Page 58 of Snowed In with Three Mountain Men

“You ever think about doing therapy?” I ask him. “I know some people, when they leave the army, they?—”

“I tried it a couple times,” he replies bluntly. “But it never really did anything for me. Always felt like they wanted to dig around in my brain just for the sake of it. How was that ever going to help?”

His words are laced with bitterness. It’s clear that, whatever help he did receive, it wasn’t enough, not even close. He lifts his chin and looks at me, cocking an eyebrow.

“What about you? You do anything like that?”

“No,” I confess. “But I…I feel like maybe I should.”

He stares me down. I can tell he’s not certain about the idea. But he has shown himself to be willing to do anything he can to support me, even when he doesn’t entirely know why I would want to make a move like that.

I squeeze his hand again. “But I don’t want to go through it alone,” I continue. “I…I think I need someone there with me. Someone who understands what I’ve been through. Someone who gets what it’s like, you know?”

His chest puffs out slightly as I speak. “You want me to come with you?”

I smile. I know it’s not the most conventional method of convincing someone to take care of their mental health, but honestly, if he needs to feel as though he’s the one who came to this conclusion on his own terms, then I’m more than happy to let him.

“I would love that,” I reply. “We could work through our shit together. Get over all of this. Leave it behind, once and for all.”

His face softens slightly as I speak. I know it’s not always easy for Dax to be honest with himself about how much he’s hurting—of the three guys, he’s the one who carries the most pain from his past. But here he is, sitting before me, alive and ready to make a change—ready to stand with me as I start to move into a new phase of my life.

I lean forward and kiss him softly, and he tucks his hand protectively behind my head.

“I…” he begins, but then he stops himself, shaking his head.

I lean back, raising my eyebrows at him. “What is it?”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. You don’t need to hear it.”

“No, tell me,” I press him. “If you’re going to be talking about this in therapy, you might as well get used to coming clean, right?”

He looks at me for a moment. I can tell he’s still not entirely into the idea, but he doesn’t shoot me down at once, as he usually does. Finally, taking a deep breath, he comes out with it.

“There was such a long time,” he confesses, speaking slowly, clearly not used to putting these things into words, “when I was sure I was going to end up like my father.”

“You mean…?”

“I mean killing myself, like he did.”

His words are laced with a pain I’m not even sure he entirely understands. I fall silent, letting him speak—I don’t want to scare him into closing his mouth now that he’s finally telling me what I want to hear.

“I was so sick, so fucking sick,” he continues, shaking his head. “And it felt like I couldn’t do anything without falling apart. Not going to the store, not seeing my family, not anything. And then, Dad died, and it was like I got a glimpse of my future. Like that was where I belonged too.”

My heart swells in my chest as he speaks. I hate knowing that he’s ever thought so little of himself—but at the same time, it’s not as though I can’t understand it. I’ve only just gotten out of the hell I was trapped in, and these memories are already driving me a little crazy. I can only imagine what he must have gone through for all those years, feeling so alone, feeling like he was losing his mind.

“And maybe I was even jealous of him,” he mutters. “Jealous that he could make it all end. Knowing that I would never do that to my brothers, fuck—I wished I could, sometimes. Wished I could just wake up and all of this would be over and I’d never have to think about it again.”

His words are laced with a real venom—and I know it’s not at me, but rather, himself. But still, I hate to hear it.

“That version of me, he was such a coward,” he spits. “Such a fucking coward for wanting to run like that?—”

“Dax,” I interrupt him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it.”

“I know I don’t,” I reply, mirroring his blunt language. “And I’m not going to pretend like I do. But if you think I’m going to sit here and let you shit all over yourself like that, I’m not. Okay?”

He stares at me for a moment—and I can see how vulnerable he is. How hard this is for him to say out loud. No matter what kindof front he might want to put up, the pain is written all over his face, the memories more than he can take.

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