Page 58 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty-Three

Keir

The chair in Dr. Remington’s office isn’t comfortable—somewhere between thrift-store modern and ergonomic purgatory—but that’s never been the point.

It’s a place I’ve returned to again and again, no matter what version of myself I dragged through the door: angry, exhausted, ashamed—a guy with too much silence in his head and not enough courage in his chest.

Three months later, I sit differently. I breathe better. I laugh, sometimes. I’m not fixed—not even close—but I’m not the same man who showed up ninety days ago like a collapsed building looking for someone to inspect the damage.

I like to think I’m closer to peace. Or, at least, I’m not allergic to it anymore.

Dr. Remington crosses one leg over the other, tapping the tip of her pen against her notepad. Same rhythm as always. It’s comforting in a weird, Pavlovian way. I usually wait for her prompt, but today, I speak first.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Her pen pauses for half a second. Then she nods once. “How do you feel about that?”

I glance out the window, not really seeing anything, then down at my leg—which now bends, stretches, and supports me like it’s supposed to. Physically, I’m fine. Better than fine. The scars are faded. The bones held.

But something still vibrates underneath. Nerves, probably. Or fear pretending to be hope.

“I’m terrified,” I admit, then add, “and hopeful. I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. But I’m prepared to keep going. To keep doing the work, even if it’s not here.”

She writes something down but doesn’t speak. Dr. Remington’s genius lies in how she allows the silence to stretch without ever feeling empty. Like she’s handing me the reins, waiting for me to steer.

“I used to think leaving meant running. Get out before the fallout gets worse, before someone calls your bluff, before you ruin things completely. But now, it’s different. I’m not running anymore. I’m going back . . . to see if I can build something instead of always leaving rubble behind.”

She nods, and the corner of her mouth lifts in what might be encouragement. Could be gas and I’m just making shit up. I don’t know. Therapy’s weird like that.

I scrub my hand over my face. “I reached out to Atlas. Asked if I could write a letter to Lyndon. Maybe call him. Meet him, if he’s ready. Atlas said he’d be happy to arrange something when I’m ready. And now that I have a leaving date, I asked him again.”

I let that hang for a second.

“We have a meeting.” My voice sticks around the word like it’s got thorns. “Lyndon.” I exhale sharply, more like a release than a breath. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I want to show up, be present, but what if I fuck it all up? What if I hurt him just by existing?”

Dr. Remington doesn’t flinch. She just watches me unravel with that therapist’s face that’s somehow neutral and deeply kind at the same time.

“He deserves a choice,” I add, quieter this time. “No one gave Simone that when I left. I made the decision for both of us. Fuck, for all three of us.”

Silence again. It doesn’t press on me the way it used to.

I think I’ve learned how to live inside it.

It’s amazing how things can change with help.

Back when I was young, I could tolerate the silence, the anger, and everything inside me only when Simone was touching me.

There was something about her caresses, something about her hugs . . . her kisses. It soothed me.

It was everything and she became all I needed. She gave so much, and in return . . . in return, I made the most selfless, selfish decision a person can make, because like her, I was just a child. A child trying to survive in a situation that became kill or be killed.

Forgiveness is hard. But I’ve been working toward it—starting with forgiving myself for what I couldn’t control.

“That’s a very different version of you than the one who arrived not long ago,” she says softly.

“Yeah, well.” I blow out a laugh. “That guy was a fucking prick.”

She gives me a look. The one that says, Shouldn’t you be redirecting your thoughts? Insulting my past actions doesn’t help me understand the past. It only helps hide the pain.

I sigh because the right thing to say is: “Fine. He was a survivor. A stubborn, defensive, emotionally constipated survivor who acted like a fucking asshole.”

Dr. Remington breathes in, slowly and deeply. I think it’s her way of not laughing. Because even with all the progress, I still deflect with humor the minute I feel exposed. Some habits die harder than others.

“Do you think I’m ready?” I ask.

“I think,” she says, tapping her tablet now instead of the pen, “you’re no longer trying to be perfect. That’s a start. But now you’re heading back into real life—real settings, real scenarios, real people with real stakes. That’s when the work gets messy.”

That knot in my chest—the one I thought I untied weeks ago—tightens again.

Her words aren’t wrong. But they hit, like: “Congratulations. You’ve learned to float in shallow water.

Now, we’re tossing you into the ocean. Don’t forget to swim, asshole, or you’ll drown, and this time, nobody will be there to save you. ”

I nod anyway.

Then, take another breath and think about everything I’ve worked for, every inch of progress I’ve clawed through. The pain I stopped needing. The nights I didn’t spiral. The letters I wrote and rewrote but never sent—until one finally felt true enough to send to Simone.

What if none of it’s enough?

What if she doesn’t forgive me?

What if Lyndon looks me in the eye and says, I just wanted to see your face when I said, “fuck you”?

Then what?

I sit up straighter. My palms sweat. My heartbeat thuds like it’s searching for a rhythm it has forgotten.

Then I think, ‘I’ll keep going.’

If Simone doesn’t want me back, I’ll grieve her again. Properly, this time—with open eyes and a cracked heart. If Lyndon wants space, I’ll honor it. Because love doesn’t always mean reunion. Sometimes, it means showing up, even when you’re not asked to.

This isn’t the end.

Maybe it’s a door closing so another one can open.

And yeah, maybe that sounds like something off a shitty inspirational calendar, but there’s truth in it.

I’ll love them forever.

But I won’t stay frozen in that love. Not again.

Pain doesn’t own me anymore. It visits. It teaches. It reminds me I’m still alive and still trying. And that has to be enough.

At least for now.