Page 114 of Hold Me Before You Go

“I promise.”

A small wave of relief washed over her, but she tensed right back up when I said, “I’m talking about a therapist. You can goto one in person, or hell, Sunshine, they have ones you can talk to virtually.”

She stared at me, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine.

I brought a hand up to her face, stroking her skin. “You were healing, Carrie,” I began, my voice rough, laced with regret. “Then, everything got fucked, and you got dragged back down into that bastard’s darkness again.”

She swallowed, turning her head to look at the bench seat. When she said nothing, I added, “I promised the guys that when all this shit was over, I’d get some help too.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, chewing on the inside of her cheek now. “There’s nothing wrong with therapy, Carrie.”

“You don’t think I know that?” she shot back, looking at me again. “Believe, I know there isn’t, but when you’ve—when you’ve been through the kind of therapy I was forced to go through—” She cut herself off, looking back to the window seat.

I thought of all the notes and sessions in her file, the way the doctors denied her flowers, how she was locked in a room for over a year, rotting away. “No one will ever do that to you again,” I vowed darkly. “You have my goddamn word, Carrie.”

“I see him everywhere.” Her words were just above a whisper, like she only meant for me to hear them.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?” I pressed. When she didn’t make eye contact, I got fed up and gently gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at me. “Answer me.”

“I saw him at Hallow Ranch. I saw him in your apartment,” she croaked. “And then tonight, right before I went upstairs, I saw him in the living room. Never, not once since his death, had I seen him, Grayson. I don’t know—I don’t know what to do.”

“This is a trauma response,” I explained.

“I want him to go away,” she pleaded, putting her hands on my chest. “I want him to go away. I want Brandon to disappear. I want—I want to go back in time. I should’ve never gone to the General Store. I should’ve stayed at work and waited for you.”

I pulled her to me again, holding her and kissing the top of her head. “I know, baby. I know.”

“You said I keep you warm,” she said suddenly, rising back up again.

“You do,” I confirmed.

“You said your life has never been warm. Why?”

I sighed. “You really want to talk about this now?” I asked.

“Would you rather us talk about it with a wall of bulletproof glass between us?” she returned.

I bit down on my jaw. Hard. “That’s not a fucking joke, Carrie.”

“I never said it was,” she quipped, “but we don’t have a lot of time left together and I want to know.”

Fuck it all to hell.

Banding my arms around her waist, I scooted us back until I was leaning against her iron headboard, not giving a single fuck about the discomfort. “My mom was a good mother,” I said, wanting to clarify that before I dove into this.

She nodded. “You told me she was.”

I didn’t look away from her eyes as I gave her what she asked for. “My mother was a single mother, mourning my father and trying to start a new life. She busted her ass to make sure I had clothes on my back, a roof over both of our heads, and food in my belly every damn day.” I paused, letting that sink in. Carrie waited intently. “She was also a human and at the end of a long work day, she didn’t necessarily have the patience to put up with a loud, energetic little boy.”

“Grayson,” Carrie breathed out quietly.

I held my hand up. “No, don’t do that. My childhood was great. My mother wasn’t abusive. She loved me, but she was worn thefuck out. I was a lot to handle. I also grew like a fucking weed and needed new clothes and shoes often. It was hard for her.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, remaining quiet as I let my hand fall. “There were times, you know, when I thought I was a burden to her because she didn’t love on me enough, didn’t pay enough attention to me. Yeah, it got to me, but then, I grew up and got over it.” I took a deep breath, looking out the windows again. “After I was tortured, the Marines sent me back home. While I was healing, I stayed with Mom, and during that time, we talked. About everything. About my childhood. All of it. She told me she suffered from postpartum depression.”

When I looked back at my woman, I saw nothing but understanding in her eyes. “Back then, it wasn’t widely known or diagnosed.”

She nodded.

“My mother loved me. She still does. That will never change, but my life has never been warm. Not until you.”

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