Page 72 of Reluctantly You

“Sorry about that, but fuck yeah to therapy. It’s cool, man. There was such a stigma about it growing up, but now I own it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be better, you know? And sometimes we just have trauma we need to process. I have tons of it. A whole closet full. Gonna be in therapy until I die.”

He snorts a laugh as I finally finish wrapping his hand and then move back to the boxing bag. Emery follows suit and watches me intently, trying to get his stance right. I sigh and then show him a few postures and punches as he does his best to mimic me, and by the time we’re done, his arms are hanging limply at his sides.

“I can’t lift them,” he sighs and then stares at his melted smoothie. “I won’t be able to drink that. It was ten dollars, too. I’ll never be able to retire at this rate.”

“Jesus,” I murmur as I help him unwrap his hands and then do mine. I stride over to the smoothie, condensation lining the plastic cup and hold it up to his mouth. His eyes twinkle and he grins at me, taking a long sip from the chewed-up straw.

“Thanks, man. You’re a real friend.”

That word sinks deep inside of me and I feel my throat start to sting. So without thinking too much about it, I nod toward the door, leading out to the main gym.

“Want to do a run?”

He moans in agony. “No, but I guess I should. You’ll have to carry me out of here though, big man. August won’t mind. Especially once he sees my abs.”

With shaky hands, he pulls up his shirt and stares down at his flat stomach.

“Shit, no abs yet,” he whispers, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

I’m back at home, Little Pants in my arms, my fingers flicking the business card between my fingers.

Fuck. Am I gonna do it?

Something about what Emery said just resonated. It struck me.

That benign rambling made fucking sense.

It’s not a big deal. I can get help and it’s not a big deal. Emery does it, I’m sure my brothers do and haven’t told me. Yeah, my parents went on and on about how it wasn’t needed, but I think I fucking need it.

Why can’t I try and be better? Why am I drowning in emotions that I can’t understand?

“Why can’t I try?”

Little Pants meows a response, pawing at the card, and I sigh, picking up my phone and dialing the number.

Of course it goes straight to voicemail. I am calling late at night and he obviously doesn’t work this late, so I quickly hang up and curse myself for being an idiot. I don’t want to leave a fucking message, don’t want to blather on and on to a damn machine. I stare down at the card.

Paul Henderson. Licensed Psychologist. His website is listed as well.

“Should I try that?” I ask Little Pants, and she starts to purr.

Yeah, fine. I can fucking do better.

Emery’s words echo in my head, the way he spoke so casually about therapy, about mental illness. It wasn’t a big deal to him. I wasn’t going to be mocked for trying to make myself a better man, no matter what lies my parents put in my head growing up.

I click on his website and see a virtual calendar. And without thinking too much about it, I sign myself up for a virtual lunch slot on Wednesday. An intake, it says.

Yeah, I can do that. I can sneak away to my car, eat lunch and talk to this guy. Fuck knows if it will help at all, but at least I’m trying.

I have to try.

Chapter Thirteen

Gideon

My mind lingers and spins on the night at the club, the way he felt in my arms, the way he cried my name when he came. After holding him tightly near the bar and talking him down, I pulled him onto the dancefloor, his face still tucked into my neck, his body pressed against mine. As if he was hiding inside of me.

The way our hips moved, a sensual sway against each other, his arms hanging by his sides but slowly moving up to palm my back. His fingers curled into my shirt, holding tightly as we rocked back and forth.

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