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He looks blankly at me. “You have a propensity for rational thought, but when you think about her, your emotional state trumps your rational thinking. It’s like… a terrorist taking over an airplane.”
“So Island is an emotional terrorist?”
“What? No.” Darrel frowns at me. “I’m saying you lose control when you think of her and I can safely assume that you most likely lose control when you’re around her too.”
I stiffen. The one thing I can’t stand is feeling exposed and, right now, I might as well be skipping through downtown in my birthday suit.
Darrel taps his tablet and swipes to a new screenshot. “Here’s the strange thing. As aroused,” he ignores me when I squirm at the term, “as you were, I also saw elevated levels of catecholamines. That’s the chemical released by your brain when you feel threatened and need to take immediate protective action.”
“What are you saying, Darrel? That I’m afraid of her?”
“You tell me.” He tilts his head.
“Don’t give me that therapist ‘how do you feel about that’ crap.”
“Sorry to break it to you, Clay, but Iama therapist. And everything I’ve shared with you is backed up by evidence.” He flashes the tablet at me. “A picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”
I scowl at him. Damn it. He’s pointing my own sentiments back at me.
Darrel’s smug expression fades to one of concern. “Is your fear of Island caused by Anya’s death?”
I keep quiet. At this point, my brain’s been betrayed by a robot, I’m not volunteering any more information.
Darrel sets the tablet away and scoots to the edge of his chair. “Clay, I’m going to do something I don’t normally do and get personal with you.”
I turn my head back to him.
“You remember my sister Claire?”
“She married that Alistair guy, right?”
He nods. “When Claire died, it gutted me. I thought I didn’t deserve to move on from that loss.”
I blink rapidly.
Darrel meets my eyes. “The loss of a sister and the loss of a wife are different things, I understand. But they do share core similarities. The point is that the departed, if they truly loved us, would not want us to live in pain. They wouldn’t want us to suffer in their honor.”
“Anya was my wife. My best friend.” I stare at the ground. The guilt is back. The pressure on my chest. “She was the mother of my children. The one who had my back in war.”
“And she’s not here.”
It stings. I glance away.
“She’s not here, Clay, but you are.” Darrel’s voice is soft and urgent. “So what are you going to do about it?”
* * *
Of course Islandis at the warehouse when I leave Darrel’s therapy center, so brooding and heavy that Abe is afraid to so much as breathe too hard.
Of course she’s wearing long, black braids and purple lipstick and a long-sleeved blouse over the tightest pair of jeans I’ve ever seen in my life.
Of course her eyes get flinty and she shows no fear when she marches toward me.
As if I haven’t been rubbed emotionally raw from that therapy session.
As if that stupid expensive brain machine didn’t force me to face what I’ve been running from for so long.
That I have feelings for this infuriating, gorgeous, kind-hearted woman with the long nails and high heels. And whether I want them or not, they’re there and not going away.