by K. A. Tucker
That’s all it takes. My body constricts, the sight of him so upset slashing through any defenses I had left. My hands fly to cover my mouth, tears springing to my eyes before I can stop them. I madly brush them away, but they just keep coming. After everything, seeing Trent in pain still burns me deeply.
And it’s because I don’t hate him. I can’t. I loved him. If I’m honest with myself, I may still love him. I don’t even care that he basically stalked me. I don’t know why I don’t but I know that I don’t.
There, Dr. Stayner. I admit it. Damn you!
“Sasha was a good guy, Kacey. You won’t believe me, but you would have liked him. I grew up with him.” Trent smiles sadly now, reminiscing. “He was like a brother to me. He didn’t deserve what happened to him but, in a strange way, it’s better this way. He wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes with that kind of guilt. He—” Trent’s voice cracks as he runs his thumb across his cheeks to wipe away his tears. “He was a good guy.”
Trent’s gaze roams the perimeter of the glass window. “I know you must hate me, Kacey. You hated Cole. So much. But I’m not Cole, Kacey. I’m not that guy anymore.” He pauses and inhales deeply. When he speaks again, his voice is steady and even, his irises brighter, his shoulders held a tiny bit higher. “I can’t fix what I did to you. All I can say is that I’m sorry. That and dedicate my life to letting others out there know how much this mistake can cost. How much it can hurt.” His voice drifts off. “That much I can do. For me and for you.”
With a slow, cautious movement, he lifts a shaky hand and presses it against the glass. He holds it there.
And I can’t help myself.
I match my fingers perfectly to his, imagining what it would be like to feel his skin again, to have those fingers curl over mine, pull me into him, into his warmth. Into his life.
We stay like that, hand against hand, tears rolling down my cheeks, for a long moment. Then his hand drops back to his lap and his voice turns soft.
“I wanted to tell you in person that, even though my intentions were wrong,” now he levels the glass with a gaze full of heat and emotion. One of his Trent stares that buckles my knees. “What I felt for you was real, Kacey. It still is real. I just can’t hold onto it anymore. We both need a chance to heal.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “It is still real,” I confirm out loud, softly. It is real.
Fresh tears spill down my cheeks as I realize what’s happening.
Trent is saying good-bye.
“I hope that one day you can heal from all of this, and someone can make you laugh. You have such a beautiful laugh, Kacey Cleary.”
“No,” I whisper suddenly, my brow furrowing. “No!’ Both of my hands fly to the glass to pound on it. I’m not ready for good-bye, I realize. Not like this. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I can’t explain it. I sure as hell don’t want to feel it. But I do.
I hold my breath as I watch Trent stand and walk out of the room, stiff-backed. The sight of the door closing—of Trent walking out of my life forever—unleashes a torrent of sobs and I tumble to the ground.
Chapter Twenty
I study the titles in Dr. Stayner’s library, busying myself so I don’t have to look at the fat lip I gave him after yesterday’s group session. It complements the black eye I gave him in last week’s session. Since the day Trent said good-bye, I feel emptier than ever before. There can be no doubt—Trent or Cole, mistake or murderer—that man had a strong hold on my heart, and he’s taken a chunk of it with him.
“So, my sons have taken to calling Wednesday’s “Dad’s Ass Whooping Wednesdays,” Dr. Stayner announces.
Well, now that the moose is on the table, I can’t very well avoid it. “Sorry,” I mumble, hazarding a glance at his face and wincing.
He smiles. “Don’t be. I know I pushed you a bit harder than I probably should have. Normally I ease my patients into talking about their trauma. I thought a more aggressive approach might work for you.”
“What gave you that brilliant idea?”
“Because you’ve compartmentalized your emotions and pain so tightly that we might need dynamite to break through,” he jokes. “I mean, look at you. You’re a trained fighter. You could probably set my sons straight. In fact, I might have you over for dinner to beat the snot out of them soon.”
