Unraveling You 03 Awakening You (6 page)

 

“I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.” She closes the door, and just like that, our conversation ends.

 

As I make the short drive to therapy with the SUV tailing me, I feel like I’ve been put on probation. Having come from a home where, most of the time, my siblings and I ran wild, I feel strangely okay that I’m being punished. For the first time in a long time, I feel kind of safe.

 

Ten minutes later, I enter the office where my therapy sessions take place. The rain has let up by the time I walk in, and sunlight sneaks through the clouds and glimmers through the windows.

 

“Hey, Ayden, how have you been?” Dr. Gardingdale greets without looking up from the filing cabinet he’s sifting through.

 

“Good.” I drop down in the chair across from his desk.

 

He glances up at me. “You don’t sound good.” He glides the filing cabinet drawer shut, pulls out a chair, and then sits down. “Is something wrong?”

 

Out of habit, I shake my head, but words slip out of my mouth on their own. “Did you tell Lila I was showing up late to sessions?”

 

“I did,” he answers shamelessly. “I was concerned that you might be doing something that could harm your wellbeing.”

 

“Why would you figure that?”

 

“Because of something you said at the last meeting.”

 

“What did I say exactly?”

 

“That you were thinking about going and looking for your sister yourself.”

 

“I said that?” Why can’t I remember that?

 

“You were under when you said it,” he explains, checking the time on the wall clock. “It was during an amnesia therapy session.”

 

I attempt to remember, but come up blank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Because you were upset when you woke up.” He tugs on his red and blue striped tie, loosening it. “It was the session where you—”

 

“Cried,” I finish for him.

 

I cringe at the faint memory of me waking up to the woman with blood red hair carving the mark into my flesh with a dull kitchen knife. The pain was unbearable. I could still feel it when I woke up.

 

“I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought I needed to tell your mother about what happened and about being late to sessions.” He pauses, giving me an opening to explain where I’ve been.

 

“I think maybe I should reconsider that slip I signed, giving you permission to discuss certain things with the Gregorys.”

 

“Is that what you really want?”

 

I hesitate then shake my head. “No, not really. They don’t deserve to worry like that.”

 

“I think that’s a wise choice.” His phone buzzes, and he silences it without looking at it. “So, is there anything else bothering you? Maybe at home? Or at school?” His light questions are his way of easing into the darker stuff, which always comes later in the hour.

 

“No . . . not exactly . . .” I trail off, uncertain how much talking I want to do today. It’s been such a stressful day already. “Nothing’s really wrong at home or school.”

 

It’s not as easy as it sounds

 

To confess my darkest worries,

 

My fears of who I am,

 

My fear of never being good enough.

 

He slips on his glasses. “Remember, I can’t help you unless I know what the problem is.” When I still don’t answer, he adds, “Do you want to talk about your sister? I don’t usually like to dive into the complicated stuff, but if you need us to, we can. I know what’s going on with her has to be stressful. Plus, you’ve been putting a lot of pressure on yourself with this amnesia therapy because of what’s happened to her.”

 

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “That’s not what I was going to say . . . but I do worry about her. All the time, actually. I even went to that address she used to live at . . . That’s why I’ve been late.”

 

Shock flickers across his face, but he keeps himself professionally composed, his voice remaining even. “Can I ask why you’ve been going there?”

 

I shrug. “I was curious where she lived and what her life was like up until she was taken. Plus, in this weird way, it made me feel close to her.” I only realize the truth when the words leave my lips.

 

Deep down, I knew going in that house wouldn’t help find Sadie. It was the last place she lived, the last place she might have had a life.

 

“That’s understandable,” he says. “It has to be hard on you having not seen her for years, only to find out she’s been kidnapped.”

 

“I feel like I hardly got to know her. I was fourteen when we were taken, and she was only thirteen. My older brother was almost sixteen, but still, it seems like such a short amount of time . . . time I’ll never get back. And, with my brother, I’ll never have a chance to get any more time at all.” I force down the lump in my throat.

 

“I’ve been dreaming about her a lot . . . Sadie. She’s in a house on this hill, and she’s tied up and hurt. I can hear her, but . . . I can’t help her. All I want to do is help her, and I feel like, if I can just see what’s around the house, then I’ll be able to find her. But I never have the dream long enough for me to figure out the exact location.”

