Page 8 of Healing Love

“I guess that’s it for this week,” she says after the hour is up. “Just three more sessions, then you’ll be rid of me,” she jokes.

My stomach twists at the thought of not seeing her every week. Hell, at this point, I think I need to see her every day. We say our goodbyes and I head out to my truck, though I don’t start it up quite yet.

Sitting in the silent cab, I reflect on Brielle’s softly spoken words of comfort, the way she soothed my rage, and how she gave me a second chance. Alright, more like a fifth chance after how I’ve been acting lately, but still.

Taking a few deep breaths, I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. For the first time since the incident, a wave of calm washes over me, loosening the ever-present vice around my lungs.

I don't want to leave just yet. Once I head up the mountain, I know I'll have to talk to Wilder. If Brielle can forgive me after only knowing me for a few weeks, maybe Wilder will be open to a conversation as well.

Sighing, I open my eyes and comb my fingers through my beard. This emotional healing shit is just as exhausting as physical healing. Maybe even more so.

When I start up the truck and look at the clock on the dashboard, I’m surprised to see that forty minutes have passed. I must have dozed off, or maybe all that emotional processing has made my brain slower.

I’m about to pull out of my parking spot when I see a flash of reddish-blonde hair that could only belong to one person. Brielle is standing in front of a car I assume is hers, trying to figure out how to open the hood.

I hop out of my vehicle and head her way, trying so damn hard not to scoff at the fact that she drives a pearl-white BMW. Brielle may have a silver spoon in her mouth, but she’s also real and down to earth. Plus, she’s the only person who has been able to handle me for more than a week, so that has to count for something.

"Hey," I greet, hating when she shrinks away from my booming voice. I don't know how to be gentle or sweet but for Brielle? I just might try. "Car trouble?"

"Elliot. Hey. I, uh, thought you left already." Brielle has always been confident and in control, at least in the comfort zone of her office. Right now, however, she's out of her element. She's vulnerable and has no idea how to fix her car if she can't even find the latch for the hood.

“I bet there’s a button on the left of your steering column that pops the hood,” I tell her. She blushes in embarrassment and scurries over to the driver’s side door. A second later, the hood lifts.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ve got it from here.”

I give her a look and cross my arms over my chest. “Is that so?”

“Yup. Definitely. Just need to check the oil.” My look grows even more skeptical when her hand hovers over the different parts that make up the engine of her car. I’m no mechanic, but I know the basics of car maintenance. If her car isn’t starting, it’s not because of a lack of oil. Plus, this car doesn’t look old enough to even need an oil change yet.

“So, that one over there,” I say, pointing to the dipstick.

“Exactly. Just going to go ahead and, uh… pull this out?” It’s more of a question than a statement, and I take pity on her. I don’t want her feeling stupid or accidentally hurting herself.

“Why don’t I give you a ride home?” I offer.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I can just call…” she trails off, her cheeks glowing red once more. Her breath grows shallow and her chin starts trembling like it did earlier today.

"I know a good mechanic," I tell her. It's not a lie. Wilder has been up on the mountain for almost a year now, working on the construction site, fixing the vehicles when they break down, and all around keeping everything up and running. I need to tell him how impressed I am with his hard work, but that will have to be a conversation for another time.

For a second, she looks like she’s going to decline, but then her shoulders drop and she nods her head. I don’t like seeing her like this - deflated, sad, and only a fraction of the bright, bubbly woman I’ve come to know.

I shut the hood of the car and lead Brielle over to my truck. She’s silent the entire ride, except to give me directions to her house. I even try starting a few conversations, but she doesn’t take the bait. Have we switched roles here?

When I pull into the winding driveway leading up to her mansion, I finally understand why she was so reluctant to have me give her a ride. I yelled at her earlier today for having a fancy, expensive life, and here I am, dropping her off at a goddamn castle with an honest-to-God bubbling fountain out front and perfectly manicured bushes lining the driveway.

“Thanks,” Brielle says in a rush as she unbuckles her seatbelt and throws her door open.

“Wait,” I call out. “Do you want me to have my friend take a look at your car?”

Before she gets a chance to answer, the double doors of the mansion fly open, revealing a woman in a pink silk robe with matching stiletto heels. I furrow my brow, not sure what to make of her. She stumbles forward, wobbling on her ridiculous shoes.

“Mom,” Brielle says, ignoring me and shutting the door to the truck. Something twists my stomach up in knots the longer I’m here, taking in this scene.

The woman lurches forward, and Brielle runs up to her before she falls down the porch steps. "Don't touch me!" Brielle's mother shrieks. They exchange a few more words I can't hear, and then the woman wraps her bony hand around Briell's upper arm and yanks her up the last step, causing Brielle to whimper.

I step out of the truck, unable to sit by any longer. “Everything okay here?” I ask, my voice stern and in control. I may be a dumbass when it comes to apologies and social interactions, but being a bodyguard of sorts is right up my alley.

The older woman in the pink robe stares at me as if just noticing me and my truck. Her eyes scan me up and down, a look of disgust scrunching up her face, which I notice has eyeliner and lipstick smudged all over as if she just woke up from a drunken stupor. From everything I’ve seen so far, that’s probably what happened.

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