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Without warning, tears flood my eyes, and I swipe them away and swallow against the growing lump in my throat.
“It’s fine, Charlie. I was already up. Wait, are you crying?”
I shake my head and lean forward so he can’t see my face.
“I can hear you sniffling. We’re coming over.”
“No,” I insist. “I’m fine.”
“Is she crying? What did you do?” Lila’s accusatory tone echoes in my foyer.
“Nothing. She just started crying.”
“I’m not crying,” I insist. “It’s allergies.”
“Bullshit,” they reply in stereo.
“Not bullshit,” I say, getting to my feet, my legs quaking. “I’m fine. What time is it?”
“You’re late today. It’s almost five-thirty,” Tucker says.
At least I let them sleep a little longer this morning. “I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “I'm fine. I’m going to shower. I’ll see you at work, Lila. Thanks, Tucker.”
“Quit thanking me. You’d do this for me.”
I allow myself a good long cry in the shower, an ugly cry, the kind where you’re glad there’s no one to witness your blotchy face and runny nose.
I’m so tired of being broken.
I saw a psychiatrist twice a week for over a year. I thought I was better, but I’m still a fucking train wreck.
Maybe this is as fixed as I get to be.
That thought depresses me more than I thought possible.
When I get to work, Tom’s already there, setting up for his clients in the rehab gym. “You’re early.”
“Hey,” he says, his boyish smile lighting up his face. “I didn’t sleep much. Figured I’d come in and get a head start. You’re here early again, too. Not sleeping well?”
I shrug. “I heard a noise, and once I’m awake, I’m awake. I envy people who can go right back to sleep.”
My attempt at distraction doesn’t work. Tom knows I have PTSD and difficulties with men, but not why. Lila’s told him what happened to her, so he has a general idea, and that’s enough. It’s not that I don’t trust him – I do. I just want one friend who doesn’t know how fucked-up I really am.
Since the best defense is a good offense, I tip my chin at him. “So what’s the real story with you and Whitney?”
He freezes. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not buying that ‘everything’s fine’ speech.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Your eyes didn’t match your words. And this?” I gesture to him. “Avoiding my question? That says I’m right.”
He scowls. “You see too much.” I wait with crossed arms until he sighs in surrender. “Maya hates her.”
Maya is Tom’s enthusiastic, precocious ten-year-old. If she likes you, you’re friends for life; if not, there’s little chance she’ll reconsider. For one so young, she’s surprisingly perceptive.
“Did she say that?”