 

“Are you sure it’s a dream? Perhaps it’s a memory.”

 

“I honestly have no fucking idea anymore. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what’s really happened and what’s a nightmare. Sometimes, I feel like my mind gets all jumbled because it’s overthinking too much, if that makes any sense.”

 

Lightning booms from outside, causing me to jump. Out the window, the clouds have rolled in again, blocking the sunlight from the earth.

 

His forehead creases. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this, but I’ve been considering maybe having you take a break from the amnesia therapy.”

 

“What?” I jolt upright in my seat. “No, I can’t do that. Please, don’t make me do that.”

 

He offers me a sympathetic look. “Ayden, I’m sorry to say this, because I know you want to help find your sister, but I think we might be putting too much pressure on you, and the brain doesn’t do well with stress.”

 

He scoots his chair forward and crosses his arms on his desk. “It was stress and the pain from the situation that made you forget to begin with. Perhaps a little break might be beneficial and might actually help you have an easier time remembering, if that makes sense.”

 

“I don’t want to stop the therapy yet, not when my memories are starting to surface on their own.” I shift my weight in the chair. “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about that experimental therapy you told me about, the one Lila doesn’t want me to do. I’m eighteen now, though, so doesn’t that mean I technically don’t need her permission?”

 

“Legally, you don’t need the permission from a guardian, but I wouldn’t advise it. Like I said, your brain needs rest.” He removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with a rag he fishes from a drawer beside him. “I’m not saying we’re going to stop forever. We can go back to the treatment in time.”

 

“My sister doesn’t have time,” I croak, my emotions thick in my throat.

 

“Finding your sister isn’t solely your job. The police are doing everything in their power to find her.”

 

“The longer she’s gone, the less likely she’s . . .” My chest aches just thinking about it, deep wounds hidden beneath the scars.

 

There were so many scars on all of us when we were pulled out of that house. So many scars showing just how truly evil they were.

 

“I think we need to start working on some relaxation exercises,” he says as he watches me fight to get oxygen into my lungs.

 

He puts his glasses back on, collects a pen and notebook from the drawer, and then stares at me for the longest time before asking, “Can I ask what you were going to say to start with? I asked you what’s wrong when you walked in, but we never made it to what you were going to say.”

 

I gradually inhale then exhale before I can speak. “I was going to say what’s been bothering me is . . . Lyric.”

 

“The girl you’ve been seeing?”

 

“Yeah. We’ve actually been dating in secret.”

 

“Why do you feel the need to keep it a secret?” he asks, jotting something down in the notebook.

 

“We’ve been saying it’s because our parents are really close, and if we told them, they’d start setting all these rules, but . . .” I sketch the scars on the back of my hand, faint white lines put there by the fingernails.

 

“But what?” he treads cautiously. “Remember, in order for me to help you work through the problem, you have to discuss it with me.”

 

A deafening breath escapes my lips. “I’m starting to realize my reason is a bit different than hers.”

 

“How so?”

 

“I don’t know . . . I think I’m just worried about what’s going to happen when her parents find out. Lyric . . . She’s so happy and full of life. She can make anyone laugh, and everyone loves her. Me,”—I internally cringe—“well, I’m not like that at all.”

 

He writes down a few more notes. “So, you think you don’t fit well with her?”

 

“No, I think she’s—that I’m—” I rub my hand down my face, releasing a trapped a breath. “Look, I know I’m not good enough for her.”

 

His hand stops moving across the paper as he peers up. “And what does Lyric say about how you feel?”

 

“I haven’t told her, but if I did, she’d tell me I’m wrong, because that’s the kind of person she is.”

 

Silence stretches between us as he slides the notebook aside and overlaps his hands on his desk. “Can I ask why you feel unworthy?”

 

“Because she’s too good for me,” I reply with a shrug. “I thought that was pretty clear.”

 

“I think it’s only clear to yourself,” he explains, meticulously assessing my expression. “I think that, perhaps, because of the verbal abuse with your birth mother and with the trauma you endured in your past, your self-perception is a little distorted.”

