Page 79 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
Two hours later, the rest of us have dined together at a nearby Italian place, said our temporary goodbyes, and parted.
Twenty minutes later, James and I are sitting in his truck, in his driveway, a thick, expectant silence between us.
The girls are with James’s parents for the night.
And he and I are finally alone
Chapter 16
James shuts off his truck, and opens his door, but doesn’t get out just yet; he sits with his foot on the step, one hand on his knee, and the other draped over the steering wheel. He’s staring into space thoughtfully, one finger tapping restlessly on the steering wheel.
I wait silently, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.
After several minutes of silence, he lets out a slow breath. “That emergency delivery the other day was scary.” His voice is a deep, quiet rumble.
I reach out and massage the rock-hard round bulge of his shoulder. “Yeah, it was.”
“I keep having flashbacks.” His voice is so strained, so tense. Stretched taut, tightly controlled.
It’s late evening, a pink-red-orange sunset stains the sky and the long, ropy wisps of clouds. I open my door. “Let’s go for a walk.”
James glances at me, brow furrowed. “We’re finally alone, though. Not sure when that’ll happen again.”
I shake my head and smile. “We have all the time in the world, James. Let’s just go for a walk.”
He nods, and hops down from his truck. The doors slam with twin thunks, and I round the hood of the truck, meet him by the driver’s door, and take his hand.
We walk in a slow stroll, hand in hand, down the side of the rural dirt road, the sun setting in front of us.
“You’re probably sick of hearing about this shit,” James says.
“No, James. I’m not interested in burying this stuff anymore. We’ve both spent years burying it. Repressing it. Refusing to talk about it. Pretending it’s fine. We both need to let it all out.”
He rakes his free hand through his hair. “I’ve spent the last couple months talking it all out with Dr. Richard. It’s helped. I think, by and large, I’ve made good progress at putting the past in the past. Letting Renée just be…part of me, part of who I am and who I’ve been, but not letting the tragedy of losing her define me anymore.”
“That’s hard work.”
He scoffs. “Ain’t that the truth. I’ve had to let myself think about her, when I’ve spent these years since her death trying to not think about her. Doc Rich says I can only move on by accepting the thoughts, living in them, and moving through them.” He laughs. “It took me a couple weeks’ worth of sessions with him to not dismiss trite, gooey shit talk like that, to be honest. It just sounds like stereotypical shrink babble.” He speaks in a mocking whine. “You have to live in the painful thoughts, James. Live in the thought, let it flow through you, be in you, and then let it move past you. If you don’t learn to do this, you’ll always be stuck in the past, and your personal tragedy will always consume you.”
I can’t help a laugh. “He really talks like that?”
James nods. “Oh yeah. It took some getting used to. I almost stopped going, and I actually did see a couple other therapists, but in the end, as goofy as he sometimes sounds, he has good shit to say, and I feel like he’s actually listening to me. Like he understands, and actually has the tools to teach me how to be better.” He shrugs. “The others just made me feel like they were sitting there, hearing me speak, diagnosing, and waiting to charge me for their time. Doc Rich is the only one who I feel gets me, and actually cares.”
I smile. “I’m really glad you found him, and that you’re talking to him.”
He glances at me. “Have you ever spoken to anyone?”
I laugh, nod and shrug. “Yeah, sort of. A colleague of mine at the hospital is a psychiatrist, and I’ve had a few sessions with her.”
“Not the same. I don’t want to sound like I’m the expert, or like I’m trying to tell you what to do, but I know for me, I’ve been stuck in my shit for six years. I had to talk to someone objective, who doesn’t know me at all, to help me get out of my own way.”
I sigh. “I know. I just…” I shrug, finding it hard to capture my feelings on the subject.
“Don’t want to have to admit you need help?”
I can’t help but laugh again. “Yeah, that’s a big part of it.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh, a scoff, and a laugh. “I get that more than you know. I’m a red-blooded American male. I’m a builder. I fix things professionally. I can take apart a car and put it together, I can build a house from scratch with my bare hands. I can look at a building that’s falling apart and know exactly what to do to fix it. One look at a roof and I know exactly how many years are left on it and how much it’ll cost to fix it. I’ve been building and fixing literally my entire life.” He holds up his hands. “There is very little I can’t do with these.” He drops his hands again, takes mine in his once more, and scoffs, shaking his head. “I can’t fix me with them, though. As a man raised to be tough, to be strong, to be a doer, a fixer, an alpha male without emotions or weakness, admitting even to myself that I needed help was…fucking hard, Nova. It meant admitting my head is fucked up, that my heart is fucked up. That I have emotions I don’t know how to deal with. Growing up, if I showed weakness around my dad, I got whooped. Get hurt playing ball? Suck it up, son. Take it like a man. Get teased, bullied, and made fun of? Kick their asses, Jamie. Show ’em you’re tougher than they are, and they’ll leave you alone.”
