Page 178 of Piece Us Together

“Your knuckles alone, sweetheart…”

“The not eating,” Nolan adds, his voice soft, sad. “The not sleeping. The drinking. Refusing proper care. Purposely aggravating your injuries. Maybe even—I think maybe it’s why you can’t stop, Maison. Stop working.”

I sit up. The pain is sharp, zinging its way to my mind until my head swims. It’s good, though. The men I love are hurt. I’ve hurt them with my shit. I should hurt too.

Oh.

I close my eyes as the terrible fucking realization that they’rerightwashes over me.

I suddenly feel very small. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t have to be sorry. We don’t want you to be sorry. We just want you to be okay,” Hunter says.

Nolan nods. “Just try, okay? Can you try?”

It’s not hard, in the end. It’s not hard at all. “I’ll try.”

Dr. Singh takes his clients in his small cabin half a mile into the woods behind the house. It’s a winding trail through the trees, snow-covered and picturesque as dusk falls over the forest. I keep my hands stuffed in my pockets, telling myself that I’m not hoping he won’t be home.

My stomach drops when he answers his door. He smirks, one eyebrow raised. “Wow, you look so happy to see me. I’m honored.”

“I hate you,” I say honestly.

He nods. “I get that a lot. It’s okay. Come on in.”

I follow him, kicking snow off my boots before taking them off completely. He gestures for me to hang my coat on a hook. It’s stupid, really, but I feel more vulnerable once I’ve removed the layer. I try to sink deeper into Hunter’s sweatshirt, the collar purposely sprayed with a spritz of his cologne. It’s hard to sink into something two sizes smaller than your usual, though.

Dr. Singh eyes the sweatshirt, his smirk softening into a smile. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows. I can already tell he knows.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yeah. Something strong.” He’s halfway to the cupboard when I remember thatsomething strongisn’t supposed to be an option anymore. “Wait, no. I’m not drinking. I’ll—uh. I’ll just do water, I guess.”

“I have a tea that’s supposed to be calming.”

“Sure. Yeah. Why not.”

“Go on in the room. Get comfortable. I’ll bring our mugs in.”

My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I walk into the room he pointed to. It’s warm and inviting, but it might as well be Siberia for how I feel entering it.

I sit on the couch. Then I stand and start to pace. Then I sit in one of the armchairs. I’ve just stood up again when he walks in, a mug in each hand. I freeze. He doesn’t.

“Would you say you have more of an issue feeling small and lost when you’re emotional, or feeling crowded and suffocated?”

“Uh—suffocated, I guess. Like the world is pressing down on me.”

He nods. “Take the couch. In the center.”

Figuring it’s worth a shot, I go and settle on the center cushion of the three-cushion couch. It’s softer than I expected, the leather not as stiff. I don’t grab the mug he puts on a coaster in front of me. My knee is already bouncing anxiously. The last thing I need is to start spilling hot liquid all over myself.

Dr. Singh settles in the armchair slightly to the left across from me. He eyes me, not my face. My knee bounces harder.

“I hear you were hurt.”

I barely manage to cut myself off from startling. I’d expected him to bring up the sweatshirt. Not this. “How’d you hear that?”

“That’s confidential.”

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