Page 34 of Santino (The Camboy Network #4)

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

HAYDEN

Dr. Tina’s office looks like… an office. I don’t know what I was expecting. Like, maybe an examination table with a bunch of weird instruments laid out on a stainless-steel tray. Like she’s going to strap me down and start cutting me open to figure out what’s wrong with my head.

But it’s nothing like that. There’s a desk in one corner with a computer and a few file folders on it.

Then a sitting area by the window. One couch and two armchairs.

A low coffee table in between. The walls are a warm cream, decorated with pictures of colorful landscapes, and a bunch of plants are scattered around the room.

“Grab a seat.” Dr. Tina gestures toward the sitting area. “Whichever one you want.”

Where should I sit? Which spot is the right one? Will she judge me if I pick the wrong seat? Is this some kind of test?

I sneak a glance at her, but she’s just standing off to the side, patiently waiting for me to choose. She gives me an encouraging smile, but doesn’t rush me.

Crap. I just have to pick one, don’t I? I inch toward the couch, sneaking another glance at Dr. Tina, but she gives nothing away. When I slowly sit down, she takes the armchair opposite me.

I perch on the edge of the couch, not sure if I’m allowed to sit back. Will she think I’m unprofessional if I lounge on the couch? That I’m not taking this seriously enough? That I don’t actually want to be here?

I mean, I’m not sure I do want to be here. At least, that’s what the voice keeps shouting in my mind. That this is a waste of everyone’s time. That the therapist won’t help me because I can’t be helped. That I’m hopeless. Useless. Worthless.

“So, Harry. What brings you here?” Dr. Tina has her legs crossed comfortably in the armchair, hands clasped casually in her lap. She doesn’t have a notebook with her, nothing to write down the shit I say or do. She looks like she’s just having a chat with any random person.

“I go by Hayden.” I don’t know why those are the first words to come out of my mouth. I didn’t even consciously think to say them. They just slipped out.

But Dr. Tina doesn’t even bat an eye. “Okay. Hayden.”

Where do I start? How do I explain what’s been happening to me over the past year? This person is a complete stranger and I’m supposed to open up and tell her my deepest, darkest secrets?

I want so much for this to work. I want her to cure me of this awful thing that’s taken up residence inside me—whether it’s depression or something else. I need to get better so I can be the man Santino deserves. But none of that will happen if I can’t find the words to tell her what’s wrong.

The panic that started in the waiting room grows, making my heart race and my throat close up. What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t explain my problem and so she can’t give me a solution? It’ll be my own fault. I’ll have wasted everyone’s time. Santino will be so disappointed.

“I… um… I don’t really know how to start?” I say, begging her to throw me a lifeline.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Dr. Tina responds, which isn’t super helpful, but it’s something I can work with.

“I’m, uh, a performer?” I pause, watching for her reaction, letting out a breath when she nods in understanding. “I like my job. I work with my best friends. We’re like a family. I have a good life.”

So why the fuck are you here, dumbass.

“But sometimes… it doesn’t feel that way.” I wring my hands in my lap, hating how pathetic I sound. “Sometimes, it feels like…”

Across from me, Dr. Tina doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t try to finish my sentence for me. She doesn’t smile encouragingly or frown in confusion. Her face is impossibly neutral and I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“Like everything sucks.” Guilt winds through me at the admission. My life is good . I have nothing to complain about. There isn’t a single thing I would change. So why am I throwing myself a giant pity party all the time? Why do I let these feelings get the better of me? Why do I indulge them?

I curl in on myself, wrapping my arms around my middle as the weight of the darkness falls heavily on my shoulders. The horrible ache spreads across my chest.

This was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have come here. There are so many people who have it worse off than I do. Dr. Tina should be helping them, not wasting her time sitting here with me.

“I’m sorry.” A sob tries to bubble up my throat, but I swallow it down and press my hand across my mouth. I focus on breathing through my nose so I don’t break down in tears.

A beat passes in silence before Dr. Tina speaks. “What are you sorry for?”

Everything. All of it. For being such a burden. For being so difficult.

I don’t trust myself to speak without falling apart, so I just shake my head. God, I wish Santino was in here with me. I wish he was right next to me, holding my hand, wrapping his arms around me, squeezing me tight. It would be easier if he was here. Everything feels easier with him.

Dr. Tina doesn’t rush me, doesn’t repeat the question, doesn’t even try to comfort me. She just sits patiently, waiting for the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions to blow through my mind.

And amazingly, after a few minutes—maybe the longest fucking minutes in my life—the panic stops trying to choke me. It doesn’t go away, not completely, but it recedes just enough that I can actually think semi-coherent thoughts.

“I… get these… I don’t know what to call them. Episodes, I guess? It feels like something’s trying to suffocate me. It’s hard to breathe. My chest hurts. Everything’s dull and muted and heavy, like I’m moving underwater.”

At some point, I scooted back on the couch and I’m bent over at the waist, arms folded between my chest and my knees. I stare at this spot on the carpet where there’s a swirl in the design.

Dr. Tina is still silent.

