Page 13 of Wicked Devotions: Part 2

“What’s up?” His face is a mask of indifference. Not a single drop of emotion is visible as he looks at me from behind his glasses. It’s unnerving.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For?” he asks after a beat of silence.

“I should have cleaned up the sink before leaving. I was just—” I shake my head to clear it. “It’s all kind of a blur, but that’s no excuse.”

“So you’re sorry that I cleaned up your vomit?”

“Yeah, I mean no, not just that.” His indifference is harder to handle than Declan’s vitriol.

He tilts his head and watches me as I stumble around this apology. Who would have thought that the calmest one of the guys would make this the hardest on me? He sighs and closes all the books around him, setting them to the side.

“Sit down.” He points to his bed.

“I’m sorry.” I drop down on the edge of his bed.

He crosses his legs and leans back against the pillows waiting for me to continue.

“I shouldn’t have left without leaving a note.” My eyes meet his. “And you know damn well if I had come up and gotten one of you to let you know, you guys wouldn’t have let me go. I needed Banks, and I’ll never apologize for that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He pats the spot beside him and waits until I’m settled there to continue. “Can you explain your thought process or what exactly happened this morning? I want to understand.”

I blow out a breath and sink back into the pillows. “I don’t really know. I went into almost a trance, like I was instantly numb. When I get like that, I’ve always gone to Banks. He’s been my person for so long, it’s almost an intrinsic urge now. He’s my safe place.”

Emerson nods as he takes in my explanation. “You were in shock.”

“I guess.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Only when something really bad happens. It started when my father would punish me. I would just kind of fold into myself, go numb to everything around me.”

“It’s a trauma response.”

“I guess. I’ve never seen a therapist or anything.”

It’s not like my dad could send me to one and risk being outed for the abuse. Plus he claimed we didn’t need psychologists when we had the counsel of God through him. I play with a loose thread on my sweater.

“I think you should.”

His words pull me from my thoughts. “What?”

“See a therapist.”

The thought sends ice through my veins. On a logical level, I know I need it, but on a base level, it terrifies me. Opening my inner world to anyone I don’t know is more frightening than facing my father ever was.

“You seem hesitant.” He turns his body to look at me. “What are you thinking?”

“That I hate that question.”

“Because you guard your innermost self as it’s the only thing you’ve ever been able to control.”

His words hit me like a blow to the chest, stealing my oxygen and leaving me reeling.

“What kind of doctor do you want to be? A psychiatrist?”

He gives me a smile. “Pediatric oncologist.”

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