Stroke It

by Ivy Jordan

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  QUINN

  I looked down at my notes and determined what the rest of my day looked like. I had everyone come in that day, but my next appointment scheduled was Sawyer, and he’d stopped coming in a long time ago. I couldn’t count on him being here today. Not that I minded—I wasn’t charging his mother the late fee, and we’d made an arrangement that worked for us—so I started to put my things away to go home.

  I’d been worried all day about what I’d done the day before with Sawyer and his father. Marching into his father’s office and taking matters into my own hands had been an uncharacteristically bravado thing for me to do, and yet I’d done it, and now I hadn’t heard back from Sawyer. I worried that things had gone poorly, or perhaps they hadn’t gone at all. Maybe Eugene said what he thought he needed to say to get me out of his office, and then business carried on as usual.

  If things had gone poorly, that would be very much my fault for egging on the process. As the hours of the day ticked by without any notice from Sawyer, I dreaded that outcome more and more. It had been wrong of me to interfere where I wasn’t involved. It had been wrong of me to take matters into my own hands. How would I ever make it up to Sawyer if what I’d done had ruined his relationship with his father? There was nothing I could do to save that. There was nothing I could do to compensate for that.

  As if on cue, I heard a knock at my door, and I straightened up. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in; I grew suspicious that maybe Stacy had come back to bother me. But then, she would either hide out in the waiting room or come straight to the door. She’d never been one to be polite and knock.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  The door opened, and Sawyer stood in the doorway. I stood up in surprise.

  “You’re coming back for your appointment?” I asked. Or, maybe he’d come to settle a score with me. I could only imagine how angry he was.

  But there was no anger in his face. Sawyer walked up to me and kissed me before I had much of a chance to protest, and when I thought he might back me up against the wall, he let me go.

  “Thank you,” he said. He sat down on the couch, apparently having gotten his greeting out of the way.

  I was completely out of sorts and egregiously confused. “What?”

  “Thank you,” he repeated. “For what you did.”

  He had to be talking about what he’d done with his father, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not tell my father to come by yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “He did,” Sawyer said. “And we talked. I think everything is going to be alright between us.”

  I barely remembered to pick up my clipboard. I couldn’t hide the sigh of relief that I issued. “I was so worried something went wrong. I hadn’t heard from you, and I thought maybe something had happened, and it would be entirely my fault if something had happened…” I shook my head. “But tell me more. What did he say?”

  Sawyer rubbed his wrist. “He said he thought I was ignoring him. He thought I didn’t understand what had happened, or how important what had happened was to us. We just didn’t communicate with each other.”

  “Do you think the whole thing was a miscommunication?”

  “Sort of. I think we’re both quiet. I got my quietness from him,” Sawyer said. “Even when we spent time together when I was a kid, we would always just be quiet. We never needed to say much. So when things went wrong, we were still quiet, but there were things we needed to talk about.”

  I made a mental note of this. If there was ever a problem between Sawyer and I, I would need to bring it up. It seemed being non-confrontational ran in his family. It was strange to think of Sawyer, a Navy SEAL, as nonconfrontational, but there he was on my couch having told me recently that he’d rather go his entire life without talking to anyone before dealing with conflict.

  “Would you say that you’re both nonconfrontational?” I asked.

  Sawyer scrunched up his nose. “I might not say it, but it’s probably true,” he admitted. “That’s how he and Mom stay out of fights. If there’s a problem, he just takes responsibility and deals with it. They don’t really argue.”

  “That’s not always healthy,” I mused aloud.

  “Well, they disagree.” Sawyer sat up a little. “They have different opinions. But they don’t argue. The only thing they’ve ever argued about was how to deal with me, and I guess that was because the stakes were so much higher than usual.”

  I nodded. Often in those situations when people were used to getting their way, they could get thrown off by someone who used to be a doormat suddenly taking a stand because the issue was important. For married couples, this was often a child in the case of a mother speaking out. I’d seen plenty of mothers draw the line at what a husband did to their children.

  “Your mom was the one who didn’t want to kick you out,” I recalled.

  Sawyer nodded. “You know, I think it’s for the best that my dad wanted to.”

  I raised an eyebrow. This was certainly a dramatic change of pace.

  “I mean, maybe not for the best. And I’m glad Mom talked him into letting me stay for a few weeks. But I needed to get a kick in the pants. I needed the push.” Sawyer ran a hand through his hair, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he kept that habit when his hair was so incredibly short.

  “Maybe,” I offered. I didn’t like to think of Sawyer on the street, though, and that could have happened just as easily. Now it looked like he had his life together. Everything was coming to a close.

  And where did that leave us? My job as a therapist, and as whatever we were outside of this office, was to help him. He was reaching the point where he no longer needed my help, a point of independence that I was grateful he’d achieved and yet frightened regarding its implications. If he didn’t need me, I didn’t know if he’d want to keep me around. We got along well, and I certainly felt that we had plenty in common besides just the fact that I helped him with his personal issues. But I could have also thought all of that up in an attempt to sate my need for intimacy.

