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“Attention deficit and hyperactivity disorder.”
He starts pulling away from me, his frown turning darker. “What are you, a doctor? I’m fine.”
“Were you never diagnosed as a child?”
“Nobody tested me for anything. I’m just stupid, Candy.”
“You’re not stupid.” I grab his arm, not letting him go away thinking that. “Far from it. You’re amazing, Jet, but if you are dyslexic or have ADHD, you could get some help with the GED test. It’d only be fair.”
He stills. “They’d help me with the reading and writing?”
God, my heart shouldn’t ache for him so much. Hasn’t anyone thought to help him with this before? I think I’ll have a word or two with Joel.
“I could be wrong about this,” I reluctantly admit, “but it does sound like you have the symptoms. I mean, I know this because my brother was tested for these things, even if the tests turn out negative. So…. Yeah, if you’re diagnosed with either, there are special accommodations to help you.”
“So that means…” He swallows hard. “I’d have to visit a doctor or something?”
“A psychologist.”
“A shrink? No fucking way.” He shakes his head and wrenches himself free of my desperate grip. “Not pills. Not doing this ever again.”
“Not a shrink. Jet, wait.”
But he doesn’t stop, and I watch him walk away, my mouth open.
Not again? He was seen by a psychiatrist in the past? What for?
What do I do with this? Do I run after him, push for an explanation? Do I call Joel until he answers and coax it out of him?
What the hell do I do to help them both?
***
I drive to my apartment, my heart heavy. Brylee isn’t at home, and I sit at my computer, feeling out of sorts. It’s as if this isn’t my home anymore. It feels foreign, strange.
My favorite people aren’t here with me, and what if it’s my fault? What if I pushed Joel too far, too soon? What if Jet is wrong, and Joel wasn’t ready?
He had seemed so into it, though. He was the one who initiated the kiss and grabbed Jet’s cock to jerk them both together.
It had been damn hot.
And then Jet with those vague, alarming hints of his former life that make me wonder whether they really mean what I think they mean or if it’s my mind that’s twisted.
Joel has to know about this, right? About what Jet told me—about running, about the vague hints of danger, about the shrink and the pills. Should I call him again? Should I call Jet?
Frustrated, I boot my computer up and open my story files. I stare at the words, at the strangers making out on the screen.
I have unread messages from Connie. Comments upon comments from the readers. I have an unfinished scene and…
I can’t.
I bite back a sob. Why can’t I write more? I love this story. Readers love it, too. I made friends over the posting of the chapters. I laughed and cried as I got it down. And what if my boys don’t know about it?
This story is my secret. My one secret from them, my fantasy.
But it’s turning sour anyway because I can’t. Can’t write. They aren’t like I imagined them.
And they don’t know about it, which makes it feel as if I’m… abusing them somehow. Forcing them into doing stuff they don’t like doing.
