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“I don’t mind,” I said. “Why would I mind?”
“It’s just not the most sexy thing,” she mumbled.
I stepped beneath the showerhead, running a hand over my face to slick back my wet hair. “I think it’s sexy.”
Her jaw dropped. “You do.”
“I mean, I think it’s sexy because you’re sexy. And it makes me feel good that you’re willing to share the vulnerable parts of your life with me.”
She shook her head slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up.
“Sometimes you’re so mentally healthy it makes me jealous.”
I laughed aloud, but sobered quickly as I turned over her words. She watched me for a moment before slipping off her dressing gown. She must have been wearing a pad because she hid her panties under her clothes before crossing the room to get into the shower with me.
I bent and kissed her wet mouth. “I know I use a lot of lingo I picked up in behavioral therapy, but…I wasn’t always this way.”
Her eyes grew concerned.
“You sound serious,” she murmured.
“I just…I was in a really bad place after the arena,” I admitted. “It fucks up your head. I drank a lot, did a lot of drugs, fucked up my relationships. I was essentially a very functional addict for about ten years before I met your father.”
There was a painful silence.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”
“The amount of tears Daphne and Ophelia cried for me over that decade still haunts me,” I admitted. “You knew your father was sober, right?”
She frowned and shook her head. “No, I guess I didn’t. I thought he did drink, but…I never really thought to pay attention.”
“He got sober about five years before we met. There were some things that happened around that time that made me realize I needed to clean up or forfeit my place as Brenin. And I couldn’t fucking stand to listen to Ophelia cry into the phone anymore.”
“Did he help you get sober?” There was a cool note to her voice.
“Yes and no,” I admitted. “He was pretty tough love, he left the getting sober to me, but he supported me through it.”
“So how did you do it?”
“I stopped. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Oh. But you still drink.”
“It wasn’t the alcohol that was doing it, it was all the undiagnosed shit I had going on. All the PTSD I had from the arena.”
She nibbled at her lower lip, her brow creased.
“I had a friend who was sleeping with a woman casually and he recommended I see her at her clinical practice. That’s how I met Gretchen Hughes.”
“She fixed you?”
“She gave me what I needed,” I said. “But I had to fix myself when it really got down to it. She just turned on the lights so I could see what was going on inside my head.”
She made an odd face.
“Are you…jealous?” I asked.
Her brows darted up. “No, of course not,” she said. “I’m not a child, Merrick. I’m grateful to Gretchen for everything she did for you and I hope you keep seeing her.”