  Surely everything wouldn’t be over now, just because he was doing well. I gripped my pen, suddenly concerned. He had no use for me anymore. When everything was going well, would we still have anything to talk about? He liked the outdoors, and I liked the city. He liked sitting alone, and I liked to be around people. We were different, weren’t we? We had little in common. I knew that opposites attracted, but not complete opposites with nothing in common besides a high sex drive and a need to talk about personal issues.

  I was at his mercy, then. I wasn’t going to end this relationship. I didn’t have the guts. Sawyer would have to do it when he saw fit, and I would have to prepare myself for the moment that he no longer needed me. It tore at me in an unexpected way, and I began to wonder whether my feelings for him were wandering too far for me to reign in.

  “I have you to thank for all of this, you know,” Sawyer said.

  I looked up, jolting myself out of my thoughts. “What? Oh, no. I directed him over, but you were the ones you did the talking.”

  “But we might never have talked if you hadn’t directed him over,” Sawyer pointed out. “You did me a huge favor. You’re always doing me favors. I need to repay you, somehow.”

  I worried that he meant sex, and I wasn’t in the mood for it.

  As if he could tell that I was concerned about that, he quickly cleared his throat. “I mean, maybe dinner. Tomorrow night, or tonight?” he clarified.

  Relieved, I replied, “Tomorrow night sounds good.”

  He smiled and didn’t seem to pick up on the fact that I was beginning to worry about everything. He was inviting me to dinner—that was hardly a sign of disinterest. Still, I could expect a lot to go wrong at that dinner. For all I knew, he was going to ask me there and inform me that our relationship had run its course, and that he no longer needed me, and that every
thing ended there.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  I had thought he’d left, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “No, I…” I shook my head. “I’m just a little worried, you know? Everything with you is going really well, and you might not need therapy in some time.”

  His mouth twisted up in a smile. “Oh, there’s plenty wrong with me,” he said. “I’ll need therapy for ages, I’m sure.”

  I lifted an eyebrow and began to smile in spite of myself. “Is that so?”

  “Definitely.” He was joking, but something in his eyes was sincere. “I imagine I’ll need to come in three times a week at least, probably for, gosh, for a long time.”

  “Gosh?” I hadn’t ever heard someone under the age of fifty use the word gosh.

  We both laughed, and I felt my nerves relaxing.

  “I don’t talk to you because you’re convenient,” Sawyer said, standing up to go. He stood in the doorway a moment, smiling at me. “I talk to you because you’re a good person. And that won’t change, whether I need therapy or not. I might not need therapy, but I might still need you.”

  With that horribly cheesy sentiment, he went on his way, leaving me a blushing mess of nerves in his wake.

  Suddenly, the next day couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  SAWYER

  I woke up the next morning to the sound of my phone going off on my bedside table. I didn’t check who it was before I answered it, trying to force myself a little more awake despite the tiredness that rested just behind my eyes.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sawyer!” It was my dad.

  I rubbed at my eyes and glanced out the window. It seemed to be early morning, a little later than I usually woke up but earlier than most people still. I wondered why Dad was awake so early on a Sunday, and then I remembered that he tended to be awake early on the weekends. It was something I’d never understood as a teenager, but after the SEALs, it was hard to understand how a person could wake up after eight in the morning.

  “What’s up?” I asked him.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to go fishing tomorrow,” Dad said.

  I furrowed my brow. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

  “Nah, I have off tomorrow. We can try the catfish farm if you want,” Dad said.

  I smiled. I hadn’t been fishing in some time, and I wondered if now that I was considerably stronger I’d actually be able to catch some of the catfish that eluded me in my weaker years. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll meet you out there.”

  “Alright. Nine o’clock?”

  “Sure.” I knew it was best to get out in the morning before the catfish went too deep to be caught. It was strange, how much I remembered about catfishing, even after all these years. Some aspects of living here were easy to melt back into like nothing had ever happened in the first place.

  Being in this new house, though, was reminder enough that nothing was the same. I took a shower and spent most of the day unpacking the few belongings I’d brought over. The box Pete helped me bring over was almost empty, save for a few books and pictures. I set those up in different places and thought to send Quinn a picture and ask for her approval, but if all went well, she’d be over to see them anyway.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do to convince her to keep seeing me. Up to now, we’d had a strange relationship based on the idea that I needed help. If I didn’t need help, I didn’t know that she’d still see me. But then she’d expressed concern for the same issue. I got ready for our date with the resolution to do my best to let her know how I felt, even if I didn’t say anything terribly brash out loud.

  When I got to Quinn’s house, my irritation quickly faded into something resembling nervousness and anxiousness. She wore a dress I hadn’t seen before, something that hugged every curve of her body, and I couldn’t tell in the evening light whether it was black or navy, but I didn’t care. I wanted quite suddenly to cancel dinner and spend the night doing whatever we pleased, but I’d made reservations, and I’d promised her dinner.