 

“I think my past is part of the reason I’m not good enough for her,” I disagree with him. “I think I have this dark, fucked-up past that’s made me a fucked-up person who doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s so happy and good. God, I can barely let her touch me without freaking out. ” The truth slips out of me like venom. My breath turns ragged, and my heartbeat skyrockets. “And, if we do make it too far with the physical stuff, I have to battle down this ugly, wrong feeling inside me. I don’t want to be this way, though. I wish I could change it . . . just get past it.”

 

“Our past doesn’t shape who we are, and as for the not being able to withstand physical contact, that’s perfectly understandable considering what happened to you. I know we haven’t outright talked about the abuse you went through, but I think maybe, when you’re ready, we should start discussing it.”

 

“But how can I discuss something I’m not positive ever happened? I just assume it did because of how I feel inside and through bits and pieces of the memories I can remember.”

 

“We don’t have to discuss the details. We can just discuss your feelings.” He grabs his pen and paper again and scribbles down some notes. “I think that’s something we’ll work on in your next session. In the meantime, I’m going to teach you some relaxation exercises to help calm yourself down when you’re having a panic attack.”

 

“I wish it were that easy, because I want her to be able to touch me, but I just don’t see it working.” I nervously crack my knuckles. “I always panic whenever things get too far.”

 

“It’ll take some time, but I have all the confidence that eventually you’ll get to a place in your life where you’ll be able to handle physical contact. Do you want to know why?” he asks, and I nod. “Because you want to get better. I can tell. And wanting to overcome something is the first step to getting there.”

 

I hope he’s right. God, do I hope. But until I see proof, I won’t be able to believe it.

 

“What about my memories? I don’t want to stop doing the treatment.” Don’t want to give up on Sadie.

 

“We’re not stopping,” he promises. “We’re just taking a short break and giving your mind some time to settle.”

 

I curl my fingers in and stab my nails into my palm as guilt crashes through me.

 

Sadie, I’m so sorry.

 

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

 

Sorry I can’t find you,

 

Sorry I’ve forgotten,

 

Sorry you have to suffer.

 

If I could, I’d take your place.

 

God, how I wish it were me instead of her.

 

What I wouldn’t give to make that happen.

 

Chapter 6

 

 

Lyric

 

 

 

“I love the smell of spring,” I declare as I inhale the delicious scent of the air. “It always makes me smile.”

 

“Everything makes you smile.” Ayden hands me a rag with a hint of a grin on his face.

 

It’s been a week since he sleepwalked, and for the most part, he seems to be okay. I’d put money on it, though, that he still feels guilty about the ordeal. Guilty because he worried everyone. Guilty because he freaked me out. My dear, shy boy, always worrying about everyone except himself. I wish I could talk to him about it without upsetting him, but after seeing him cry, I worry mentioning anything will trigger a nerve.

 

His parents—who I call Uncle Ethan and Aunt Lila, even though we’re not related—must have had the same thought process as me, because they seem pretty hush, hush about what happened.

 

“That’s not true.” I collect the rag from him and duck my head under the hood of my 1970 Dodge Challenger. I’ve been working on fixing it up for the last few months or so, and I’m hoping to have it drivable soon. “Bugs don’t make me smile. Or frowny faces.”

 

He snorts a laugh. “Frowny faces? Only you would say frowns don’t make you smile.”

 

“That’s because I’m that awesome.” I pull the dipstick out and wipe it off with the rag before dipping it back inside the oil.

 

“That, you are,” he remarks, moving up behind me.

 

“And don’t ever forget that, my friend.” I remove the dipstick, glance at the oil level, then put the stick back in. Wiping my hand off with a rag, I step back from the car. “It looks like it might—” My back bumps into Ayden.

 

He hardly ever instigates contact first, expect on rare, amazing, wonder-filled occasions, so I allow myself to enjoy the earth-shattering moment and breathe in the feel of his body heat.

 

I smile stupidly when he doesn’t move away. “Whatcha doing?”

 

“Nothing.” His voice is uneven, revealing his nerves. “I was just . . .” He releases a breath then places his hands on my hips. Surprisingly, his fingers are steady. “I just wanted to touch you.” He rests his forehead against the back of my head and inhales deeply. “And to make sure you’re okay.”

 

“Okay about what?” My eyelids drift shut as I lean into his touch.

