Page 97 of Gunner

After a fitful night’s sleep, I lay in the bed I had occupied since that first night, with my eyes closed, and cried. Today was it. It was time to go home.

Aspen was doing remarkably well. She felt safe here, and King had said she could stay as long as she needed to. He suggested she stay until they found Greg. Knowing he had broken in once already meant there was a strong likelihood he would do it again. She would be safe here.

I wasn’t.

I was at risk of being broken.

The clubhouse had given me a glimpse of what a family felt like. A peek into how it felt to have someone stand in your corner. Someone to stand at your back and not just protect you but hold you up when you broke.

That was what I wanted.

Gunner gave me the impression that was what he was offering. But was it real? And if it was, how long would it last?

When I was ten my parents took me on a vacation in Rhode Island. I had never seen the ocean. It was incredible. Standing on the edge of the beach as the water raced forward and back with the tide. The water crashed over my legs, then pulled the sand from under my feet when it swept back out.

I had never experienced something so strong, so unbridled. The ocean had no rules. No choices to make. It simply did what the moon told it to do.

Afterwards, we strolled around a small seaside town. There was an old carousel, and while my mother shopped, my father lifted me on to a wooden horse. Before he walked away, he pointed to something sticking out from the wall.

“Reach for the brass ring, Haizley. As you spin around, lean out and grab one. Not everyone is successful, but I know you can do it.”

So, I did.

The carousel carried me around three times before I finally leaned out far enough to reach the ring and hook my finger around it. My dad cheered and clapped, telling me he knew I could do it. I had never seen him so excited.

I protected that ring like it was made of gold instead of brass. Carried it with me everywhere.

Until it was gone.

I never knew where I had lost it. Maybe in the hotel we stayed in, maybe in the sand we built castles in, or maybe in the ocean where we rode the waves. I cried the whole way home.

The point was, I didn’t care for it enough.

And consequently, I lost it.

When I was sixteen, I wanted to go to a party. I argued with my parents for days. They refused to let me go because there would be no parents there, making sure we made the right choices.

We were teenagers. It was a rite of passage to make the wrong choices. But my parents didn’t see it that way. They insisted it was their job to make sure I made the right choices.

I told them I hated them; said they were ruining my life. I believed I was old enough at the ripe old age of sixteen to make my own decisions.

I didn’t care enough about their opinions and their direction, and I lost it. I made my own decisions from that point forward. Always the right decision. Always weighing the good against the bad. Never taking a risk.

Never again did I reach out for that brass ring as the earth spun me around.

I wanted to. I wanted to reach out and take Gunner at his word.

My soul craves yours.

His soul called out to me. It had from the first time I laid eyes on him when I came back to town. All I had to do was reach out and grab hold of him. But if I did that, I would lose him.

It happened every time.

As a therapist, I knew my theory was irrational. I didn’t need my own therapist to tell me that. The problem was, I knew what I would tell a patient who came to me with these same ideas. Knowing your thoughts were irrational and actually being able to think beyond them were two entirely different things. I was too close to the situation. I knew all the excuses and reminded myself about them every day.

Maybe I did need my own therapist. But what would they tell me that I didn’t already know? I had two options: shit or get off the pot.

I chose to get off the pot.

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