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I open my mouth to ask him what’s good about it but slam it shut again when I realize I’d be whining. Damn. I guess I am becoming a whiner.
“Yesterday, we were discussing triggers,” Dr. Stu begins. “Charles, you spoke about sports being a trigger for you.”
“I started drinking when I got injured playing for the Broncos. It helped me cope with the stress of thinking I was never going to be able to play again,” Charles begins.
“Thank you for sharing,” Dr. Stu says once Charles has finished his story. “Gibson, you haven’t talked much in therapy.”
“Except to complain,” Danny mutters.
Dr. Stu pretends not to hear Danny. “Do you want to discuss your triggers?”
“No.”
Dr. Stu smiles. “Let me rephrase. Tell us about your triggers. It’s not a request.”
I blow out a breath. The last thing I want to do is discuss my private life with these strangers.
“Anything you say in this group is confidential.”
“We’re not running to the paps, those vultures,” Danny says.
Since he’s a movie star and Charles is a former professional athlete who’s now a sports commentator, I believe him. They know how the paps can twist a story until it resembles nothing close to the truth just to sell a few more copies. They don’t care about causing hurt to those involved. Vultures is too tame a word for them.
“My trigger is my parents. Mostly my dad,” I confess.
By the time, the session ends an hour later I feel completely hollowed out. Explaining how my parents are assholes who don’t care about me isn’t exactly fun.
Dr. Stu stands. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss coping strategies.”
Danny and Charles hurry out of the room but Dr. Stu motions for me to stay behind.
“Thanks for sharing today.”
I grunt. It’s not as if I had a choice.
“Nurse Hannah told me you’ve complained about not being able to make any phone calls. As I explained to you before, you’ll only be allowed access to your phone after the initial fourteen days.”
“That’s another week away.” Another week without contact with Mercy. Will she have forgotten about me by then?
“True, but there are other methods of communicating with people.”
I frown. “I can’t message her without a phone.”
He chuckles. “How about a letter?”
“A letter?”
“I instructed Nurse Hannah to place some paper and envelopes in your room,” he says before someone hollers his name. He rushes off as I contemplate his words.
A letter? What would I say to Mercy in a letter? I usually fly by the seat of my pants. Writing a letter takes planning and consideration. Two things I’m not exactly known for.
I return to my room to find a pile of paper on my desk. I pick up a pen and twirl it around as I contemplate what to write.
Dear Mercy,
I tap the pen against the desk. Great start. I’m not a songwriter. Cash is the songwriter of the band. I don’t have fancy words of love for Mercy. I can’t write her a ballad that becomes a hit song.
But I do need her to forgive me. To give me another chance. Because I love her.
