Page 35 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jason

For a moment, Angie looks at me like she’s going to say something but then seems to think better of it.

I move from the bed and dress as quickly as I can.

I’ve used her.

I’ve used her to sate my own desires, to escape from the troubles plaguing me.

I force myself not to look at her as I button my navy slacks. I know what I’ll see—confusion, hurt, maybe even a glimmer of understanding. But I can’t face it. Not right now. I’m not sure what’s more frightening—the fact that she might understand…or that she might not.

She remains silent as I button my shirt and put on my jacket. My chest aches with a dull throb of guilt and regret that intensifies with every passing second. But beneath the guilt, I feel relief. Relief that the fire burning inside me has been extinguished. At least for now.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure why.

For using her? For leaving?

Or perhaps for everything?

No response. Did she even hear me?

Maybe not.

But the silence doesn’t fool me. I feel her gaze on my back.

It’s heavy, questioning. It’s tangible, almost physical, like a hand reaching out to stop me. But I’ve built walls around me for a reason. Walls that are meant to keep everyone out.

Without another word, I make my way toward her bedroom door, my heart pounding. I pause, hand on the doorknob.

From behind me, I hear her soft whisper. “Jason.”

I don’t turn around. I can’t.

“Would you like me to let your dog in?” I say, facing the door.

She pauses. “No. I can let her in. Thanks, though.”

Good enough for me. I leave her bedroom. Leave her home.

Leave her life.

I walk the few yards to my own townhome and enter, pull my phone out of my pocket, and call Peter.

“It’s Jason,” I say to his voicemail. “I’ll agree to the mental health assessment. I’ll do whatever I have to. I need this surgery, Pete. I need to cut again.”

Later, after I’ve had a pizza for dinner—along with a couple glasses of bourbon—my phone buzzes.

It’s Pete.

“Hey,” I say into the phone.

“I got your message. Dr. Steel can see you tomorrow.”

I wince at the name. “Does it have to be Dr. Steel?”

“She’s the best, and she came a long way to help us out. Her husband is quite ill, but she still made the time.”

Her husband? That’s Angie’s uncle, Jonah Steel. “What’s wrong with her husband?”

“Cancer. Glioblastoma.”

Fuck. That’s harsh. Usually a death sentence. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Apparently he’s responding well to experimental treatment. They’re cautiously optimistic.”

Experimental treatment? Oh, yeah? Did his hospital make him jump through mental-health hoops to get his experimental treatment? Fuck.

How do I tell him I may have a conflict with his choice of psychiatrist? That I happen to be fucking her niece, who is also my student?

Yeah.

Can’t very well say that.

“Do you have an issue with Dr. Steel?” Pete asks.

And again, I can’t really tell him.

“No,” I say.

“Then eleven a.m. tomorrow. Will that work for you?”

“On a Sunday?”

He clears his throat. “She doesn’t want to be away for any longer than she has to be. So yeah, tomorrow, if you can make it.”

I sigh. “Eleven, you said?”

“Yes,” he says. “You can use my office.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Jason?”

“What?”

“You sound a little off. Have you been drinking?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

He sighs into the phone. “Look, we all know what you’ve been through, Jace. We all?—”

“Stop it. Just stop it.” My voice cracks slightly, but I steady it. “Until you lose a spouse and child and your ability to perform in your chosen career, don’t tell me you know what I’ve been through.”

He pauses a moment.

Then, “Fair enough.”

“Good. So we understand each other, then.”

“Jason, if you’ve been drinking, you need?—”

“I’m not a fucking drunk, Peter. This isn’t a problem. I ordered a pizza and had some bourbon. It’s been a rough fucking day. Hell, it’s been a rough fucking three years. I’m entitled to have a drink if I want to.”

Then again, “Fair enough.”

“Tell Dr. Steel I’ll be there at eleven. How long will it take?”

“As long as she needs to make her assessment.”

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and sigh it out before continuing. “But I’ve been through therapy before, Pete. One hour didn’t do a damn thing. Hell, hours and hours didn’t do a damn thing. It certainly didn’t help my wife. I can’t believe you even had Dr. Morgan at that meeting today.”

“She was…” he begins but then seems to think better of it. “It was probably a mistake to have her at the meeting.”

