Page 127 of Imperfect Player

“I always have. I can handle it.”

“Can you? Or do you think that maybe that’s why you didn’t succeed the last time?”

“Because I was alone? No. This is all because of my asshole parents. Before, it was what they did to me and now . . . ”

I think of Ben. The cancer. The fact that he was my replacement. A better model. Ethan 2.0.

“That’s why this happened. They’re why this happened.”

“You honestly don’t believe that has anything to do with being alone? Feeling unworthy? Unlovable?”

Slamming my fist on the dresser, I shout at Dr. Monroe. “I am all those things! Everly isn’t going to change that.”

“You’re right. She won’t. What she will do, what I want to do, is get to you finally see that those things aren’t true.” Dr. Monroe rises to his feet. “Ethan, you are so much more than you realize. So much more than your past, your addiction. You’re a good man. A generous man.”

I scoff at his very inaccurate description.

“Give me a few more weeks and I’ll have you seeing what I see,” he says very confidently.

“You want to make a bet on that?”

“You have enough vices already, don’t you think?”

He raises an eyebrow at me.

Touché, Doc. Tou-fucking-che.

Chapter 39

Ethan

Two months later…

Therapy.

The key to my recovery.

A place where they want me to spill my guts and blame my mom for my issues. In this case, the blame is legit. I’ve got mommy issues. Daddy issues, too.

In fact, I have more damn issues than I can count.

The first question Dr. Monroe—Brad—ever asked me was, “What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up in the hospital?”

My answer should have been waking up on my couch in vomit. Or the look on Everly’s face.

The fact that it wasn’t had a pen-tapping-against-the-chin moment for Brad.

Rad Brad.

Bad Brad.

I fucking hate Brad.

I’m also simultaneously grateful to him. While the guy has made me talk about more shit, deal with more shit, learn to live with more shit than any other therapist I’ve had, saying it’s been easy would be a lie. I’ve yelled at him, shut him out. Fuck, I don’t even know how many sessions we had where I didn’t even speak. We just sat there, staring at each other.

Yet here we are today. My last session.

The countless hours Brad and I have spent together are coming to a close.

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