Page 101 of Fragile

“Don’t be stupid, Miles. Tell him,” my dad snaps.

“It’s not that—”

“It’s that you had planned on using him again and you don’t want to give up your connection at school. It’s convenient having a dealer just down the road, and now you don’t have football, you may as well give up.”

His nostrils flare with every harsh breath he takes, spitting his words like daggers at me. I try to control my anger, clench my fists until my nails dig into my palms, but it’s no use.

“You know all of this started because of you, don’t you?” I hiss quietly but lethally. “Yeah, because you have constantly made me feel like shit, like I’m nothing but statistics to you, and even when that delivers to your standards, it’s still not enough.”

He holds my gaze, unwilling to back down, to take what I’m saying as truth. “And you know what else? It fucked with my head enough that I thought the only way I could impress the great Mark Cooper, the only way I’d get my own flesh and blood to accept me was to take some fucking pills that might make me focus better, stay more alert. And look where it got me! Fucked up in the hospital because the last pill I took after you called me on Saturday was laced with cocaine and I had no fucking idea.”

“Miles,” the dean begins, but I’m on a roll.

“No, please, sir, I will do everything you’ve asked, but I need to get this out.” I take a breath and wait for him to nod before continuing. “You know the only person who was willing to help me was Quinn. Her family has always been there for me, for my entire life. They picked me up when you let me fall. They stood by me at every event that wasn’t football, the ones you missed because you checked out after mom died.” I pause, taking a shaky breath. “And I get it, I do, but I fucking miss her too,” I admit, my voice cracking slightly. The ache of her absence feels like a void that’s impossible to fill. “Since she’s been gone, all I’ve gotten is a version of my dad I don’t know but have no choice in loving anyway because you’re my dad and you’re all I have.”

My dad stands, threading a hand through his hair. The soft thud of his suit shoes against the hardwood floor is the only sound as he paces around his chair.

“Mr. Cooper, if you’d rather I leave—” The dean stops immediately when my dad holds his hand up, gaze locked on me, and I can feel the pain he’s going to inflict before he even says it.

“I have done nothing but support you. You wanted to go to this school because Sebastian did, you got it. You wanted to stay inthe house where I lost your mother, you got it. You wanted to play football just like me, you fucking got it, Miles.”

“But you never fucking loved me, Dad!” I explode, my hands trembling. He can tell me all the ways he’s helped me in the past, but none of them compare to the ways he’s torn me down over and over.

He staggers backward as though I’ve physically struck him.

“I think we should reconvene,” the dean interrupts wearily. “Miles, if you’re free tomorrow, I'll have my receptionist set up an appointment with just you and I.”

Heavy breathing fills the air with so much tension, I feel as though I’m balancing on a tightrope above a flaming volcano.

“Thank you for your time today, Jared,” my dad says, slipping his mask back in place, straightening his suit jacket with a shrug. “If you could let me know the outcome, I’d appreciate it.”

And then he’s gone. And I’m left with the broken pieces once again.

Chapter forty-six

Quinn

I don’t think it’shealthy the amount of times I’ve tapped my phone to check if Miles has messaged me. I’m going to give myself carpal tunnel with the repetitive action. I’m up to at least two hundred now. Maybe more.Tap.Yeah, two-hundred and one.

I let out a deep sigh as my professor talks to us about the varied therapy approaches that we can study over the remainder of the year. It was part of the assignment this semester to pick a therapy style and explore it.

“Miss Dawson, you had some interesting insight in your last assignment. Would you like to come and share with the class?”

Would I ever.“Uh, Mr. Lambert, I think—”

“I insist.”

Okay, looks like I’m going up there. I don’t have many qualms about talking in front of groups of people—in fact, I like it—I just hadn’t planned to do it today when I’m so distracted. Clearing my throat, I stand and head toward the podium, just as the professor steps aside.

I take a deep breath, willing myself not to run back to my desk and tap my phone again.Focus, Quinn.

“So, in my assignment, I posed the question: Is art therapy really therapeutic?” A few people nod in the front row as I continue. “We all know that there are prescribed techniques we’ll be teaching when we work within a practice. There’ll be things we recommend and rules we follow to help patients heal and recognize their strengths in order for them to move forward. We have an arsenal of techniques to use.” I look around the room at my fellow students. “But what about the patients who don’t want to communicate? Imagine, you can give them said tools, and none of them work for that patient. What if we used a medium that allowed them to connect with another part of their brain, to give them new perspective and help them use another medium to communicate?

“Art therapy isn’t only beneficial for creative minds, but it can allow logic, fear, and pressure to be removed from any situation. Art is subjective. What you see will be different to what I see, and that’s the beauty of it. The uniqueness that anyone creates also resides within the artist.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lambert adds, stepping beside me. “Do any of you have questions?”

Dylan, in the front row, raises his hand. “What if part of your reason for therapy is that you’re a perfectionist. Do you think that doing something they aren’t well versed in might lead to feelings of inadequacy or failure?”

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