Page 31 of Reluctantly You

“Fuck off,” he murmurs. “I don’t need therapy.”

“I disagree. You need it.”

“What I don’t need is you in my space, telling me what to do.”

I feel my chest grow tight, anger flaring inside of me. Here I am, doing a good thing, trying to help, and he hates it. He doesn’t respect it. Once again, I’m wasting my fucking time.

I hate that I tried.

I loathe him.

“I’m here in your space because you looked like you might not have made it through the night.”

“I’m fucking fine. I’m a man. I can handle it.”

I shift on the couch, running a hand across my face. I’ve heard that, far too much, too often, and then it was too late.

“You don’t need tohandleit.”

“I don’t fucking want help.”

I stare at him in disbelief and then stand up, placing the psychologist’s business card on the fridge under a Colorado magnet. It sits next to a picture of him and two other guys around his age. They’re all so attractive, full of life. His friends? Brothers? I don’t know much about him. And to be honest, at the moment, I really don’t care enough to ask.

“You can go. I don’t want you here,” Mitchell repeats from his place on the couch. The kitten meows loudly at me in agreement.

“Too fucking bad. I’m staying until you snap out of this.”

I cringe at my words. People don’t just snap out of depressive episodes, but I also don’t want to leave him and then find out he hurt himself. I was naive once. Never again.

“Whatever,” he murmurs and then leans his head back against the couch.

I stare at the top of his head and roll my lips between my teeth.

“Tomorrow morning before work, you and I will go to the gym and work out.”

He scoffs. “Thought I was fired.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

“Yeah? You want a spoiled brat working for you? Someone you clearly despise?”

“If he does his job, I don’t mind it. I can keep my feelings at bay.”

Mitchell scoffs and turns his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting mine.

“I did my fucking job. I did it well and it was all for nothing.”

He turns back around and my heart clenches tightly.

“You haven’t been doing your best.”

“Yeah, and why the fuck should I?” He stands up and turns to face me, the muscles on his chest rippling slightly as he breathes. Good, he’s angry again. Not sad and depressed. This is what I wanted. He needs to feel, to not be numb.

“Because I’m your boss and you want to keep your job.”

“Yeah, thing is, I fucking don’t. I don’t give a shit about that shitty job in that shitty office.”

I move toward him. His chest is heaving, and I pull the cat from his hands and place it on the couch before facing him.

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