His eyes were on mine, and then they fell to the bandage on my neck. “I’m happy to see you too.”
But the sparkle was missing from his words.
“Are you feeling alright?” I asked as I sat on the bed next to him.
He nodded quickly like his head was fluttering. “I saw the therapist today.”
“Oh? And what was that like?” I asked, desperate to keep him talking about his day. Desperate to keep the subject off of mine, which I knew I’d eventually have to tell him.
I felt like I’d betrayed him somehow by going back out into the field.
“It was… good. We talked about what I wanted to work on, and the goals of therapy and all that, and mostly just chatted. To see if we’re a good fit. He seems like a cool guy.”
Something was wrong. I could hear it in the spaces between Luke's words.
“Did you talk about… any BDSM stuff?” I asked.
Frankly, I’d been ravenously curious about what set this therapist apart. Even people in the BDSM community back home raved about him.
“He said he specializes in it, but that we would only talk about it if and when I wanted to. We didn’t talk about it this time.”
I couldn’t help but feel a flutter of disappointment in my gut. “I see.”
The air between us was tight, and I didn’t know what to do or say to loosen it.
“Is there… is there anything wrong?” I asked.
God, I sounded so needy. But what else could I say to close all of this distance between us?
“No, I’d like to be left alone,” he said, his eyes glued to his glowing phone screen.
I felt like a door had been shut in my face; I was locked out of Luke’s mind.
“No can do,” I said, snuggling against him. “You’ve been alone since you got back from class. I know that when you spend too much time alone, your anxiety—”
“DON’T LECTURE ME ABOUT MY ANXIETY!” He shouted.
I withdrew sharply as if I’d just snapped my finger in a mousetrap.
Luke was sitting up, nostrils flaring, his phone a glowing rectangle on the bed. It illuminated him from below, making him look exactly like his terrifying bipolar mother — Sarah DuPont.
Just as quickly as it had come on, his angry expression morphed into a teary-eyed one.
“I’m so sorry, Adam!” he sobbed, dropping his face in his hands. “That wasn’t for you!”
I wrapped him in a tentative hug. “I know, I know.”
He cried into my shirt.
“Anything you need,” I said gently.
“I…” he started. “I… you’re right. I want you here, next to me. I’m just so scared, Adam.”
I could feel my heart breaking for him; breaking in all the ways it never broke for myself when I went through my own trauma. Then, I was hit by the memory of my own therapy.
“Luke, did Dr. Brinkman talk to you about… possible sources of your trauma? Like, did you guys talk about what happened when Kirk left you in that basement for three days?”
Luke nodded vigorously. “And my dad cheating on my mom, and some stuff that happened to me when I was a kid…”
My eyes narrowed. “They’re not supposed to do that during the first appointment.”
“He didn’t ask! I went into his office, sat on his shrink couch, and after the usual greetings, he asked me what I was seeing him to work on. Then it all just… came out.”
“Oh, Luke. That’s perfectly normal,” I said gently, cuddling him close. “Normal that you’re feeling like this now.”
Luke snuggled into me, and I felt pure happiness. All I knew was that I would do anything to protect this beautiful creature next to me.
He was quiet, just this warm, delicate thing in the crook of my arm, breathing.
“When I went to therapy years ago, my first day went like this, too. I laid down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling like the air on top of my chest was heavy. Like my PTSD had taken the form of an overweight cat, and it settled onto my body and kept me from moving.”
Luke chuckled. “I’ve been picturing mine as a fat dog.”
I chuckled and kissed him on the temple. “Cat or dog — the metaphor works both ways. So I would be lying in my bed after my appointments, not able to do anything. My thoughts felt like they were covered in molasses; they were sticky and heavy. I would stay like that for the entire evening, not even thinking about my trauma. But somehow, it was there, physically on top of me.”
“…that feels like what’s happening to me right now,” Luke admitted.
“Well, you’re not alone. It’s completely normal. At least, that’s what my therapist told me when I talked about it with her. She said the trauma is like a cut—” My hand went to my neck and rested on my bandage. “And as time passes, it heals over by itself. But if it’s something especially traumatizing, it gets infected, and there’s pus that builds up inside.”
Luke was listening to me carefully, laying completely still.
“Anything that reminds you of the traumatic event — for me, it was hearing rushing water — cuts at the wound a little, and then the pus leaks out. You don’t even have to remember the details of your trauma, but your body does. And your body feels the pus and thinks it’s happening again. So it bathes your body in stress hormones.”
“Like when I hear an ambulance,” Luke said. “That’s a trigger for my anxiety.”
“Right, exactly. That’s just some of the pus leaking out. And today, you talked about what it sounds like several wounds coming open at your appointment. Even though you might not be thinking about them, your body is trying to seal them shut. That’s why you’re on this bed in the dark, alone. Your body is extremely stressed out, even though your mind might feel clear.”
Luke was quiet for a bit. Then, after I thought he’d gone to sleep, he said
