Page 40 of Saving Shepperd

“I’m all ears.”

“I don’t like that house. The one I grew up in. Just walking in the door does things to my head.” She tapped her temple and then slid her flat palm down her throat and clutched her fingers around her neck. “I can’t breathe in there.”

Treading carefully, I said, “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded while looking up at me with unshed tears in her eyes.

“Have you seen a therapist? For your PTSD?”

“PTSD?” she croaked, and one fat tear rolled down her cheek.

I rushed to sit on the bed beside her and hiked up a knee so I could angle my body toward her and wiped her flushed cheek. “I’m no expert, but it seems like that might be what’s going on.”

She shook her head.

“Based on what I’ve seen with Stella—that’s my niece—and what you’re describing, I think that some counseling might do you a world of good. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t need a shrink to tell me how fucked up I am, Law. I mean, come on…” She shot to her feet and began pacing back and forth. “Look at me.”

I stood too, intercepted her on the next lap, and pulled her against my body. “Baby, sshhh.”

She was trembling from head to toe.

I swayed back and forth with her pressed to my chest, hoping to comfort her. “That’s not the point of a therapist.”

She plopped down on the bed again and rubbed her forehead. “It’s a really sore subject.”

Sitting beside her, I took her hand in mine. “I think a lot of people have the same misconceptions you do. At least before giving it a go.”

“Remember the other day when I showed up on your doorstep? My God, was that just this week?” she asked with the most bewildered expression. “My parents threatened they were going to check me into some rehab place if I didn’t do something on my own. So, therapy, or help in any form, has always been wielded as a threat or way to control me when they feel like they have no other tricks left. It’s never, not once, been suggested in a spirit of help or healing.”

“Rehab?” I asked, trying desperately to keep the anxiety out of my tone.

I didn’t think I was equipped to deal with substance abuse after the past few years I’d just lived. Being a hypocrite didn’t sit well with me. Lecturing someone else about the perils of partying too hard or too often would be a soapbox I’d fall right through if I tried to step up on it.

“For eating disorders,” she croaked, and the tears were back again. “They’re all so fucking blind, they can’t even see what the real problem is. Or they see it and refuse to deal with it. They wouldn’t want to shatter their perfect little lives.”

“Okay. Can I ask you something else?”

She gave a curt nod while swiping tears away.

“Do you think you have an eating disorder?” The moment the words came out, I wanted an instant do-over.

Shepperd shook her head. “No. I don’t think I do. Do I neglect myself when it comes to nutrition? Yes. Could I stand to gain a few pounds? Maybe. But I’m not sticking my fingers down my throat or working out like a maniac.”

We both knew the truth about that last one, but I let her work through her emotions and self-correct.

“The gym is one of the few places I can go to escape. It probably seems like I go excessively, but again, people have no idea what I’m really dealing with in here,” she explained with another gesture to her head.

“Forgive me if this is a dumb question… Have you thought about telling them about the janitor?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve thought about telling them a hundred different times.” She hung her head until her chin nearly rested on her chest.

I hooked my index finger beneath it and lifted her face back to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That came out ugly.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I can only imagine the different emotions this brings up. I really appreciate you talking with me so openly about it.” I leaned closer and watched for a sign that she wouldn’t like me to kiss her in the middle of all this.

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