Page 71 of What We Broke

“Good,” I answer. “And yours?”

Today, Leo had both outpatient rehab and our appointment with Dr. Sosa after. I offered to cancel the latter when I found out about his schedule clash, but Leo insisted he could handle both on the same day.

“It was fine,” he answers casually. “I’ll be glad to see the back of these sessions.”

I glance at him quickly before focusing my attention on the road and veering the car away from the building and back into traffic.

“You don’t find them useful?”

“I do. But I’m hoping to try more one-on-one stuff after it ends,” he explains. “Something a little more tailored to me and what I’m dealing with.”

Again, I feel so off balance by his decision to move forward and want the changes.

“And what is it you’re dealing with?” The question bites and we both hear it.

“Jesse.”

I’ve always loved the way Leo says my name—with a lifetime of love and reverence—and now it is nothing more than a longing I feel down to my bones.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a little softer. “I’m just struggling.”

It isn’t a lie and it isn’t the truth, but it’s all I can give.

The rest of the drive is silent, and when we arrive at Dr. Sosa’s, Leo can’t get out of the car quick enough. As I drag my feet behind him, I have to wonder if this is how Leo has felt every time we’ve been here. So overwhelmed and helpless and undeniably broken.

“Leo. Jesse. It’s good to see you both. Come in.”

Dr. Sosa is already waiting for us, and I’m grateful there isn’t the usual delay in the waiting room.

Seated with my arms resting on my thighs and my head hanging low, I’m surprised when I hear Leo’s voice before Dr. Sosa’s.

“I think I might’ve pushed Jesse too far,” he says.

My head snaps up to catch him looking at me.

“What makes you say that?” Dr. Sosa asks.

He shrugs. “Maybe I just took too long.”

“Too long for what?” she presses.

He shrugs again. “I want to be better. Well, I’m trying to anyway.”

“That’s not fair,” I blurt out. “You don’t get to say you’re trying like it fixes everything, like the damage hasn’t already been done.”

“I didn’t say anything was fixed,” he argues. “I said maybe I’ve taken too long, like maybe now that I can see some light, you’re over it.”

I want to punch a wall or maybe throw a chair across the room. I want to be anywhere but within these four walls.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head up to the ceiling. I breathe and count.

I count to ten. Inhale.

I count to twenty. Exhale

“I’m here,” I say, not to either of them specifically. “I’m here and I’m not over it.”

When I find the strength to open my eyes, I look straight at Dr. Sosa. “If I’m not trying to keep him in the present, if I’m not trying to limit his self-destruction, I don’t know who I am.

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