Page 5 of Choosing Hope

Dr. Klein leans forward slightly, her eyes soft but focused on mine. “You’ve carried that memory with you for a long time.” Her voice is low and steady. “When you think back to that moment, what’s the strongest feeling that surfaces for you now?”

I swallow hard, staring down at the carpet. “A mix of shame...and longing.” My voice cracks just a little. “Like I wanted it so badly, but I hated myself for letting it happen.”

Dr. Klein nods slowly, not breaking eye contact when I finally glance back up.

“It sounds like there was a war inside you—desire battling fear and guilt.”

She tilts her head, her tone softening even more.

“Do you think you’ve ever truly forgiven yourself for what you felt that night?”

My jaw tightens as I rock my head from side to side.

“No. I don’t think I have for my own desires.”

Dr. Klein lets out a breath. The smallest, encouraging smile tugs at her lips.

“Then maybe that’s where we start.” Her voice is warm, coaxing. “Not with the act itself but with showing compassion to the younger you—the boy who just wanted to understand what he needed.”

I stare at her, unsure of what she means.

“I’d like to continue just like that, Mr. Barton-Jones. Just talk to me; tell me the stories you believe have defined your life. I’ll be here to prompt you, if necessary but I’d rather you go at your own pace and explain what’s happened and why you think you’ve got to the place you have,” she clarifies.

I roll my head against the headrest, but don’t have a clue where to begin.

She gives me a kind, knowing smile.

“Can you bring to mind a time you experienced joy as a child?” Dr. Klein asks.

The way she phrased her question showed it was a proposal instead of something I had to reply to.

That’s an easy one.My lips quirk up into a smile.

“Every year during the hot summer months, Carlo and I went to stay in Naples with Carlo’s paternal grandmother. We looked forward to it; his grandmother’s place was the only home we knew. His grandma, or Nonna, as we called her, was in her nineties but still ran the family’s lemon grove practically single-handed.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman.”

My lips curl into a beaming smile with pride for the woman I adored.

“She was, and she loved young people. I think our arrival each July became her favorite time of the year too. Her presence in our lives helped to make up for our persistent sense of abandonment.”

My huge body sank further into the cushioned chair as I let my mind wander to those lengthy, warm summers. I can almost feel the heat of the sun baking our skin.

“I still remember the smell,” I say, almost without meaning to.

“The air was thick with citrus—sharp and sweet, like sun-warmed lemon peel crushed between your fingers.”

It got into your clothes, your hair, your skin. Some days, I swore I could still smell it hours after we’d left and returned to school.

Even now, sometimes when I’m slicing a lemon, it sneaks up on me—that place, the emotions it evoked. The one-time life didn’t seem so heavy.

Chapter Two

Spencer

The summer of our seventeenth year continued much like the others had before it. We worked on the farm early each morning, but by lunchtime, Nonna would insist the sun was too hot and send all the workers home.

Unbothered by the heat, Carlo and I spent the long afternoons working out or honing our kickboxing skills. For us, it was heaven.