Page 47 of Fragile (Cedar Lakes University #2)

Chapter forty-six

Quinn

I don’t think it’s healthy the amount of times I’ve tapped my phone to check if Miles has messaged me. I’m going to give myself carpal tunnel with the repetitive action. I’m up to at least two hundred now. Maybe more. Tap. Yeah, two-hundred and one.

I let out a deep sigh as my professor talks to us about the varied therapy approaches that we can study over the remainder of the year. It was part of the assignment this semester to pick a therapy style and explore it.

“Miss Dawson, you had some interesting insight in your last assignment. Would you like to come and share with the class?”

Would I ever. “Uh, Mr. Lambert, I think—”

“I insist.”

Okay, looks like I’m going up there. I don’t have many qualms about talking in front of groups of people—in fact, I like it—I just hadn’t planned to do it today when I’m so distracted. Clearing my throat, I stand and head toward the podium, just as the professor steps aside.

I take a deep breath, willing myself not to run back to my desk and tap my phone again. Focus, Quinn.

“So, in my assignment, I posed the question: Is art therapy really therapeutic?” A few people nod in the front row as I continue. “We all know that there are prescribed techniques we’ll be teaching when we work within a practice. There’ll be things we recommend and rules we follow to help patients heal and recognize their strengths in order for them to move forward. We have an arsenal of techniques to use.” I look around the room at my fellow students. “But what about the patients who don’t want to communicate? Imagine, you can give them said tools, and none of them work for that patient. What if we used a medium that allowed them to connect with another part of their brain, to give them new perspective and help them use another medium to communicate?

“Art therapy isn’t only beneficial for creative minds, but it can allow logic, fear, and pressure to be removed from any situation. Art is subjective. What you see will be different to what I see, and that’s the beauty of it. The uniqueness that anyone creates also resides within the artist.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lambert adds, stepping beside me. “Do any of you have questions?”

Dylan, in the front row, raises his hand. “What if part of your reason for therapy is that you’re a perfectionist. Do you think that doing something they aren’t well versed in might lead to feelings of inadequacy or failure?”

“Miss Dawson?”

“Or we can look at it in a different way. The idea of art, in whatever form you create it, is to create something unique, that doesn’t have conceptual perfection attached to it. To channel any emotions that you can’t articulate into whatever artistic medium you decide. Studies have shown that it can improve self- esteem, empowerment, and self-discovery. Not to mention, it can significantly reduce stress levels and increase relaxation.”

Another student raises their hand. “How can that compare to something like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy? Studies behind art therapy are miniscule by comparison of the scientific evidence for CBT.”

“Arguably, it can enhance the effects of such a process. Instead of thinking about it replacing a therapy, think of it as enhancing what clients can put into practice, another tool to use in their program.” I step to the side of the podium. “The perfect example is a marine who is suffering with post-traumatic stress and they’re unable to communicate because voicing their emotions feels too raw and overwhelming. Then let’s begin by giving them another medium—”

“But how do you implement evidence-based practices? Surely, that client might think they’re able to avoid talking and not complete the therapy side of CBT or anything similar? Instead, they can just bake a cake, or paint a picture.”

“The opposite, actually. By giving the client another medium to express themselves, you can discuss their work and see what they’ve created with their mind when it wasn’t focused on their trauma, and tap into the emotions and their subconscious that way, bringing them to a sense of realization that they can communicate, it just might take some longer to express themselves verbally. I agree that we should still rely on all forms of therapy in order to assist clients with their journeys, but we also need to keep an open mind on how our brains work, especially when dealing with trauma. There’s no one-size-fits-all, but there is enough out there to help everyone.”

“Very nicely debated. Thank you, Miss Dawson.”

I take my seat, striding back to my desk with a sense of confidence I thrive off of. It was a good distraction, until I’m sitting down again, and my phone has no new notifications.

As the professor carries on, bringing up another student to the podium, more debates echo around me, but I’m lost in thoughts about the time I’ve spent with Miles over the last few months and how I’ve seen him relax when baking with me at the shelter. How I’ve seen him embrace yoga classes and even scrapbooking. All of these things are allowing him to express himself in a way that he wouldn’t normally.

Deep down, I think watching Miles grow up without his mom and with a father who was barely there left a lasting mark on me. Even as a kid, I could sense the emotional void in him, something that needed healing, even if I couldn't fully understand it at the time. I didn’t know the weight of what he was going through—I hadn’t lost a parent—but I knew, instinctively, that Miles needed someone to be there for him. Looking back, it might seem na?ve to think that movie nights or silly distractions could help someone who was grieving, but maybe that’s exactly what he needed. He needed to look at things from a different perspective and I offered that to him. Maybe all he needed was to escape from his own mind for a little while and to feel that someone cared.

As we've grown up, I've come to realize that, in some way, shape, or form, we've always needed each other. There’s an understanding between us that runs deeper than words, a friendship that’s made us stronger. It’s almost as if our relationship was inevitable, like we were two halves destined to find each other and become a whole. And maybe that is partially wishful thinking because I’ve loved him for so long and so deeply; I never wanted to see a life without him in some way shape or form. If we never progressed into more than friends, I would’ve still loved him and cared for him and wished him a life of happiness. I feel incredibly lucky that everything worked out the way it has.

As if the realization has struck me by lightning, I need to see him. I have to.

“Mr. Lambert?” I ask, raising my hand. “May I be excused? I’m suddenly not feeling well.” I shouldn’t lie, but I have to leave.

His eyebrows draw together as he regards me. “Of course, feel better.”

