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Chapter forty-one

Danae

A familiar tune pierces through the bubble of unconsciousness. I’ve heard it before, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Straining my ears, I finally place the tune as the alarm on my phone. But it sounds muffled, distant.

Moving my head a fraction of an inch, I realize my cheek is resting against something much firmer, much warmer than my pillow. Something moving up and down, slowly and methodically. My eyes squint open to see not my white pillowcase, but the navy blue of Griffin’s t-shirt.

My body slowly wakens and consciously recognizes every point of contact with Griffin. My cheek against his chest. My knee draped over his leg. My fingertips clutching the neckline of his shirt. His arm around my back, hand resting on my waist. His fingers wrapped around the back of my knee.

I’m suddenly very, very warm.

The alarm on my phone doesn’t sound right because it’s not sitting on the nightstand next to me—it’s across the room in my purse. We still have school today. Griffin has a flight with his team today. We have to get up.

Even armed with full consciousness and logic, I’m reluctant to move. I could stay right here in this cozy bubble and pretend that all my troubled thoughts from last night don’t exist. For just a moment longer.

I carefully raise my head enough to look at Griffin’s face to see if he’s awake.

His head is dropped back, lips parted. I’m positive that he’s going to have some serious neck pain today after sleeping in that position all night.

A half-snore escapes from his mouth—the kind that isn’t quite pronounced enough to be called a snore, but throaty enough to disqualify as heavy breathing.

The sound brings a gentle smile to my lips, followed by stinging behind my eyes.

If people could see the real man behind the Wizard of Defense persona, they’d only be even more impressed. How did I get lucky enough to be the one curled up on the couch with him?

The spiral from last night creeps its way back into the thought factory, increasing the burning sensation in my eyes.

Why does Griffin the man have to be tied up in the Wizard of Defense player?

The sound of the alarm is becoming more impatient, and I know it’s time to be a responsible adult.

Blinking to dismiss the tears still fighting to squeeze out, I run my hand up Griffin’s neck, up the fade of his haircut, massaging my fingers into the length of his hair, attempting to wake him softly.

His mouth claps shut as he jerks slightly. His hands at my waist and my knee tighten, either reflexively or possessively. Maybe both. I need to pry myself away from all these points of physical contact before the tears defeat my determination to hold it together.

“Morning,” I whisper, attempting to sit up. Griffin’s eyes flutter open, and he promptly traps me with his arms, pulling me back to his chest.

One lone tear finds its way to victory, leaving a temporary blemish on Griffin’s shirt.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and his husky morning voice nearly does me in altogether.

“Work. School. Flight for you,” I reply quietly. The word “flight” is apparently the right button to push because he jerks fully awake. I untangle my limbs from his as he sits upright and stretches his neck.

“Shoot, what time is it?” he asks, checking his watch .

“I’m hoping it’s still close to six o’clock and that my alarm hasn’t been going off for an hour,” I say, standing to retrieve my phone.

Griffin lightly slaps a hand on his face, waking himself up.

“Okay, I’m okay. I can make it home and get ready quickly and still get to the airport on time.

Mostly on time,” he says, standing. I swipe the alarm off, and Griffin’s arms appear around my waist. His beard tickles as he presses his face into the curve of my neck.

Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches up to rest behind his neck, fingertips tracing the fade on his scalp.

“As much as I want to kiss you, I should probably confess now that I have the worst morning breath known to mankind. Probably because I’m a mouth breather,” he says.

I huff a laugh, and he pivots me to face him.

He holds one hand in front of his mouth, which only makes me fully laugh.

I see the smile lines around his eyes as he says, “I’m going to miss you these next few days.

But then we have back-to-back series at home, so I’ll be here for a solid week before we travel again. ”

It’s dark, so I know he doesn’t see the conflict in my eyes before he wraps me up in a goodbye hug.

“Call me if you have trouble with Jason and need someone to talk to,” he murmurs. “I’ll . . . I’ll try to answer. I’ll keep my phone nearby as much as I can.”

Nodding against his chest, my arms instinctively clutch tighter around his waist.

“Tell Jason bye for me. I love you, Danae,” Griffin says.

A few decibels above inaudible, I whisper, “Love you.”

“So, that’s why I’m here,” I conclude, looking intently at Monica. She’s the first therapist recommended to me who had immediate availability. Kara is keeping Jason for an hour after school so that I could be here for our intake meeting.

Monica sits back in her chair, processing everything that I’ve said.

Dumped. Unloaded. Poured out with wild abandon .

I surprised myself with the instant and thorough word vomit that came out of my mouth, but I suppose that’s what happens when the thought factory has been churning overtime with frenzied zeal. When I’m pressed for time and answers.

Monica now knows at least the bare bones about my childhood with my parents, my situation with Jason, my relationship with Griffin, and my terrifying anxiety regarding how all of the above fit together.

“There’s a lot to sift through here,” Monica begins, and I nod vigorously. I want to make sure she knows that I am in agreement, that she is on the right track, that this is a lot .

“We’re going to put a pin in the history and current state of your relationship with your parents.

Not because it’s not important—it absolutely is.

And those memories are shading your current relationships with other people,” Monica says.

More nodding from me. “And I think it’s going to be important for us to really dig in to what’s behind your general anxiety.

But for today, let’s talk a little bit more specifically about your anxiety regarding Jason’s behavior and your relationship with Griffin.

Because those seem to be the most urgent on your mind right now. ”

I think my head might be in a permanent state of nodding.

Monica gives a small smile. “Here’s my first question for you. Why do you feel so anxious about not knowing how to help Jason when he gets into those dysregulated states?”

My brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I be anxious about that? Shouldn’t every parent be worried in a situation like that?”

“Yes, of course,” Monica says in a calm voice. “I’m not suggesting it’s an irregular reaction. I’m curious to know what thoughts are below the surface of your particular anxiety in those situations.”

Blowing out a breath, I’m instantly engaging in every fidgeting habit I’ve ever tried to break. Aggressively picking at nail polish with both thumbs? Check. Aggressively chewing my lip? Check. Aggressively bouncing my foot? Check.

“You know you can be honest about your thoughts, and I’m not going to judge you,” Monica prompts. She preemptively hands me a tissue box .

Clutching the box with both hands, the torrent of thoughts bursts forth again.

“Because I’m afraid I made a mistake. I’m not a good decision maker.

I agonize over them. And then I second-guess myself within an inch of death.

But I was so sure about the decision to adopt Jason.

I knew it was right. But now I’m worried that I was wrong.

Not because I don’t love him or because I don’t want to deal with these behaviors.

Because I’m afraid I wasn’t the right person for him .

When he spirals into those rages, I almost feel .

. . afraid of him,” I admit, and the tears fully unleash.

“And my mind sprints ahead to years down the line, fearful of what these outbursts could look like when he’s a teenager.

It frightens me. What kind of mom is afraid of her child? ”

Monica waits patiently as I pause to blow my nose before continuing.

“Jason is so incredible. He’s such a sweet kid.

But even if he wasn’t, he would still deserve to have parents who love him and support him through everything.

I want to be that for him, but I’m afraid I’m not enough.

That he deserves more than me. That I can’t provide the stability and security and strength that he needs.

I’m worried that I can’t love him enough to make up for all the ways I don’t know how to help him. ”

After I blow my nose again, Monica gives my arm a gentle pat. “I’m assuming that Jason’s therapist has already explained the brain science behind trauma to you?” When I nod, she continues. “So you know that love, while crucially important, isn’t going to be enough to help Jason?”

I sputter a breath through my lips. “I know. I know those words in my head. But I still wish that loving him could be enough.”