Page 103 of Actions and Reactions
He’s the one who was tied to the bed seconds ago. I should be taking care ofhim.
“Are your hands o-okay?” I manage to ask through sniffles.
“They’re fine. Don’t worry.” He combs his fingers through my slightly longer hair and keeps whispering nonsense while he holds me. “Do you want to talk aboutit?” he asks a few minutes later when my breaths are almost even.
“It just hit me right now,” I start to explain. “It was just so fucking cathartic, realizing we can build something real and good and healthy. That we actually have a shot. But I’m still worried, Si,” I confess and look up at him.
“Worried about what?” he asks, voice low. He brings his hand up and traces the line of my jaw with his finger.
“You seemed good today, at the rink.” I think it’s important to let him know I see that. “You were smiling, and I feel like an idiot for not realizing during the summer that you never smiled when you were at work, but today you smiled. You joked around with the guys and you’re coming back to work soon.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, and I know he’s hoping I’ll say more—which means he’s not getting my point. I don’t blame him.
“What happens when I’m late for practice again? Or when I don’t score in a game? What happens when I do score? When I get a hat trick? How will you react then, Si?” My desperation grows with every question. “I love yousomuch, but I can’t go through all that again. How will you cope with still working for a hockey team?”
An understanding sort of softness comes into his eyes.
“I think I need to tell you more about everything I figured out over the past three months. I think that might help.”
“I read your letter?—”
“That’s only a fraction of it.” He interrupts me, thenscoots back a bit so we can see each other better. “PTSD is weird. First, because there’s no recipe for how it presents itself or what causes it. The definition of trauma is different for everyone.”
I take advantage when he pauses to take a breath, and reach for his hand. I need to stay connected to him somehow.
“So basically, what happened back in September happened because I’ve been repressing my trauma and minimizing it. I’ve been dismissing it and avoiding actually dealing with the loss all these years. Coming to work for the Pirates and starting our relationship brought it all to the surface, but neither of those things caused the PTSD, does that make sense?”
“It does,” I murmur, following along easily up until now.
“Okay, so what actually caused the PTSD is losing what I thought was my reason for existing.”
“Wh-what?” I stumble over the word, shocked to my core. I know he loved playing hockey, but his reason for existing?
That’s beyond fucked up.
“Si, you’re more than?—”
“I know that now,” he hurries to interrupt me. “But I didn’t know it back then, and I think I didn’t know it three months ago. Hell, two months ago. That belief comes from a lot of places—my ego, my subconscious, my parents. I’ve worked through it, though, and while I was dealing with the trauma, I was also building my identity. Figuring out what Iwant to do, who I want to be. The problem wasn’t my job or you, Vinny.” He cups my cheek and smiles softly. “The problem was that I was a shell of a man, not whole. Now I am. Or at least, I’m getting there.
“I’m going to continue going to therapy here with a guy my old therapist recommended, and I have an appointment booked for the day after tomorrow. I didn’t tell you I’d come back lightly, Vinny. You’re also not my reason for existing, but you are essential to me. To my happiness. I also want to build something real and good and healthy, I swear.
“And the work isn’t done. It probably never will be, but I know how to cope now. I know what happened to me and how to deal with it if I’m ever triggered?—”
“And you don’t have to go through any of it alone,” I interrupt, my voice fierce.
I don’t think I can process the relief I’m feeling all at once, it’s that big, that life-changing, but knowing he’s not going to be suffering every day just to be here with me, just talking to me, is more than I thought was possible.
“And neither do you,” he stresses. “Like I said earlier, I want you to be yourself and to never feel like you have to hold back. You’re an amazing hockey player, and you love it as much as I do. If we were to spend twenty-four straight hours talking about a game, I’d consider that a perfect day.”
I watery laugh bursts out of me.
“We can take breaks to trade BJs, though,” I tease.
“Of course we can.”
Finally, he comes closer and kisses me softly.
“I’m not perfect, Vinny, and I don’t think any relationship ever is, but I want us to go back to being best friends who tell each other everything while also building our lives together. I want you forever.”
