Page 91 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He shrugs again. “You prove it. Every fucking day until he doesn’t have a choice but to believe it.”

I stare at him, my chest aching, my fingers digging into my jeans. Because I will. I’ll prove it to him over and over again.

Until he finally fucking believes me.

Damon

Thesessionleavesmefeeling fucking drained. Like I’ve been wrung out and left to dry, every nerve in my body exposed. Some days are like that. Some days, therapy makes me feel lighter like I’m actually making progress.

Today isn’t one of those days. Today, I feel like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like there’s something crawling underneath it, pressing against my ribs, waiting to break free.

I light a cigarette as soon as I step out of my therapist’s office, the cool autumn air biting at my skin. My mind is too fucking loud, even after an hour of picking apart the mess in my head, even after sitting on that stupid couch and trying to make sense of the shit that still claws at me when I close my eyes.

The session wasn’t bad—not really. But the thing about therapy is that it forces me to think about things I’d rather bury six feet under. It peels my skin back and makes me look at the rot underneath, and today, that rot is the way Roman looked at me last night.

Like I was something that could be loved.

I don’t fucking know how to deal with that. I don’t believe in love. I don’t believe in forever. But Roman is making me question every goddamn thing I thought I knew.

I exhale slowly, absentmindedly flicking my lighter as I bring the lit cigarette to my lips. My hands are still shaking, so I put my lighter back in my pocket and pull out my phone. I need to hear a voice that isn’t my own, so dial the one person who’s never made me feel like I had to explain myself. Mom picks up on the third ring.

“Damon, sweetheart,” she says, and I swear, just hearing her voice makes my shoulders drop an inch. “I was just thinking about you.”

I take another drag and lean back against the bench. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “How was your session?”

I hesitate for a second, but it’s her. I don’t have to lie. “Shit,” I admit.

She sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Not really.”

She hums again, the sound filled with a patience I don’t fucking deserve. “Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re worse than my therapist.”

“Your therapist didn’t birth you.”

“Fair point.” I take another drag.

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, softer now. “What’s going on, Damon?”

I lick my lips, debating whether I should even bring this up. But fuck it. She’s gonna find out eventually. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh?” She sounds surprised, but not upset. “Tell me about them.”

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like a goddamn kid again. “Uh… it’s—it’s a guy.”

There’s no hesitation in her voice. “I assumed as much, sweetheart.”

I huff out a breath. “Yeah, well… it’s Roman Bishop.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence that stretches too fucking long.

I frown, shifting my phone to the other ear. “Mom?” She still doesn’t say anything, and my stomach twists. “Are you—are you still there?”

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