Before he can finish his sentence, I'm already out of my seat, my hands gripping my textbook so tightly that my knuckles turn white, and my backpack haphazardly slung over one shoulder. My heart races as I push through the crowded hallway, weaving between oblivious students. The campus blurs around me, the only thing on my mind is getting to Miles as fast as I can.

I barely notice the stairs as I take them two at a time, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. By the time I reach his dorm, I'm practically shaking. My hands fumble for the spare key he gave me months ago, as I tap it on the magnetic strip.

As the door swings open, I speed walk toward his door, holding my breath before doing a final swipe of the key to open his dorm room. The moment I see him, lying in his bed, eyes closed, earbuds in, I breathe a sigh of relief. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, his muscular arms resting at his sides, the tension of the day clearly melted away. The usual intensity he carries, both on the football field and around campus, is replaced by a calm stillness. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’d just run a hand through it absentmindedly, and his strong jawline relaxes in sleep. My grip on the textbook loosens as I take him in, letting my breathing regulate again.

My backpack falls from my shoulder, landing to the ground with a thud, alerting him of my presence. His eyes spring open, and the moment they lock onto mine, it feels like the air is sucked out of the room. When he realizes it’s me, the look he gives me is so intense, it could set my entire world on fire. Removing his earbud, he sits up, propping himself on his good arm. “Hi, baby,” he breathes, his voice low and raspy from sleep, sending a spark tingling down my spine.

“Hi,” I manage to reply, but I’m barely holding myself together under the weight of his gaze.

For a moment, we stay still, taking in every inch of each other. His eyes lock onto mine, and the space between us feels too far, too empty.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice still a rough whisper.

I hesitate, my heart pounding, but the pull is undeniable. Slowly, I step closer, feeling the warmth of his presence drawing me in. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against mine, as he shifts his strong body closer.

The weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, yet I don’t want to look away. “You’re okay?” I ask, concern flickering in my mind.

“Yeah.” He smiles, and I feel my body melt into him. “I am now.” He’s so close that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of his cologne and just him, wrapping around me like a hug. “I was going to text you, but I didn’t want to distract you in class.”

“I’m always going to be distracted when it comes to you.” My voice is surprisingly steady, considering my inside are trembling. “Besides, I couldn’t just sit there in class wondering if you were okay. I had to see you.”

His eyes glisten as he looks at me. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” I reply without hesitation. Gone are the days when I play it cool around him, because everything I feel is right there on my sleeve.

Something shifts in his expression as he reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch gives me instant butterflies, and I can’t help but lean into him more, exhaling a quiet moan. “I doubt that,” he murmurs, his hand lingering against my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my skin.

I close my eyes for a second, enjoying the feel of his touch, the closeness of him. When I open them again, he’s watching me with that same intensity, as if he’s memorizing every detail of my face. “Do you know that I have a favorite freckle of yours?”

My throat suddenly feels thick as I swallow hard. “I did not know that.”

He hums, letting his fingertip move from my cheek until it’s dusting the skin underneath my left eye. “Right here,” he says, almost reverently. “This little cluster looks like a heart.”

I barely breathe as he continues.

“I remember looking at it when we were kids,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Your mom always said, ‘some people wear their hearts on their sleeves,’ but I always thought no…Quinn has hers on her cheek.”

My heart swells three sizes in my chest, my pulse quickens under the heat of his touch. There’s that invisible thread again, tugging at us, tightening and pulling us closer, binding us together in a way that feels undeniable. I try to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat. All I can do is look at him, really look at him, as though seeing him for the first time, yet remembering him from a thousand moments before. Every shared memory, every laugh, every unspoken feeling I’ve had for him feels magnified, like we’ve been circling this moment forever.

His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading gently through my hair, making my skin prickle and igniting something deep inside.

I can almost taste the faint hint of mint on his breath, feel the way his heart pounds just as wildly as mine. It's like we're both standing on the edge of something, and in a way, maybe we are. I suppose I’ve been here my whole life waiting for him. And now he’s finally here too.

As his forehead rests against mine, for a moment, we’re caught in the stillness of it—our bodies, our breaths, our hearts in sync. His lips hover so close, and just when I think he might close the gap, his voice breaks the silence, a whisper against my lips.

“Why do you keep saving me?” he breathes, his voice strained with emotion. “I know I don’t deserve you.”

He doesn’t see what I see when I look at him. All he sees are the cracks, the flaws, the mistakes he thinks define him. But to me, those cracks are where his light shines through, the imperfections that make him real, that make him human. He’s been through so much, carrying burdens that would crush most people, and yet he’s still here, still fighting. How could he not see how incredible that is?

I want to tell him that he’s worth saving, that every part of him matters to me. But instead, all I can do is promise, “I will always save you. No matter how deep you go, I’ll be right there to pull you out.”

As I say the words, I mean them with every fiber of my being. I would dive into the darkest depths for him, face any challenge, because he’s worth it.

“Just don’t let me go, okay?” I say, my voice softer, almost pleading. I need him to hold on, to trust that I’ll be there for him, no matter what. Because as much as I’m trying to save him, he’s saving me too.

“I love you,” he whispers tenderly against my ear. “I need you, more than anything or anyone else.”

As much as I want to ask him how it went with his dad and the dean, as much as I want to know every detail, I need this—I need him too. I need to feel him, to reassure myself that he’s really here, that this is real. His good hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.

“I love you,” I say against his mouth as he presses another kiss to my lips. And nothing else matters but him.