Page 23 of Hearts on the Mend

She pops back through the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Don’t call me Mr. Murphy again.”

She swallows, stiffly nodding before dashing down the hallway. “Don’t steal any of our shit, Nolan, and you better be here when we get home.”

Home.

I don’t like the way those words wedge their way under my heart.

Merritt Point hasn’t been home in years. I’m not about to play house with my one-night stand and her daughter and make a mess of things.

The only thing I need to do is leave.

As soon as I can.

“Nolan?”

A cold sweat wracks my body. I bounce my foot, my salt-stained boot drawing my focus. “What?”

“I asked what you hope to get out of helping out this friend of yours.”

My therapist’s office is a jungle. An uncomfortable jungle where I’m forced to talk about shit I’d rather keep to myself. I swear to God, if I have to listen to the forced gurgle of the fountain in the corner for one more minute, I might scream.

“Dad thinks it’ll keep me busy.”

“Do you want to be busy?”

“I want to be back in Montana with the rest of my crew, not stuck in Boston.”

Okay, Merritt Point isn’t technically Boston, but close enough.

“You’re not stuck, Nolan. You’re healing.”

I scoff, scratching the scruff along my jaw. I usually keep everything trimmed, but I haven’t found the energy lately. Dad called me Grizzly Adams last week, and Nana laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair at breakfast. I had to Google that old reference. For the record, Dad was greatly exaggerating.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You sound frustrated today.”

“Every damn day, Shannon.”

She hugs the pillow closer to her chest, her legs crossed on the chair opposite the brown suede couch I’m on. “Sometimes, before things change, everything falls apart. Have you heard of the Dark Night of the Soul?”

“This supposed to make me feel better?”

She shakes her head, her curly brown hair bobbing along. “Nothing is going to make you feel better until you want to feel better. And even then, it’s not going to be perfect. It’s a process.”

“Why am I paying you to help then?”

Right, because I want to be a miserable asshole.

She laughs. “Just here to listen and guide you when you’re ready. You are the one who has to do the work. You went through a traumatic experience, and it’s changed your entire life. It’s okay to take time to deal with all that messy shit.”

I scoff. “It is shit. Bullshit.”

“Life is a lot of the time.”

“You don’t have that embroidered on any pillows.”