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17

BODHI

“You seem brighter today.”

I smirk at Dr. Banks. “I wouldn’t go that far, Doc.”

Her face couldn’t be more earnest if she tried. “I think the fact that you’re laughing and making fun proves my judgment is correct.”

“Maybe,” I say.

I wouldn’t say I’m brighter, maybe less stressed.

I’m lucky enough to say there haven’t been many roadblocks this last month hindering my progress. Triggering my anxiety, I should say.

Although I knew Navy moving into the house would be challenging given my previous feelings for her—maybe not so previous—but that doesn’t matter anymore. I never realized the fucking peace I’d feel from witnessing her safety with my own two eyes.

It’s one thing to be told something and another to witness it firsthand.

I’ve watched Navy slowly settle into a routine. Her alarm goes off at seven every morning, and I’m already awake, getting my workout in earlier, so I hear her shuffling around while I make breakfast.

She religiously plays John Mayer softly in the background while she gets ready, music that seems to invigorate her in the morning.

The melodies of the songs filter through the dull echoes of the house. The rest of the guys sleep like dead rocks, so I know for a fact they don’t hear her.

But I do. I hear her every movement—if only I could hear her every thought, too.

By the time Navy makes her way down the stairs to head to work, I make sure her iced coffee is ready for her. Except, she doesn’t know I prepare it for her every morning. I know this because, like clockwork, she walks into the kitchen, grabs a protein bar from the pantry and a banana from the fruit bowl, and then opens the refrigerator door to see her iced coffee ready for her.

She picks up the glass cup and walks to the drawer next to the sink to grab her glass straw before saying, “Kingston is so thoughtful to do this for me. I need to think of a way to repay him.”

I can tell Navy isn’t used to people doing kind things for her, so I don’t want to taint her happiness because I want credit for it.

I’ve studied her for months—I know exactly how she likes things—but she doesn’t need to know that.

Like how I know she prefers sugar over coffee—it should look borderline milky.

She favors Dixon Ticonderoga pencils for sketching. I find chewed-up yellow pencils scattered around the house daily, and Navy doesn’t even realize it. She’s always losing them and searching for more.

Little does she know, I keep them stocked in the side table drawer by the couch.

She also favors Frosted Flakes, tiger cereal, over anything else—another thing I’ll make sure to never run out of.

We’ve gotten into a bit of a routine on nights when the guys go out and Navy and I hang out at the house.

I don’t know if I’d call sitting in silence hanging out, but it works for us.

Those nights we indulge in cereal for dinner. The simplest meal known to man, but hits good every fucking time.

Navy sketches in her spiral, and I read.

I collect my thoughts and gaze at Dr. Banks as she changes the subject.

“Are you seeing anyone, Bodhi?”

Hilarious. “No, I’m not.”

“And why is that?” she asks.

“Because I’m too fucked up in the head.”

Dr. Banks studies me carefully, and once again, I feel like she sees more in me than I ever will myself. “I wonder what would happen if you stopped considering yourself as the problem and more as a survivor?”

My thoughts charge into reverse. I’ve never thought of it like that. I think I’ve always known I was the problem. I caused the accident, I served the time, my mom left me, I wasn’t worth staying for, etc.

Did I survive the accident? Yes. But at what cost? Gwendolyn suffered, and I walked away scot-free.

“I’d hardly consider myself a survivor.”

“How so?”

“Because I left without so much as a scratch on my body,” I tell her.

I follow her pen that taps rhythmically on the notepad in her lap. “Now, I don’t think that’s true, do you?” Dr. Banks asks me.

“I know it is. I lived it.”

I remember every first and final detail leading up to the worst day of my life.

Gwendolyn and I were drunk out of our minds, but we didn’t care. We got into the brand-new BMW I bought with some of my sign-on bonus and drove without another thought. As soon as we hit the main road, a semitruck came out of nowhere fast—at least it felt like that at the time—causing me to swerve and sending us straight into a telephone pole on the side of the road.

I vividly remember the sight of Gwendolyn’s body launching from her seat and sending her back. The seat belt saved her. At least we had the brains to consider that form of safety, I guess.

From that point on, everything went black. Last I remember is waking up in the hospital, doped up on pain meds and my sister sobbing beside me.

That and the PR nightmare that followed.

So yeah, I’d hardly consider myself a survivor . I made a shitty choice and will eternally be haunted by the repercussions of it.

“What I mean is…you didn’t leave unscathed.”

My car was damaged—nothing more. While Gwendolyn was escorted out on a stretcher. Big fucking difference.

“What makes you say that?” I question her.

Dr. Banks leans forward, giving me her undivided attention with her hands clasped against her legs. “You served a prison sentence, Bodhi. You may not have had any physical injuries, but I’d hardly say you went unscathed. If anything, I feel you suffered the worst.”

Well, shit. Her declaration feels heavy and almost cruel to admit. It still won’t diminish my guilt over what happened with Gwendolyn; I know I served my time. If I had a better idea of what happened to her exactly, I’d be able to relate the two.

Prison was a sentence I felt I deserved at the time.

“I guess so,” I respond.

“And although there were no fatalities, this accident is something that haunts you every day of your life. I’d say it’s taken enough from you, don’t you think?”

I nod. I don’t know what to say. Dr. Banks is right. I’ve let this accident rob me of my happiness. I’m not the cheeriest guy but can still appreciate good things.

I may lack in some ways, but I’m rich in others.

“So what do you suggest I do? Something like this can’t be fixed overnight.”

She nods. “Of course. I suggest you let yourself have fun. Do something that brings you overwhelming joy. Do something that makes you uncomfortable and challenges you. Do something that makes you feel like your best self. But I also think you should do something that gives you closure with Gwendolyn. I’m unsure what that looks like for you, but I’m confident you’ll know when it’s time.”

I stare at her quizzically. “Doc, I don’t know if you’ve realized this about me by now, but I’m not exactly the ‘go out and have fun’ type of guy.”

“Why not?” Dr. Banks asks.

“Being around large groups of people puts me on edge.”

She nods in understanding. “That makes total sense. I’m sure your time spent behind bars is a major factor in that anxiety.”

I nod and she proceeds, “Take that for what it’s worth. In prison, you had no way of controlling the outcome for yourself and those around you. But here, in the real world, the control is yours. You can choose to leave when you want to leave and let loose when you want to let loose. The choice is yours. There’s freedom in understanding that.”

That’s an interesting way to look at it.

She is right about the uncontrollable behind bars. Every criminal there is serving a sentence you know nothing about and is capable of the worst. Giving the benefit of the doubt will get you killed. If I wasn’t on patrol for my safety at all times, I could guarantee I’d be graced with a shank in my side.

That’s how things are; no prison guard, warden, or even the best criminal can change that.

“That makes sense. But what about when the panic consumes me? How do I escape it without making a scene?”

I watch Dr. Banks’s movements as she scribbles something on the notepad before her. Her head lifts to acknowledge me. “Find the thing that stabilizes you and cling to it. Don’t let it go until you’ve surrendered the fear.”

Right.

The one thing that stabilizes me is the one thing I can’t keep close.

“I guess it’s worth a shot.”