I roll my eyes at my unconventional quack of a doctor. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would. You’ve taken all that tragedy and channeled into one hell of a tough defense mechanism.” His voice turns softer. “But all defense mechanisms can be broken. I think you’ve already learned that.
“Trent—” His name drifts over my tongue.
He nods. “We’re not going to talk about the accident today.” My shoulders slump with that news. That’s usually all Dr. Stayner wants to talk about. I wait as he makes himself comfortable in his chair. “We’re going to talk about coping. About all the ways that a person can cope. The good, the bad, the ugly.”
Dr. Stayner goes through a laundry list of coping mechanisms, marking each one off on a finger, cycling through his hands several times. “Drugs, alcohol, sex, anorexia, violence—” I sit and listen, wondering where he’s going with it all. “An obsession with ‘saving’ or ‘fixing’ that which is broken.” I know who he’s talking about.
I was Trent’s coping mechanism.
“All these mechanisms seem like they help at the time, but in the end, they leave you weak and vulnerable. They’re not healthy. They’re not sustainable. No human can lead a healthy fulfilling life with lines of cocaine by their bedside. Make sense so far?”
I nod. I’m no good for Trent. That’s what Dr. Stayner is saying. That’s why Trent said good-bye. The wound inside is still raw from that day, but I don’t bury the pain. I’m done burying things. There’s no point. Dr. Stayner will drag it right back where it’s impossible to avoid, like a buffalo carcass sprawled out on a one lane highway.
“Good. Now, Kacey, we need to find you a coping method that works for you. Kick boxing is not it. It helps you channel your rage, yes. But let’s find a way to permanently extinguish that rage. I want you to brainstorm with me. What do you think are healthy coping mechanisms?”
“If I knew, I’d be doing them, wouldn’t I?”
I get an eye roll. An eye roll from a professional. “Come on now, you’re a smart girl. Think back to all the things you’ve heard. What other people have suggested. I’ll get you started. Talking to others about the trauma is one.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him.
Dr. Stayner waves his hands dismissively. “I know, I know. Believe me, you’ve made yourself clear. But talking about your pain and sharing it with others is one of the most powerful ways to cope. It helps you release the hurt, not bottle it up until you explode. Other ways to cope include painting, and reading, setting goals, journaling about your feelings.”
Hmmm. I could do journaling. It’s still a private activity.
“Yoga’s fantastic too. It helps clear your mind, it makes you focus on your breathing.”
Breathing. “Ten tiny breaths,” I murmur more to myself, feeling my lips curl with the irony.
“What’s that?” Dr. Stayner leans forward, pushing his bifocals up with one finger.
I shake my head. “No, nothing. Something my mother used to say. Take ten tiny breaths.”
“When did she say that?”
“Whenever I was sad or upset or nervous.”
Dr. Stayner’s fingers rub his chin. “I see, and did she say anything else? Do you remember?”
I smirk. Of course I remember. It’s firmly emblazoned in my head. “She would say, ‘Just breathe, Kacey. Ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them.’”
There’s a long pause. “And what do you think she meant by that?”
I frown irritably. “She was telling me to breathe.”
“Hmmm.” He rolls a pen over the surface of his desk as if in deep th
ought. “And how will tiny breaths help? Why tiny? Why not deep breaths?”
I slap my hands on his desk. “That’s what I always asked. Now you see.”
But he doesn’t see. By the tiny crook of his lips, he sees something different. Something that I don’t see. “Do you think it matters if they’re tiny or deep?”
I scowl. I don’t like these kinds of games. “What do you think she meant by it?”
“What do you think she meant by it?”
I want to punch Dr. Stayner in the mouth again. I really, really want to punch him again.
***
Just breathe, Kacey. Ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them. I play these words over and over in my head like I have a thousand times before to no avail, as I lie awake in my cell that’s not actually a cell. It’s a nice small room with a private bath and sunny yellow walls, but I feel confined all the same.
