Page 14 of Old Money

I see her take a sip of hers out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t take my eyes off the screen. She fiddles with the bottle, then she sighs.

“I know,” she says. “I’m fucked up.”

“What?” I ask. She stares down at the top of her bottle.

“This whole thing…I just don’t know how to get over it. I don’t feel normal. I feel like I’m just going through the motions.”

I think for a minute.

“Sawyer, I don’t know that this is something you ever get over. This is…this is big. This is something no one should ever have to go through. This is severe trauma.”

She shakes her head, drawing in a deep breath and pulling her legs into her body.

“No, that’s just it, though,” she says. “I didn’t go through it the way other people did. My friends who were locked away or who freakin’ died. I got away. I got saved. I got off easy.”

I see her lip trembling, and she bites it. I reach over and take her hand.

“Sawyer, just because you didn’t have more damage done doesn’t mean there was none. Thank God you didn’t. But just because others did, that doesn’t mean that you deserved it. You still saw him. You watched people die. Sawyer, that’s not normal. You’re not supposed to just get over something like that.” She nods after a moment. “Have you…have you thought about talking to someone?”

She shrugs.

“Carrington is offering free counseling to every student. But…I don’t know. I just feel like they have people to help who need it more than I do.”

God, this girl. She doesn’t even feel like she deserves help.

“I see,” I say. “Well, if and when you feel ready, I have a therapist that I’ve worked with for years. He has his own practice, and there is a new female therapist who specializes in trauma. If I give you their information, promise you’ll think about it?”

She shakes her head.

“I can’t afford that,” she says. And before I can say anything, she sticks a finger in my face. “And no, you may not pay for it.”

I laugh.

“Wasn’t going to pay for it,” I say. “I actually am an investor in the practice, so I get free services. It would be free for you.”

She thinks for a minute, biting her lip again.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll think about it.”

I smile.

“Good.”

“I’m really sorry I called you,” she says, and I almost choke. I swallow and put my drink down on the table, looking at her.

“What?” I say.

“I thought I’d be able to handle it,” she says, swirling her thumb around the top of her bottle. “But when I got to that door, I just…couldn’t. And I just…” Her voice trails off as she laughs to herself, rubbing her temple. “I couldn’t call my mom because it would destroy her if she knew I needed her, and she couldn’t get to me. And all my friends are dealing with the same shit, or are still with their families, or are dead… How sad is it that the only person I could call was the billionaire I met a few weeks ago who was nice enough to clothe and house me?”

I know how she means it. I know that, much like everyone else in my life, she assumes that I hold myself to a higher standard, that my busy is more important than everyone else’s busy, that I couldn’t possibly be bothered by the problems of the rest of the world.

And until about a week ago, some of that might have been true.

But considering the fact that I’ve had more intimate moments with her in the last week that I’ve known her than with any other woman I’ve been with over the last decade, I thought we might be past that.

“Ouch,” I say with a half-smile, picking my beer back up and looking back at the TV.

“I’m sorry…I…I just…”

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