Page 112 of Bitter Truths

Standing abruptly, I meet Aaron’s gaze and say, “C’mon, let’s go do something.”

“Like what?” he asks with a smile.

“I don’t know; anything but this. No more moping.”

“What could you possibly be moping about? I heard you moaning the other night,” he teases.

Rolling my eyes skyward, I say dramatically, “Why, God, why?”

He chuckles and stands, walking toward the hall closet. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a beautiful day. The temperatures are cool but nowhere near as cold as it’s been. Snuggling into my coat, I follow Aaron to his car and smile when we pull out of the drive.

“You haven’t mentioned your counseling lately. Any good morsels?”

My stomach dips, and I glance at him sideways before murmuring, “No, just the usual.”

“That sucks. I live vicariously through you, you know,” he teases, but his voice fades into the background as I consider Dr. Marks’ threats.

What the fuck am I going to do?

“Hals?”

“Huh?” I ask absently, turning back to Aaron with a blank stare.

“Are you even listening to me?” he teases, but the light in his eyes fades, and he looks at me more closely. “Are you okay?”

“Um, yes, yeah,” I murmur, with a weak smile.

“Look,” he says, pausing, and I brace myself for whatever’s coming next. “I see you’re struggling, and I’m worried. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Anything?” I ask, considering his offer. Could I tell him? Would it be as easy as that? I don’t know. What if he doesn’t believe me? Although I can’t imagine he wouldn’t because he’s only ever been kind.

“Okay, well, I . . . it’s my therapist,” I say cautiously.

“Oh? Did he say something that worried you?” Aaron asks, glancing at me curiously.

Slowly nodding my head, I say softly, “I think he’s, I don’t know, threatening me.”

“What do you mean? About what?”

“Well, he’s, um, saying stuff about my sexuality.”

“Like what?” Aaron asks.

“Well, he says he thinks I’m a submissive, and he can help me,” I mutter, ignoring the flush rising in my cheeks. Fuck me, but it wasn’t me who said it, and I’m still uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, what?” Aaron stutters. “Hals, that doesn’t sound very . . . I don’t know therapy-ish.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But when I told him I didn’t want to talk about it, he threatened me.”

“Jesus, what did he say?”

“He didn’t say it so much as he implied it, about sending me back to the hospital. He saw the video on social media and accused me of asking for it.”

“Holy fuck. No way. No fucking way. You need to stop seeing him,” Aaron says, slashing his hand through the air.

“I know, but how? What if he sends me back?” I ask, my stomach roiling at the thought. I don’t want to go back. I’ve been there enough to know it’s not for me. None of this is. Shit.

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