Page 40 of Beneath the Stars (Sugarlake 1)

Heartbreak is easier to hide in the dark.

17

Chase

Twenty-Two Years Old

I have this nasty habit I’m trying to break. I dissect every part of my past until the pieces are so skewed, I can’t put them back together. Countless hours are spent trying to fit square pegs into round holes—deciding who I’m going to hold liable for my failings. I’m the fucking poster boy for the blame game.

When I lost my mom, I raged.

When I lost Lily, I grieved.

When I lost Goldi, I did both of those things.

I went to her mom’s funeral with the stupid idea she would need me. Not realizing I had taught her how to not need me long before then. I held her limp hand and stared into her vacant eyes, searching for the love she had always given. The love I didn’t deserve. How fucking selfish of me. Now, I realize the love I offered in return was twisted and warped, bathed in my insecurities and modeled after the dysfunction I was born into.

I didn’t go to her again. I stayed that night at Sam and Anna’s, knowing I wouldn’t return, and drove back to Nashville in the morning. Desolate and defeated, hating myself for how heartbroken I felt. I knew deep down I had no right.

I’m a taker. A controller. These are flaws that exist within me. They always will.

But I’m ready to heal.

So here I am lying on a fucking couch, staring at a popcorn ceiling, wishing like hell I hadn’t made the decision to see a shrink.

“Chase. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’ve decided to come here today.”

He’s an older man, late fifties with dark wavy hair graying at the temples. Round glasses sit on his crooked nose. His ankle is highlighted by orange and blue argyle socks and is crossed over the opposite knee.

I steeple my hands on top of my stomach. “Well, Doc. I’m fucked-up. I chase away all the good things in my life.”

“Hmm… do you feel like you hold on to the bad?”

“I am the bad.”

The room grows quiet when I don’t continue. There’s a small gold clock sitting on his desk, ticking away. It reminds me that I’m paying for these minutes. Apparently, paying to sit in silence. People actually need degrees for this shit?

I shift uncomfortably on his couch, the leather groaning underneath my weight. I expected him to lead me with life lessons or, fuck, I don’t know, maybe pass out a multiple-choice questionnaire? I’m low-key nervous, and I don’t have any clue how this works.

I side-eye him. He has a legal pad in his lap, ready to take notes on all the ways I’m fucked-up. He’s gonna need more paper.

Finally, he speaks

again. “What is it that makes you feel that way?”

I turn my head toward him and quirk an eyebrow. “You want me to give like... examples?”

“That’s up to you.”

I groan, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling my hair. “Fuck, we’ll be here for-fucking-ever.”

He chuckles. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, then. Your first memory of feeling like you were ‘the bad.’”

Huh.

I close my eyes as I search through memories until I get to the earliest hurt. I was a little kid, around four at the time. Desperate for my mom’s attention. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Anxiety crawls up my throat instead of the words.

This therapy thing is harder than I thought.

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