  “You clean up well,” she told me as we got into the car.

  “Says you,” I returned. “If I hadn’t made reservations…”

  She giggled in the passenger’s seat. “Then what?”

  I looked at her when we hit a red light. “You know what.”

  The restaurant had kept our reservation, and we were seated quickly, without any issue. I looked across the table and took a second to appreciate her, the way she tucked her napkin into her lap and stirred sugar into her tea like clockwork. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wondered for a moment if I’d replaced one addiction with another. First crack, then the military, and now Quinn.

  But if this was an addiction, if this was unhealthy, I didn’t want to be corrected.

  “You look like you slept better,” Quinn said. She rested her head on her chin.

  It would have been easy to merely stare at her for the rest of the night. But I wasn’t about to ignore her conversationally.

  “I did,” I said. “I actually slept better last night than I have in a long time.”

  “No terrors?” she asked. She took a sip of her drink.

  “None.” That was true. For the first time in months—I’d had these dreams before I came home—I’d slept through the night without a single disturbance. It felt like I’d slept for a few thousand years, honestly. I didn’t know how people got on sleeping through the night every single night. It was almost too much sleep.

  “That’s good to hear. Do you think that getting things settled with your father helped?” Quinn looked like she already knew the answer, and I thought about something I’d heard regarding therapy before. That sometimes the therapist was only trying to get the patient to see the right answer—it had to come from within sometimes.

  “I think so,” I said. “I had… you know, some stuff from the SEALs.” None of which I wanted to talk about. I was more convinced now than ever that I could leave that all behind without any trouble. Things were improving in my life, and I hadn’t had to share any secrets regarding my time overseas. Perhaps I would never need to share it.

  Quinn raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything. Consistently she astounded me with her ability to listen without demanding more, especially when I refused to give her more information.

  “But I think that honestly, it all came from back home,” I said. “All the other stuff. It enhanced the things that happened, made them worse than they were.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like what happened was made worse by the fact that I was already coming from a stressed environment,” I said.

  “That was what I had a hunch about,” Quinn said, nodding in affirmation.

  I smiled. I’d known she had the answer already. “You already seemed to know that, though.”

  “It’s not always about whether you know,” Quinn said. “Sometimes it’s about what you find out.”

  “Journey over destination?”

  “Basically.” Quinn smiled. “You’re certainly smart enough not to need me to hold your hand through everything. If I point you in the right direction, you figure out what to do in time. It’s just a matter of offering guidance. And, of course, making sure I don’t steer you in the wrong direction.”

  “Wouldn’t I know if you did?” I liked to think myself capable of righting any wrong she accidentally threw my way.

  “I don’t know,” she said, but her tone was teasing. “I like to think I do a pretty good job any time I’m steering—”

  “Sawyer?”

  A familiar voice cut in and I turned to the source. It couldn’t be—but it was. Stacy Black, in the flesh, standing at the end of our table. She wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants, terribly out of place here in this restaurant. I didn’t know how she’d gotten in or how she could have known where Quinn and I were. What was she doing here?

  I could only stare. Maybe I was having some sort of hallucinatio
n. It was perfectly possible, given my current mental state—I’d thought I was on the up and up, but maybe I’d taken a drastic turn for the worse.

  Where I completely failed to say anything, Quinn spoke.

  “Stacy, it’s a surprise to see you here.”

  A surprise! Winning money on a scratch-off card was a surprise. Getting two cokes in a vending machine when you paid for one was a surprise. This was a hellish situation that I couldn’t believe I was stuck in. I didn’t refute her, though.

  Stacy looked at Quinn almost as though she was surprised she’d said anything, and set her hands on the table. A nonverbal assertion that she wasn’t going anywhere. I cursed myself for not choosing a slightly nicer restaurant. In one of the really uptight places, they would have her removed for being out of dress code.

  “So, Sawyer, you’re just now back from… where?” Stacy spoke as though nothing had happened.

  I swallowed thickly. “Um, Middle East.”

  “That’s not a place. Where were you exactly?”

  “All around.” I furrowed my brow. Why did she care? I wanted to know what she was doing, but I knew from experience that Stacy was prone to making scenes. I didn’t want to taint Quinn with that reputation. If I were alone, I would have let her detonate all she wanted. But not in front of Quinn.

  “Alright, I guess.” Stacy pursed her lips. Her hair looked dirty, and overall, she didn’t look like she was doing well. I remembered when she got like this, forgetting to take care of herself and going off on drug rampages. I was always expected to be the one to save her, but at some point, I’d joined her instead.

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to add to the conversation and give her more reasons to stay at this table. I wanted her out of sight and out of mind.

  It seemed my silence only served to further her resolve to stay.

  “So how long have you been back?” She asked.