Page 117 of Game Misconduct

His dark green eyes search mine, and when he realizes what I’m asking, he nods in sympathy. “Do you want me to?”

“Please.” My plea comes out weak.

I am not weak. This is what they’ve reduced me to. This is what I’ve become.

He takes the phone from my hand, and when I nod, he swipes his finger across the screen until the mute button shows up.

No.

I am not weak. I am not passive.

Snatching the phone out of his grasp, I steady myself with a deep breath.

And then I mute my mother, once and for all.

“How are you feeling?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.

“I don’t know yet.”

I pull up my father’s contact, just for good measure. It’s considerably easier to mute him.

“One more,” Nick says.

Confused, I tilt my head. “Who else?”

“Call Barbara.”

My therapist.

“Set up an appointment. It doesn’t have to be today. But you’ll need to talk this out,” he continues. “I’m happy to support you. You know I’m always here for you, whatever you need. But this is a little beyond my scope. When you process your big feelings, I want someone equipped to help there with you.”

Feeling small, I nod. “I can do that.”

He tugs me into his lap, and I straddle him, tossing my phone to the side.

“I love you, Bex Marie,” he says.

Bex Marie. Not Rebecca Lynn.

This isn’t going to be a quick process. It’s not like ripping off a Band-Aid. Putting myself back together will take time. But every time he calls me this pet name, it slowly echoes in my head. Rewrites the neurotransmitter pathways inside my brain. Convinces me that I’m more than a fuckup of wasted potential.