Page 133 of Run to Me

We start with the common knowledge: the election, the room, Maisy. In fact, we spend half the afternoon discussing her. I explain how much I love her, how I scared her, how I lied to her. The doctor asks me pointed questions I’m not comfortable answering in front of my loved ones, but I do so anyway. If I plan to get better, I’ll need their support. If I want their support, they have to know some of my secrets.

When we circle back to the topic of the room, Dr. Sims asks, “How long ago did you move her belongings to the room?”

“Six years ago.”

“And how often did you go up there?”

Hesitating, I glance at the guys when I answer. “Before she came back to Walford, every day.”

Javi doesn’t react. His gaze remains glued to my face as he watches for any twitch or hint of a lie. Jake won’t even look at me. He rests his forearms on the countertop and stares at his clasped hands. I can imagine how each of my unveiled secrets horrifies him more and more. His eyelids shutter when I confess to tracking her phone, and his silent disapproval rings loud in my ears. Can’t say I blame him. I did some pretty appalling things.

Dr. Sims clearly has experience with people like me because she registers my worsening mood and the tension in the room. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in private? We’ll start with a virtual visit tomorrow. Once we sort out the pesky business side of things—insurance and paperwork and what not—we’ll schedule some in-person visits as well. Sound good?”

“Sure,” I say, walking her to the front door.

She smiles warmly at me and says, “Time and honesty. If you invest those two things into this process, you’ll get a lot more in return.”

I can only hope she’s right. As I’ve proven repeatedly, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Maisy. Maybe this time I’ll succeed.

In my living room, I tape the bottom of a box I’ll use to store my mother’s knickknacks. Jake has been helping me pack away some of our parents’ belongings as part of my therapy. “I can only do one more today,” I say.

Three weeks have passed since all my secrets surfaced. With some therapy sessions under my belt, I’ve become better at vocalizing when I reach my limits. The four boxes stacked in the corner, filled with memories of my parents, represent my limit for today.

In our first week of sessions, Dr. Sims identified my fear of changing anything associated with my childhood or teenage years. Although she’s working with me to diagnose all of my struggles, she encouraged me to tackle this fear right away, claiming any progress is good progress. I agreed to make her recommended changes to my home, but I can only tolerate them in bite-size chunks.

She came at me fast and hard from the start. Fast, because she scheduled two office visits and one video session each week. Hard, because she implemented a six-week period of no contact with Maisy. Initially, the idea didn’t go over well with me, and I behaved like an addict during a hostile intervention.

Jake, Javi, and Trevor were here when I had my first virtual visit with the doctor in my bedroom. They got physical with me to keep me from running out the door and going straight to her. I was afraid if I let her out of my sight for too long, she’d leave me forever. Six weeks allows her ample time to realize I’m not worth keeping.

Once I calmed down enough to listen to reason, Dr. Sims explained how the no-contact approach is often used to break a patient’s bond with another person, like when someone has trouble getting over an ex-partner. In my case, however, she believes with Maisy out of my life temporarily, I can focus on my treatment with no distractions.

During the separation period, no one’s allowed to talk to me about Maisy, and I’m not allowed to ask about her. I go along with it, counting down the days until the six weeks come to an end. I’m playing by the rules for both our sakes because if I’m the best version of myself, I’ll be a better man for her.

Javi manages the bar alone for now. I’ve taken a leave of absence but will return to work next week. As far as everyone in town knows, I burned out and needed a long vacation. Javi and Trevor persuaded Tom to step forward as the next interim mayor, at least until the town’s government can sort out its special election process. I’m relieved they found a solution for now, but every day I seem to care less and less about the town’s collective needs. And I’m caring more and more about my own.

Standing by a shelf, Jake turns over a decorative glass bowl in his hands. Pensiveness crinkles his brow when he asks, “Do you think they’d be proud of the men we’ve become?”

Kicking the empty box aside, I shake my head. “Not me. Not yet. But they’d be damn proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, Jensen. Proud you’re doing what needs to be done to unstick yourself.” He sets the bowl on the shelf and faces me, his expression pleading and eyes wet with unshed tears. “Don’t keep any more secrets from me. Believe I can handle the truth, no matter how hard it is for you to say or for me to hear. You don’t have to protect me anymore, especially from you.”

I draw him into a tight hug. “Sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you, Jake. I never meant to hurt you or anyone else, and I’m trying to do better. For you. For Maisy. For me.”

Clearing his throat, he pulls away. “Talk to us, okay? Give us the chance to protect you from yourself when you need help.”

“I promise.” I clamp a hand on his shoulder and give him a shake. “Thank you for being patient with me.”

Before he can respond, the front door flies open. “Knickers and knockers!” Brody shouts, backing through the doorway with an empty furniture dolly.

Per the doctor’s orders, I’m required to haul everything out of my house as soon as it’s packed up. This way, I don’t have a chance to reconsider getting rid of anything. The guys have been coming by to load up boxes at the same time each day because I need a routine. Javi’s at work already, so he assigned Brody to pickup duty this afternoon.

“What does that even mean?” Jake asks.

“It’s like saying ‘knock, knock’ but with panties and tits.”

“Dude. My question was rhetorical.”

“Bro. My answer wasn’t.” Brody parks the dolly and points to the stack of boxes. “Are these good to go?”