Page 35 of Bone Deep
I step into my office, door thumping shut. I smile. I'd actually love it if those two became friendly.
I think about how I struggled. After I lost my mom—in a way that no teenager should have to see—I was effectively alone in the world. My father was still around, but an even bigger drunk than when mom and I lived at home.
I wasn’t of age yet and I knew the cops or Child Protective Services would put me back with my dad. So, I laid low for six months until my eighteenth birthday. I bounced around and managed to find places to lay my head at night, but I was always looking over my shoulder.
If I'd had more people in my corner back then, I might be less armored, more trusting. I want that for Tyler: safety in numbers, a web of allies so tight no one can pull him apart again. I don’t want him to become jaded like I am. I used to be far worse, though. It’s taken a lot of therapy for me to get this far.
Speaking of, my weekly call with Dr. Walker, is right now. Jiggling my mouse to wake up my computer, I click on the video meeting link in my calendar. He’s already on.
“Hey Doc,” I say in greeting, leaning back in my chair.
“Spencer. Good to see you.”
Doc Walker—or Walker, as I refer to him—has been my psychiatrist for the past two years. When I made Junior Partner, I decided that I owed it to myself to try and start the healing process. I didn’t want my past to negatively impact my future.
Walker is a bit of a silver fox. Well, not quite “silver” yet. Though Tyler would call him ancient. He’s early forties, salt and pepper hair, perpetually tan skin, and his muscles give the fabric of his dress shirts a run for their money.
If I wasn’t under his treatment, I would be all over that. For a night. Then I’d avoid him at all costs. I’m sure he’d tell me that’s completely healthy behavior.
“How are things?” he asks. He’s got a deep, whiskey smooth voice. I swear he works to perfect it so he can draw things out of people.
“Things are good. Just keeping busy.”
Walker rubs his chin. “Are you making time to interact with people outside of a professional environment?”
“Nope,” I fire back, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk.
“Are you running resistance to the idea of opening yourself up to new personal relationships?” he asks, knowing damn well this answer is…
“Yep. Sure am.”
Walker huffs a laugh. “Why do you think that is?”
“People disappoint. People leave. If I don’t get attached, they can’t hurt me.”
“Defense mechanisms are normal for survivors of trauma, Spencer. You’ve experienced more than most people,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, I know.” As if I need a reminder of the scene I walked into in the shitty studio mom and I moved into after the shelter.
Walker hums, “It’s not a reason to avoid personal relationships. It’s something to work on overcoming—not something to use as a shield.”
“Easier said than done,” I scoff.
He nods in understanding. “That is true. But don’t you want close, healthy relationships in your life?”
I lean back again and groan. “Can’t I just buy a new suit instead?”
Walker lets out a laugh and raises a brow. “You have to do the work, Spencer.”
“I have been, Doc. You know I’m better about a lot of things since our first sessions, but letting people in—that’s going to be my biggest dragon to slay.”
He nods and says, “We’ll keep working toward it.”
Walker digs around in my head for another forty-five minutes and ends with the same questions he always does. The questions about forgiving four people. The answers are always:Fuck no, doesn’t need forgiving, no, and no.
Later, after a full day of meetings and calls, I check the time on my laptop.
Almost seven.