“Sometimes, I cry,” I continue, throat tight as unruly emotions ricochet around inside me. “Sometimes, I get these really bad thoughts.”

“What kind of thoughts?” Dr. Tina jumps in unexpectedly. She’s been so quiet this whole time, a part of me wondered if she was actually paying attention.

I sneak a glance up at her. She’s studying me, like she’s not only listening to what I’m saying, but what I’m not saying too.

“Um, bad ones,” I say, hoping she won’t make me actually voice them out loud. “Like, about myself.”

“About hurting yourself?”

Tears spring to my eyes so fast I don’t have time to react. They pour down my cheeks like a waterfall being unleashed. Like my chest cracked open and all the shit that’s been bottled up inside me comes rushing out.

I feel like I’m being carried over the edge and then free-falling for god knows how many feet.

There’s nothing I can do to stop it, nothing I can grab ahold of to save myself.

I’m going to crash into the rocks below and it’s going to hurt.

But in the middle of the chaos, there’s this weird sense of freedom, of peace.

Someone knows now. Someone who might be able to do something about it. Someone who might be able to help me.

The sound of something sliding across the coffee table has me blinking my eyes open. Dr. Tina’s pushed the box of tissues in my direction. I grab handfuls and try to stem the flood coming out of my eyes.

“Have you done anything to hurt yourself?” she asks once I’ve sort of gotten control over myself.

It takes me a second to understand what she’s suggesting and horror fills me when I do. I shake my head vehemently. “No, I haven’t. I’m not—” Suicidal . The word gets caught in my throat.

“Have you made plans to hurt yourself?”

I shake my head again. “No!” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. I can’t believe she’s asking me these things.

Is this who I am now? Someone who might hurt himself? Who’s on some sort of watch list and needs to be monitored? Oh god, that’s bad. Like, really bad. I mean, I knew things were bad, obviously. But this is like, next-level bad.

“No, I—they’re just thoughts. I don’t know where they come from. It’s like there’s this other person or thing or something planting them in my head. They’re not my own. They’re not me.” How do I explain this so she gets it? How do I make her understand that this isn’t who I am?

“I used to be a really happy person.” I sniffle every few words, the tears still dripping down my cheeks.

“Like, positive and optimistic. ‘Cause like, I have a good life. But this thing… it makes me so negative and angry all the time. For no reason. I feel so… bitter and resentful. I hate feeling this way. I want to be happy again.”

“When did it start?” That’s the first question Dr. Tina asks that feels like she’s guiding me toward an answer. And for some reason, it gives me hope. Like she’s trying to get to the source of the problem.

I try to remember the first time I felt the darkness. “Over a year ago. I think? It’s all kind of hazy now.”

“What was happening in your life around that time?”

Guilt trickles in to mix with my earlier horror as I think back to last summer. “My best friend started seeing a guy. But it’s not his fault!” I rush to add. “I’m not upset they’re together or anything like that. I’m really happy for them.”

“How did your life change when they started seeing each other?” Dr. Tina asks as if she already knows what I’m going to say.

I don’t want to say it, though. Because it makes me ungrateful and selfish. It turns me into a bad person who doesn’t care about his friends.

But Dr. Tina still sits there, watching and waiting. The question hangs in the air between us like a noose gradually tightening around my neck until I answer it.

“I… got left behind.” Fresh tears spring to my eyes. Not quite the waterfall, but a steady stream I keep having to wipe away. “He didn’t do it on purpose. And it’s like, normal he wants to spend more time with Angel. I get that. I don’t have a problem with that. It’s just… then I’m all alone.”

“How did that make you feel?”

I furrow my brow in confusion. Isn’t it obvious? Haven’t I already said it? It makes me feel like shit. The darkness, the pit, the voice. That’s how I feel! I feel… “Sad,” I croak as I swallow back a sob. “I’m really sad.”

I drop my chin to my chest, pressing new tissues into my eyes. A small mountain of used ones is growing by my side. “I miss all my friends so much. I mean, they’re not like, gone or anything. But it’s not the same. We’re not the same as we used to be. And they’ve all moved on. But I’m still here.”

The guilt is overwhelming. I’m such a bad person. What kind of asshole gets sad when he sees his friends finding love? What kind of douchebag blames his problems on his friends being happy? That’s so fucked up. I’m so fucked up.

“Grieving is normal when you go through a loss.”

Dr. Tina’s comment doesn’t make sense. I haven’t really lost anything. I mean, I’m still friends with Rhys and the guys. We still see each other, talk to each other, hang out together. We just spent an entire weekend in Atlantic City. What does grieving have to do with anything?

When she sees my confusion, she continues. “Any kind of change includes a component of loss. Your best friend is now in a romantic relationship with someone else. So you’ve lost some of the time you would’ve spent with him. You’ve lost some of his attention. It’s okay to grieve that loss.”

Is that what’s been happening? I’ve been grieving? It can’t be that simple, can it? This doesn’t feel like grief.

“I’m not saying what you’re experiencing is only grief. But it might be a contributing factor.”

“So…” I blink as my tears finally dry. “If it’s not just grief, then what else is it?”