 

His simple touches are better than light.

 

They awaken my body and bring it to life.

 

More. More. More, my body is craving.

 

The addiction is potent, consuming, aching.

 

Leaves my body wanting, pleading, shaking.

 

Sometimes I feel like I’m withering, fading.

 

Fading. Fading. Fading.

 

Into him.

 

“About . . . about what happened the other day . . . when I sleepwalked.” His fingers grasp onto me, and his chest crashes against my back as his shallow breaths turn ragged. “I know I probably freaked you out. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, but I didn’t want to upset you, so I decided to wait until stuff cooled off.”

 

“I’m not upset about what happened.” And not surprised one little bit that my theory about him was right. I turn around and loop my arms around him. “I’m just worried about you and how you’re handling it.”

 

“I’m fine,” he swears, searching my eyes for my true feelings. He forgets, though, that I’m like an open book. “It’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before. But you . . . What did I say to you exactly while I was asleep?”

 

“Nothing I could really understand.”

 

“Are you sure? Because, if I said anything weird . . . Then I want to know.”

 

“The whole situation is a little strange,” I admit. “You were completely out of it, yet you were standing there, talking and . . . crying.”

 

“I cried?” His mouth curves to a frown. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that in front of you.”

 

“Stop worrying.” I lure him closer to me with a jerk, the movement rougher than I intended. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You sleepwalk. So what? We all have our weird, little quirks.”

 

He cracks a small, adorable smile. “And what are your weird, little quirks?”

 

“Um, hello, isn’t that kind of obvious? I’m
always
as freaking cheery and sparkly as the sun is on crack, trying to spin everything and everyone into sugar and rainbows with my smile. Albeit, it’s an adorable smile.” I flash him my pearly whites. “I bet it’s kind of blinding and gets a little tiring to deal with all the time, though.”

 

“It’ll never get tiring.” His mood shifts as his gaze drops to my lips. “And your smile’s beautiful.”

 

I have to take a moment to catch my breath; otherwise, my voice will wobble like mad-crazy. “You can kiss me if you want.”

 

“Can I?” He tries to tease, but his voice comes out raspy.

 

Leaning in, he places his lips against mine, giving me a featherlike kiss.

 

“That’s it?” I jut out my lip when he pulls away.

 

Sucking in a few calculated breaths, his hands glide around my back, and he fumbles with the hem of my tank top. “It’s getting late, and your parents will be coming home soon. I don’t want them to find us making out in the garage.” When I crinkle my nose, he adds, “Lila and Ethan aren’t going to be home for a while, though, so . . .”

 

“So, what?” I play dumb and totally get rewarded when he blushes.

 

“I thought we could, you know . . .” He lifts one hand to nervously massage the back of his neck. “Go up to my room for a while, and”—his blush deepens—“continue kissing.”

 

I choke on a giggle. “I knew what you meant from the beginning, but it was fun watching you get all weirded out.”

 

He jokingly scowls at me. “That was kind of mean.”

 

“Yeah, I know. It’s a good thing you love me.” I instantly want to kick myself for dropping the L-bomb. I know the word makes him squeamish.

 

He stares at me, his expression unreadable, as silences encompasses us.

 

“So, yeah, let’s go inside,” I say awkwardly after a soundless moment goes by.

 

Not saying anything, he laces our fingers together and steers me out of the garage, down my driveway, and toward his house. He pauses when we’re about to walk inside and suddenly looks down at the end of the driveway.

 

I track his gaze to Miss Finkleson, our neighbor across the street, watering her garden in her bathrobe. “What are you looking at?”

 

“Making sure my  . . . babysitter isn’t around.” He tensely massages his neck.

 

“Babysitter? Dude, what are you talking about?” I squint at his expression. “Did you get high with Sage today?”

 

“No.” He sighs, his hand falling to his side. “Because of everything going on, an undercover detective has been following me to make sure I’m safe. I didn’t know it, though, and got caught going somewhere. Lila made it seem like, because I fucked up, I was going to be watched all the time, but I haven’t noticed the car around for the last couple of hours.”

 

“What were you doing?” I wonder. “When you got caught?”

 

He pulls an oh-so-busted expression. “Hanging out in front of that house Sadie last lived at. Figures the day I decide to go inside is the day they followed me. Lila was really fucking pissed off at me.”

