Page 26 of Bad For A Weekend

“It hit me that it was lunchtime, and he must be in the cafeteria. It made me physically ill thinking about how many kids were in there at any one time, but I knew I had to keep going. I peered around the corner and saw students bleeding everywhere. The ones who weren’t dead or dying were huddled together behind upended tables. They were quietly sobbing, and the fear I saw in their eyes was haunting. It was horrific.

“I spotted Ryan at the far side of the room. He had an AR-15 pressed against the forehead of a kid named Trevor. He was yelling at him, reminding him of all the things they had fought about in the past. I had to get involved in multiple altercations between the two, but I thought things were getting better. We adjusted their schedules so they wouldn’t run into each other during the day, and Ryan told me he was over it.

“I should’ve known he was lying. This kid had so many problems: an absentee dad, a mom who tried hard but had six kids, most by different dads. Ryan was left alone most days, and his mom was too busy to worry about grades or making sure her teenage boy went to school.”

“Let’s stick to the events of the day for this session,” Dr. Chandler coaxes.

“Yeah, okay. I knew what I had to do to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else. But I was torn. Ryan wasn’t a bad kid. He was neglected and unloved by the people who meant the most to him. On top of that, he was an odd dude. It made him unrelatable to the other students, and he was bullied. It doesn’t make it right, but—”

“Owen,” she interrupts once again.

“I had to do it,” I choke out. “There was no other choice. So, I crept closer. He was so focused on Trevor that he didn’t hear me until it was too late. I fired two shots, both hitting him in the skull. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

“Let’s end there.” Dr. Chandler, who was controlling the lights, stops them and the vibrations in my palms. “You did so well, Owen.”

A shudder runs down my spine, and I’m beyond shocked when I realize I told the entire story without a panic attack, without tears running from my eyes, without begging God to forgive me, and without feeling like I’m having a heart attack. None of those things would’ve happened before Dr. Chandler.

I set the pulsators down and disconnect the headphones. Wiping my damp hands on my sweatpants, I look at my laptop screen. “That was good, right?”

“Very good. Now let’s talk about the moments you felt anxiety or pain.”

Thirty grueling minutes later, I’m closing my laptop, overwhelmed with relief. I never thought this woo-woo shit would work, but I’m hopeful after that session. And fucking exhausted. EMDR wipes me out in the way running a marathon would.

Standing up, I stretch long and decide to call it an early night. As I flip off the lights, I spot movement by the pool.

Baylor.

She’s sitting with her feet in the water and her phone in her hands, eyes glued to the screen. How long has she been there? Did she see me during my session? If so, does she have questions? Will she tell her dad?

I don’t want to explain my therapy to Corey. He’ll question my ability to do my job effectively and possibly request a replacement.

I open the French doors, making as much noise as possible so I don’t scare Baylor as I step outside. She glances up, almost as though she was expecting me. That’s not good.

“You okay?” I ask, taking a seat on a lounger to her right.

“Yeah. Just wanted some fresh air.”

“I didn’t see you come out,” I fish.

“Do I need to alert you to use my own pool?”

The mouth on this one. It should annoy me, but now that I know her better, I know the sass has no heat behind it. It’s just her sense of humor—her very warped sense of humor.

“Of course not. How long have you been out here?”

“Not long. My ankle was bothering me, and I thought the cool water would be good for it. I wanted to do some stretches in the pool, but I couldn’t figure out how to get down the steps. Care to help?”

I look around, knowing this isn’t in my job description, and I’m not dressed to get in the pool. “Isn’t your dad around or something?”

“Nope. He had some event to attend, and Brandy is watching some dating show I’m not allowed to interrupt.”

The house manager, Brandy, is a trip. I’ve had reason to file hundreds of sexual harassment cases against her since the first day we met. But her crude humor doesn’t offend me, and she brings a lightness to this serious job that I enjoy.

“I don’t know...” I say.

“Stop being a baby. Pull the bottoms of your pants up. You don’t need to get in all the way; just get me to the third step. I can do the rest on my own.” She uses her crutches to get herself to standing and then releases them before resting the toes of her injured foot on the ground. Reaching for the hem of her swimsuit cover, she pulls it up and over her head.

I try not to look, but when I see what she has on, I can’t seem to help myself. Her body hypnotizes me and makes me feel possessive of something I have no claim to.

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