Dr. Stayner knew what my mom meant right away. I could tell by that snotty smirk on his face. I guess you have to be super smart. Dr. Stayner is obviously super smart. I, obviously, am not.
I inhale deeply, jogging my memory of the conversation. What did he say, again? Breathing can be a coping mechanism. And then he questioned the tiny breaths. But he set up me. He already had the answer to it. And the answer is …
One … two… three … I count to ten, hoping profound wisdom will land on my head. It doesn’t.
Do you think it matters if they’re tiny or deep? he asked. Well, if they’re not tiny breaths and they’re not deep breaths, then they’re just … breaths. Then you’re just breathing for the sake of … breathing.
… Seize them. Feel them. Love them …
I bolt up straight, a weird calming sensation flowing through my body as understanding dawns on me.
It’s so simple. God, it’s so fucking simple.
Stage Eight ~ Recovery
Chapter Twenty-One
Six weeks later. Group therapy.
One … Two … Three … Four… Five… Six … Seven … Eight… Nine … Ten.
I try not to fidget with my fingers as they sit folded in my lap. “My name is Kacey Cleary. Four years ago, my car was hit by a drunk driver. My mother and father, my best friend, and my boyfriend were all killed. I had to sit in the car, holding my dead boyfriend’s hand, listening to my mother take her last breath, until the paramedics could free me.” I pause to swallow. One … two… three … I take deep breaths this time. Long, deep breaths. They’re not tiny. They’re huge. They’re monumental.
“I used alcohol and drugs to drown out the pain at first. Then I moved on to violence and sex. But now,” I look directly at Dr. Stayner, “I just appreciate the fact that I can hug my sister, and laugh with my friends, and walk, and run. That I am alive. That I can breathe.”
I’m above water.
And this time I’m staying where I belong.
***
A loud rush of clapping greets me at Penny’s as I turn the corner to find everyone waiting for me. Nate’s the first to greet me, stooping down and lifting me up into an enormous bear hug. I don’t even flinch with the contact. I’ve learned to appreciate it fully again.
“I always knew you were batshit crazy.” Ben hollers from somewhere. I whirl around in time for him to scoop me up and hold me tight to his body. “And tough as nails, for surviving all of that,” he adds softly in my ear. “I would have cried like a five year old girl. You okay?”
I pat his arm as he puts me down. “I’m getting there. I’ve got a really long road ahead.”
“Well, it hasn’t been the same without you here, I can tell you that much,” he says. His brow suddenly furrows. “Hey, so is that your sister over there?” His head nods toward Livie, who’s standing with Storm and Dan. “Because, I was thinking of asking her—”
“She’s fifteen.” I smack him playfully in the stomach. “Have they not taught you the meaning of statutory rape in school yet, Lawyer Boy?”
His eyes widen in surprise, his hands going up in a sign of surrender. “Dammit,” I hear him mutter under his breath, shaking his head as he gives Livie another quick once over.
It’s just before opening and the girls are in their outfits—or lack thereof—so Mia has stayed home with a sitter. Livie’s eyes stick to Storm and Dan, afraid to wander anywhere. Tanner’s there too, his jaw hanging open shamelessly.
The biggest surprise though? My unconventional quack is there.
“I’m not sure this constitutes healthy patient-doctor protocol,” I joke, poking him in the ribs.
He chuckles as he throws his arm around me in a side hug. “Neither does punching your doctor in the face … twice, but I let that slide so do me a solid.”
Livie and Storm’s mouths drop open while Dan and Ben double over, laughing.
“Champagne, anyone?” Cain sweeps through with a pat on the back and a tray of tall, filled flutes. A twinge of familiarity saddens the moment as I remember the last time someone handed me a champagne flute. I was with Trent.
I miss him. I miss his eyes, his touch, the way he made me feel.
That’s right. I can admit it to myself now without guilt or anger or resentment.
I miss Trent. I miss him every day.
