Page 33 of Drifting Hearts
“And I should know better than to bother you at breakfast. It’s too fucking early for this shit, man.” Shane closed the distance between us and wrapped me in a hug. “Do you need a lift?”
“Nah, I think the fresh air will do me some good. I’m going to walk up to the dealership and see about some new wheels.”
“Use the family account,” Shane said, referring to a bank account he set up for everyone to dip into if they had an emergency. “If you want. The choice is yours.”
“Thanks.” I exhaled. I was still angry, mostly at myself. For a lot of things. For hiding from Clay all week. For going off on Shane. For sleeping with Clayton. For kissing him. But most of all, I was pissed off because I liked it as much as I did.
Chapter 17
Clayton
Kieran’s absence from mylife was abrupt and, even though I’d seen it coming, it still left me reeling. I knew Patricia must have caught on that something was up because of the way she’d look at me sometimes, like she was sorry, but didn’t know how to fix what was broken.
Neither did I. But that wasn’t anything new. I’d taken a sledgehammer to my life and I was still picking up the pieces from that. Most of the time I didn’t know what I was doing. Having Kieran around had been abrasive at first, but I’d welcomed his presence. Even when he’d openly disliked and distrusted me, Kieran knew what to do.
A sound came from the computer, telling me that my therapist was calling. I liked Theresa, and I understood that therapy was helping, but I was so tired of talking. I wanted to start doing something to get my life back. I still needed to pay Shane back for everything he’d done. And Archer. And now Patricia. The list was growing longer and it made my skin itch.
Theresa had her hair braided today, highlighting the fact that the sides of her head were shaved. Sometimes she let her hair down, but I liked it better this way. It was like she didn’t care what people thought and was willing to let them know that any way she could.
“Clay, how are you?”
My heart ached at the sound of my shortened name. Kieran had started calling me Clay and I’d liked how it sounded. It made my chestwarm, like we were friends. We weren’t. That much was made clear by his stunning and startling absence.
“Feeling awful cooped up, to be honest, but the cast comes off next week.” I tried not to show her how afraid I was, but Theresa was perceptive.
“And that scares you.”
Looking down at my arm, I gave voice to the fear that kept me up at night.
“Even if I never tattoo again, I don’t really care, but what if I can’t draw? What if it’s not the same? What if they fucked something up?”
Art was all I had left. When I’d burned my life down around me, it was somehow okay because I still had the one thing I was good at. The one thing that had always been there for me.
“I wish I could promise you that everything will be fine, but I try not to make promises like that. But I do promise to help you through whatever happens next.”
Of course she would. Shane was paying her to help me. And as long as he was, I’d have that.
“What do you like about your job?” I asked her, having grown tired of talking about myself. The question had been sitting at the back of my mind for a while now.
“I like helping people.”
So simple. So straightforward. Her life’s mission summed up in four words. If it were only that simple for everyone else.
“Don’t you get tired of listening to people complain all day?”
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” Theresa took a sip of her drink, probably coffee, maybe wine. I’d need wine. But I had to admit that she was good at what she did.
“It feels like it.” Honesty sucked, but I’d learned early on that Theresa could smell bullshit a mile away, even through the internet.
“To answer your question, yes, sometimes I get tired, Clay. But that’s because I’m human. I try to remember that I can only do so much. That I’m just here to try and offer people insight, perspective, and coping mechanisms so they can do all the heavy lifting. And some days are harder than others. But I don’t think of people as complaining to me.”
“What am I doing, if not complaining about the state of my life?” I shoved my fingers into my hair, tightening my grip. Frustration had me wanting to give it a tug and yank it out of my skull.
“You’re struggling, and you’re asking for help.” Theresa paused and let that statement sit with me for a moment. “Now take a deep breath, Clay. That’s good.” She praised me when I’d obeyed without thinking, without really meaning to. “Another.”
She walked me through a breathing exercise, one that she’d taught me on our first week. I’d thought it was stupid at the time. I breathed all day long, why would breathing in a different way change things? What good could it accomplish? It turned out that a lot could be changed by putting on the brakes.
“Thanks,” I said after my head had stopped spinning.
