Page 25 of Wanted You More

I don’t remember the last time I felt comforted that way. It’s a missing feeling whenever Dad hugs me or lets me curl up beside him while watching TV. And I know it’s not because there’s a lack of love. Dad’s love just isn’t the same as Mom’s.

That realization only worsens the depression sinking its claws into my chest, piercing my heart until the pain I feel is a little bit worse in a whole different way.

So, I take a second painkiller to numb not only my body but my mind from the same state of oblivion that usually drags me into a dark abyss of intrusive thoughts that take me back to every little thing I’ve lost since the day of the shooting.

Thankfully, the pills do their job.

***

I come toin a groggy haze hours later, hearing the ruffling of something distant downstairs. Alert tenses every muscle in my body as I glance at the time on my phone and then slowly sit up to get a better listen to the noise.

Grabbing my cell, I creep out of bed and do my best to sneak toward the stairs without being heard. I’ve gotten good at knowing which weak spots in the floor to avoid because of how loudly they creak, so I manage to go downstairs and grab the closest object to me as I near the kitchen where I hear somebody walking around.

It’s too early for Dad to be home, and there’s no way my brother would leave school before the day is done. Even when he’d gotten permission from Dad, he’d stay until the last bell rang like a Goody-Two shoe.

I hesitate only a moment around the corner before raising my makeshift weapon and jumping out at the potential burglar who’s…making soup?

“Christ,” Noah cusses, startling when he sees me at the doorway. His eyes lift to the umbrella I’m holding. “What the hell are you doing? Were you going to attack me with that?”

I lower it. “Shouldn’t I be asking whatyou’redoing? This is my house, you’re the one trespassing. I could call the cops on you.”

He gives me a deadpan expression. “We both know you wouldn’t,” he points out. “And it’s not trespassing when I got permission from your father to check in on you. He ran into my mom today and mentioned you weren’t feeling well. She had me bring over some chicken noodle soup in case you didn’t have anything else.”

I blink, eyes lowering to the bowl of steaming liquid on the counter and the crackers beside it. “Your mom made me soup?”

He searches for the drawer with silverware until he finds it, pulling out a spoon and setting it beside the bowl. “Is it your arm or something else? Your dad wouldn’t say, so I assumed it had to do with…” His chin gestures toward my injury.

Rolling my bad shoulder, I flinch at the pain still lingering. “I took something for it.”

All he says is, “You should try seeing somebody again.”

Walking over to the salty-smelling soup, I pull the bowl toward me and pick up the crackers to start breaking apart into it. “There’s nothing anybody can do about it besides give me medicine and tell me to see a physical therapist.” I make a face. “Or a real therapist.”

Noah bends to lean his crossed arms on the countertop. “Is that such a bad thing? Everybody should go to therapy at least once in their lives.”

“Did your dad ever tell you I was forced to go to counseling for PTSD for a few years? It was torture.”

I’d seen four different therapists before settling on one I didn’t totally hate. I still didn’t say much to her until nearly three months of seeing one another, and the conversations we did have didn’t start with the Fourth of July or Mom or the sad things that happened to me. We talked about my favorite things in life and what made me happy, like corny jokes, bad movies with my brother, and the memories of easy laughter with my family.

I loved life when life seemed simpler.

Scooping some of the soup into the spoon and blowing on the steam, I look at the quiet man across from me. He shakes his head. “I knew, but not from Dad. He believed in keeping things like that private.”

I’m surprised Ben never told him. I know how close they are—their whole family is that way. He has a great relationship with both his parents, and I’ve wondered if I would have the same with mine if I’d gotten the chance.

After watching me eat for a few minutes, Noah tells me, “I see one occasionally.”

I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth. “A therapist?”

He dips his chin once in confirmation.

I’m tempted to ask him what he goes for, but I wouldn’t want anybody prying into my business, so I refrain. Swallowing the curiosity down along with my spoonful of soup, I let the topic go and admit, “I barely slept last night because of my arm. Sometimes it hurts more than other nights and it makes me…”

Angry. Sad. Depressed.

Taking a deep breath, I set the spoon down into the bowl. “It pisses me off. Because the medicine only helps until the next time it acts up. And if I take the heavy stuff it makes me feel gross, groggy, and tired. Either way, I feel like shit. And it makes me wonder why I have to feel that way when the people who did this to me are probably pain free in their little cells with everything they could ever need.”

Peeking up at Noah, I see how he’s watching me intently. We’ve never spoken on this level before because I’d avoid the conversation anytime it started veering in this direction. I blame the medication for weakening my defenses today.

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