 

He went into that house?

 

A detective is following him?

 

To keep him safe?

 

I bite down on my lip hard as reality crushes down on me and causes my eyes to water up.

 

“Lyric, what’s wrong?” He lowers his face closer to mine, searching my eyes. “Are you . . . ? Are you
crying
?”

 

“No,” I lie, sucking back the waterworks. “I’m almost crying.”

 

“Almost crying?” He frowns. “What’d I say that upset you?”

 

“It’s not what you said. It’s what you didn’t say, which I know is a really cliché girlfriend thing to whine about.” I blink up at the sunlight filtering through the sky, only because I can’t look him in the eye at the moment. “I hate that you keep stuff from me. You going to that house is like the Internet hacker all over again.”

 

“No, it’s not.” He cups my face between his hands, forcing me to look at him. “I didn’t tell you about this, because I was still trying to figure out for myself why the hell I felt the need to go there all the time.” He smooths his hands down my cheeks, down my neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of heat all the way to my waist. “I realized I was searching for something I’d never really find, so I won’t be going back.”

 

“Good. You should have never gone there by yourself ever. Not with all this stuff going on. It’s too dangerous.”

 

“I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. Not when that detective is keeping an eye on me.” He contemplates something. “It was weird, though. While I was there, a woman came up to me and told me it wasn’t safe for me to be there. But it was raining, and she had the hood of her coat pulled up so I couldn’t see her face.”

 

“That’s strange,” I agree, trying not to go all crazy-girlfriend on him. But he has me incredibly worried that he’s going to do something stupid. “Did you tell Lila about her?”

 

“Yeah, she called Detective Rannali, and he said he’d look into it, but I guess the area where the house is has a high crime rate, especially with drugs, and he seems pretty convinced the woman was just warning me to get the hell out of the area.”

 

I step closer, eliminating the space between us. “Ayden, promise me, the next time you’re going to try something questionable, you’ll tell me first. I know you have this whole belief that you need to do everything alone so you won’t burden everyone with your problems, but I want to be burdened. No, I
need
to be burdened.”

 

He presses his lips together and nods once. “All right. I promise.”

 

“Thank you.” I free a breath of relief. “I need to always know you’re okay.” I step back and twine my fingers with his. “Now, let’s go inside and make out.”

 

His lips threaten to pull upward as he turns and leads me the rest of the way to the back door. I can feel the beat of his heart pulsating from his fingertips as we enter his house.

 

It’s quiet inside, soundless inside.

 

“So, no one’s home at all?” I ask as we kick off our shoes in the foyer.

 

He shakes his head, giving me a nervous, sidelong glance. “Nope, everyone’s gone for at least another hour.”

 

Biting back a smile, I let him steer me into the kitchen. The air smells like cinnamon and chocolate, and I spot a plate of cookies on the counter.

 

“Yes! Cookies!” I exclaim a little too excitedly. Aunt Lila owns her own catering business and is an amazing cook. “I love it when she bakes.”

 

He laughs at me as I swipe a cookie from off the plate. Then we start up the stairway.

 

As we reach the top of the stairs, he smiles at me from over his shoulder as I stuff my face with gooey chocolate. “Good?”

 

“Delish.” I lick my fingers clean, making exaggerated smacking sounds.

 

He watches me in complete fascination, his eyes burning with something I don’t quite recognize.

 

I lick my last finger clean. “Are you okay?”

 

He blinks and then clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

 

I eye him suspiciously. “Wait. Are we having another office moment?” I restrain a laugh when he uncomfortably shifts his weight, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

 

Back in the day, before we were dating, he got a hard-on while I was straddling his lap. Being slightly intoxicated, I pointed it out and embarrassed the crap out of him.

 

“Honestly,” he starts, carefully calculating his next words, “we’ve had a lot of office moments over the last few months.”

 

Acting like a ridiculously silly girl, I grin. “Really?”

 

“I don’t know why you look so shocked,” he quickly says, looking off over my shoulder. “Just looking at you is—does—turns me on. But kissing and touching you . . .” He blinks back at me. “But, yeah, anyway . . .” He waits, looking hopeful that I’ll let him off the hook.