“Damned right it was.”

“Jason, please. We all know?—”

“There you go again,” I cut him off. “Saying you know. You don’t know shit, Pete. Your wife is alive. Your kids are alive. You can still practice medicine in your chosen field. So shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“I’m going to assume that that’s the alcohol talking,” he says. “I’m still your chief of surgery.”

“I’m no longer a surgeon, Pete. So you’re not my chief of anything.”

I end the call with a click.

And I wish that instead of a cell phone I had an old-fashioned phone that I could fucking slam down.

Three years earlier…

I’ve been sitting in Dr. Morgan’s office for half an hour, and I haven’t said anything. She hasn’t tried to prompt me.

Lindsay’s memorial was this past weekend, but still I came to my session.

With this doctor who couldn’t help my wife.

With this doctor who I know can’t help me.

Yet she’s going to bill me for the hour that I sit here and say nothing.

“This is crap,” I finally say.

“Yes, it is.”

I roll my eyes.

“Is that it, Jason?” Dr. Morgan’s voice is quiet, patient. It’s the kind of voice that makes you feel guilty for yelling, even when you want to yell.

“It’s not just it ,” I snap back. “It’s everything. It’s this room, this situation, my life. All of it.”

Dr. Morgan scribbles something in her notepad. It’s a distant scratching sound, like mice in the walls. For a moment I imagine that she’s just doodling, maybe drawing zeros and ones or houses and trees. But I know she’s writing about me.

“I know this is a difficult time for you,” she begins.

I cut her off. “Difficult?” I laugh harshly. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She nods, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. “Perhaps you’d like to talk about Lindsay?”

The mention of her name causes a lump to lodge firmly in my throat. I can taste the saltiness of impending tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I never did read her letter. I showed it to the cops and then shoved it back into its envelope.

I swallow hard, narrowing my eyes at Dr. Morgan. “Perhaps I’d like to drown in the ocean,” I retort. “Feels about the same.”

Silence spills between us again, heavier this time. Dr. Morgan doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t try to fill the void with empty reassurances or clinical observations. Instead, she inclines her head slightly and just waits.

It’s like being under a microscope, tiny particles of my grief magnified and scrutinized.

“I’m not here for your amusement, Doctor,” I spit out.

“And I’m not here to amuse you, Jason,” she responds evenly.

I scoff again. “Like I said. Crap. That’s what this is.”

“What?”

“All of this.” I gesture. “Psychiatry. All you do is throw my own words back at me. So you’re not here to amuse me. This is what I’m paying God knows how many dollars an hour for? What a crock.”

“You’re angry, Jason,” Dr. Morgan states.

I laugh, the sound bitter and empty. “Did it take you four years of med school and five years of residency to figure that one out? Because I could’ve told you that for free.”

She doesn’t rise to my bait. Just watches me with those unwavering eyes. There’s no judgment, just…understanding? No, not quite. Empathy, maybe? I don’t want her empathy.

“Anger is a part of grief,” she says.

I grip the armrests of my chair, my knuckles turning white. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to grieve. Maybe I want to be angry.”

“And that’s okay,” she replies calmly. “You’re allowed to be angry, Jason.”

I snap my arm out, pointing a cold finger directly at her. “ You were supposed to help her. To help Lindsay deal with the loss of her daughter. Our daughter . You said you could help. And now she’s gone. By her own hand. And it’s your fucking fault!”

Dr. Morgan’s expression finally changes. It’s not shock or surprise or even defense that crosses her face, but a kind of quiet sorrow. She doesn’t look away from me, still meeting my gaze with her own. Her pen is suspended over her notebook.

“Jason…” she begins, her voice soft, measured even, as I hurl blame at her.

“No,” I interrupt harshly. “Don’t Jason me.

” My heart is pounding, a drumbeat of guilt mixed with grief and anger.

Anger at Lindsay for leaving me alone in this mess, anger at myself for not being able to stop her, and anger at Dr. Morgan for failing us.

“I didn’t come here to be placated. I came here to tell you that you failed. You failed Lindsay, and you failed me.”

“Psychiatry isn’t a?—”

I scoff. “Psychiatry is quackery. Psychiatry failed Lindsay. It failed me. And I’m done here.”