretty much raised myself.”
“Do you remember how that made you feel?”
Angry. Lonely. Depressed. “Neglected, I guess.”
“And your brother?”
“Franco was all I had. And then he moved on with his life. Now he’s got a family and a big fancy house in the country. A career.”
Everything I don’t have.
“How does that make you feel right now?”
I think for a moment. “Left behind.”
“And when Emily started to pull away from you—when things got bad between you—how did you feel?”
“Abandoned,” I say without thinking. “I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember. When I got my discharge notice from the military, I felt rejected. Those soldiers were the only ones who never left me. They put their lives at risk to never leave me behind. And now it’s all gone.”
“Issues with infatuation are not part of your PTSD, but your discharge from the military aggravates feelings of abandonment, rejection, and insecurity for you. I implore you to reach out to your mother and brother, Kevin. I think they could help you face these feelings, even if they aren’t very receptive. Do it for you, not them. Furthermore, I think you could benefit from some other treatment options as well.”
Mr. Andrews pushes a pamphlet across the table. I pick it up and look at it. AA meetings. Fair. I know I have a problem with drinking. I tuck the pamphlet into my pocket.
“I’ll try.” That’s all I can say.
“Please do more than try, Kevin. I can’t help you if you’re unwilling to help yourself.” Mr. Andrews sets the clipboard on the table. “You know what I’m going to ask you about next, don’t you?”
I blow out a breath. “Skye?”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s okay. Her physical bruises are gone, but I think she still has some in her head. I have to force her to eat, and she gets panicked. Kinda like me. We went and got stuff from her parents’ house. Her dad’s a real winner. I think he was the one who left the bruises on her.”
“How do you feel your behavior is around her? Is it appropriate? Safe?”
“Sometimes I withdraw from her, but I do that with everyone. I still get mad sometimes, but I would never hurt her, if that’s what you’re asking. I feel like I need to protect her. Like it’s my job to keep her safe.”
“I know that’s important to you, but can you see how that could be an unhealthy codependency?”
“Maybe, but it feels right, Mr. Andrews. It’s one of the few things I’m sure about right now. I want to do better for her.”
“Has there been any intimacy?”
I think about our kiss. The taste of her lips. How much I wanted it to go further but knew it couldn’t. “No, it’s not like that.”
“I urge you to keep it that way, Kevin. She’s extremely vulnerable. And so are you. Neither of you are ready for a relationship.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Do you?” Mr. Andrews sucks his teeth.
I do. If I didn’t, I would have let her hands wander where they started to. I would have taken our kiss further.
I stand up and lift my jacket from the back of the chair.
Mr. Andrews looks up at the clock before standing as well. “I’ll see you soon, Kevin.”
I leave therapy feeling the similar frustration I usually do. Thinking about too much and wanting a fucking drink.
I drive home. Our discussion replays in my mind, over and over. The relationship—or lack thereof—with my mother. Jealousy over my brother. Skye.
Guilt takes over. Was it right to take her in? For her or me. Fuck. I refuse to drop her off on her piece of shit father’s doorstep again, though.
I drive by Emily’s apartment. A quick check of the clock tells me she’ll be home soon. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and I fight the temptation to turn into the parking lot and set my sights on her.
My phone rings in the cradle above the radio. Skye’s name shows on the screen.
What am I doing?
I drive straight instead of turning into the lot.
A garbled voicemail comes through my phone. Anxiety floods me when I hear her terrified voice. I push the pedal to the floor, speeding up the last few minutes home.
After almost forgetting to pull the keys from the ignition when I arrive home, I fumble with them and knock them to the ground, cursing under my breath as I reach for them. I jog toward the door and unlock it. It opens to silence. There’s no movement in the apartment.