A hand slips under my elbow and squeezes. It’s Storm. She somehow senses the turmoil going on inside me. She understands.
“To the toughest nut I’ve ever had the pleasure of cracking,” Dr. Stayner announces and we all clink glasses and sip.
“So, am I cured, Doc?” I ask, savoring the sweet fizzy liquid pooling in my mouth for more than the taste of it. It reminds me of Trent’s mouth, of the last time that he kissed me.
He winks. “I’ll never use the word cured, Kacey. Healed is a better word. There’s one last epic step in your recovery before I’d say you’re on your way to healing properly though.”
My brow quirks. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“I can’t tell you. You’ll know when you know. Trust me.”
I quirk my brow playfully. “Trust a quack?”
“I very expensive quack,” he adds with a wink.
Speaking of which … “So who is this friend of a friend of a friend of Dan’s who got me in to see you? I should probably thank them,” I ask innocently.
Dr. Stayner’s eyes flash to Storm and then quickly avert to the bar. “Oh, look! Caviar!” He slips away to a platter which, no doubt does not have caviar. That pretty much confirms it for me, but I play along anyway. “Livie?”
She looks like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary. “Don’t get mad?”
I wait, smoothing my expression.
“Trent’s dad paid for it all.”
I mock gasp and level her with my best glare.
Livie rushes to explain, all flustered and red-faced. “You needed help, Kacey and it’s really expensive help. I didn’t want to put you in some government-paid shit because they didn’t help you last time, and the wait lists were too long and—” Tears well up. “Carter had you listed as Dr. Stayner’s patient in under an hour. Dr. Stayner is a friend of theirs and he’s really good and—” The tears are streaming now. “Please don’t digress. You’re doing so well. Please don’t.”
“Livie!” I grab hold of her shoulders and shake her. “It’s okay. I figured it out already. And you did the right thing.”
She swallows. “I did?” There’s a delay and then she punches my arm, her face twisting in a scowl. “You knew and you let me freak out?”
I laugh and pull her to me in a tight hug. “Yes, Livie. You always do the right thing. You know, I always think I need to take care of you, but in truth you’re the one who takes care of me. You always have.”
She laughs softly as she rubs the tears away with the back of her hand.
I pause, not sure if I should ask, but I do anyway. “Have you talked to Carter about Trent?”
Livie nods and offers me a gentle smile. I told her about Trent’s goodbye. I’m pretty sure I heard her crying through t
he phone. Even she can’t hate Trent. “Carter calls me every few weeks to check in. Trent’s doing well, Kacey. Really good,” she whispers.
“Good,” I nod, smiling. I don’t ask anymore. It’s best that we stay apart, I know that. But it still hurts inside. God it still hurts. But feeling is okay, I tell myself. I won’t hurt forever.
“So, girls, I have to tell you something,” Storm interrupts us and looks up at Dan. With a nod from him, she announces, “I’m leaving Penny’s. I’m going to open up an acrobatics school!”
Livie and I must be mirror images of each other with our jaws hanging open.
“But that’s not all, Dan just bought a house on the beach and he’s asked Mia and I to move in with him and I said yes. Well,” she rolls her eyes, “Mia said yes and what she says goes.”
There’s a moment of silence before Livie throws her arms around Storm. “That’s great, Storm!” She begins to cry again. “Oh, these are happy tears, really. I’m going to miss you so much.”
Bittersweet delight washes over me as Storm and I exchange a glance over Livie’s shoulder. I’m going to miss living next door to her. Everything’s changing. Everyone’s moving on.
“I was counting on that because,” Storm pushes Livie back for a moment and takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous. “The house is big. I mean, huge. Dan inherited money from his grandma. We have five bedrooms there. And … well … you two have become such an important part of our lives and I want it to stay that way. So we were thinking you guys could move in with us.”
I look from Livie to Storm to Dan. “Are you sure you don’t need therapy, Dan?” I ask with all seriousness.He only chuckles, pulling Storm close to him.