Truck Up (Mutter Brothers #4)

6. Some kind of freak show.

Chapter 6

Some kind of freak show.

Christian

T he stares burn through me, making my skin crawl. A few people have the decency to avert their eyes, pretending I’m not even here. I almost applaud their effort. Most, however, have no shame, their rudeness blatant and unapologetic.

I can’t go anywhere in this small town, except maybe Posey’s Lounge, without attracting the same treatment—the stares, the glares, the whispers.

I should be used to it. The people of Beaver, Ohio, have always been this way. Even before my addiction, they stared. Secrets don’t exist here. Everyone knows my mother and the damage she’s done.

My brothers endure their share of stares and unwanted pity, but not to the same extent as me. They’ve built decent lives for themselves, mostly staying clean, unlike me.

Perhaps I deserve it, considering my mistakes and transgressions. I’ve followed in my mother’s footsteps, a chilling echo of her own descent. Despite the excuses my twin, Chase, makes for me, and the anger he still feels towards our mother, she didn’t force me into this life. I chose this path freely.

Granted, Mom encouraged it. She’s a terrible person for what she’s done. But ultimately, she didn’t force me. I did this to myself.

I’ll never forget the first time she offered me cocaine. I was twelve, lost in a sea of depression, a legacy inherited from her. She claimed drugs made her feel better than any doctor’s prescription.

Nothing, however, makes her truly happy. Only a hit can offer that fleeting, illusory sense of well-being.

She saw me struggling, mirroring her own pain, and offered me a way out.

“It’ll make you forget your worries,” she promised, her voice laced with a seductive allure.

“You’ll sleep better than you ever have,” she insisted, her eyes gleaming with an unhealthy light.

“Your troubles and depression will fade away,” she declared, her words a siren song.

“You’ll feel nothing but peace,” she promised, that single hit the key to an elusive tranquility.

I knew what it meant even before that first hit. I knew it would destroy me. But the allure of her promises was too strong. I craved the escape she offered.

She was right about some things. I slept, I didn’t worry, and my depression receded, dulled by the intoxicating haze. But peace? Drugs never brought me peace. Only a chaotic, destructive spiral.

Mom adds another layer of chaos to my already tumultuous life. I swear “Chaos” should be her middle name. If it weren’t for my brothers, my addiction would have consumed me entirely, just as it had consumed her. They’ve never given up on me.

But she doesn’t have the same support system. My dad, weak and cowardly though he was, gave me a family—a lifeline that’s kept me alive. I’ll forever be grateful for that.

This is why I insist on taking care of Mom. Chase hates it. If he had his way, we’d walk away, severing all ties. I can’t do that. What if my brothers had abandoned me in my darkest hours? I’d be lost, likely already dead in some gutter.

They didn’t give up on me. Therefore, I can’t abandon Mom. Someone has to care if she’s still breathing. That someone is me.

So I accept the stares, the whispers, the judgment. I’ve earned it. I deserve it. I’ll endure it.

But Amelia? She doesn’t deserve this. Days have passed since she told me she’s pregnant, and I’ve acted like a coward, just like my fucking father. Maybe there’s more of him in me than I thought.

Though he never turned his back on his kids, he wasn’t a good father. Grams did most of the raising. But he never abandoned us, never denied his paternity. He simply didn’t know how to heal the gaping wound left by the loss of his true love.

After his wife, Susanne—the mother of Liam, Warren, and Garret—died, he became a shell of himself. From Grams’s stories, I know he loved Susanne with a fierce, unwavering devotion. Her death shattered him. So he sought solace in the arms of women who could never replace her, women he knew he’d never truly love or marry.

That’s why he was with my mother, Christina. And later, with Monika, Ash’s mom, and Heidi, Mac’s mom. He only wanted to escape the crushing weight of his grief. Unfortunately, that escape has proven elusive. He still mourns Susanne today.

Mom never stood a chance, despite her desperate attempts to win his heart. She loved him, but her love was a futile endeavor. He’d never return it, not to her, not to anyone. So she turned to drugs, and the cycle of self-destruction began.

With each woman my dad impregnated, Mom’s addiction deepened. It was a constant, agonizing reminder of his inability to move on. Eventually, the addiction consumed her, its grip too strong to break. Now, all we can do is offer what little support we can.

That’s why I insist Chase and I have dinner with her once a month. Everyone deserves love, even an addict like my mother.

If a cynic like me can believe that, there’s a glimmer of hope for humanity.

I finally look up from the shelf, startled by the sudden influx of people. The late church service has likely just let out.

I make eye contact with an older lady a few aisles down, a chilling jolt of recognition. I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her at town events. She glares at me, her eyes cold and accusing.

She’s probably on Team Koch, entrenched in the decades-old feud. I still can’t fathom how a stupid game of poker, played by our ancestors, can still be a source of such bitter contention. My ancestors were fortunate enough to win, while the Kochs lost. And here we are, generations later, still mired in the consequences of that long-forgotten game.

Feud aside, she’s likely glaring at me simply because I’m Christian Mutter. The bad twin . The town addict and troublemaker. That’s the reputation I’ve painstakingly cultivated over the years.

I glance around, finding myself the target of multiple icy stares. I should be used to it, but the familiar sting still pierces through me.

If Amelia were here, she’d be showered with smiles and pleasant hellos. Everyone loves her. She’s sweet, kind, and friendly. Strong and intelligent, the antithesis of my weakness and stupidity.

Having a baby with her will never work. We’re too different. Our relationship was never intended to last. It was a temporary solace, a mutual comfort in the aftermath of a near-tragedy.

But now, the thought of losing her sends panic clawing at my chest. She calms my troubled soul in a way nothing else ever has, not even the drugs I once clung to desperately.

In a way, Amelia has become my drug. I’m addicted to her, as desperately as I once was to the oblivion offered by illicit substances.

I crave her presence, her laughter, the warmth of her touch.

The craving leaves me feeling weak, powerless. The thought of losing her is unbearable. But I can’t bring a child into this world, into this judgmental town. It would ruin her. No one would ever look at her the same way again.

I quickly grab the remaining items on my list and hurry out of the store. I don’t need the judgment of strangers adding to the turmoil already swirling within me. I have enough negativity to contend with.

Besides, my day is about to get significantly worse. Chase and I are having dinner with Mom. And Mom has a unique talent for turning even the most mundane of days into a chaotic, soul-crushing experience. She always does.

As is typical, Chase is already at Mom’s cleaning when I arrive. He always gets there early to discard her stash, so I’m not tempted. It’s unnecessary—I can control myself—but I appreciate the effort. While I have a handle on my addiction, removing temptation is always good.

Besides, Chase almost lost me twice. He doesn’t want to risk going through that again—or losing me forever.

I’d do the same if the roles were reversed. The only thing worse than losing Lia would be losing my twin.

Fuck … Losing Lia.

I can’t lose her. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel of my truck and let out a deep growl. What the fuck am I doing?

Lia tells me she’s pregnant, and I run? What an asshole.

How the hell am I supposed to keep her if I act like that? I have to get my shit together—and fast—before it’s too late.

Lia’s the strongest person I know. She doesn’t need me for this. She doesn’t need anyone. There isn’t anything she can’t do on her own. And if I don’t prove to her that I can do this with her, she’ll abandon me. Just like everyone else who decides I’m not worth fighting for.

If that happens, the only person to blame will be me.

Falling back on the seat, I take a deep breath. I really wish I were on my bike. I’d take off and ride until I outran my troubles. Though that’s not likely. My troubles follow me wherever I go. They taint and destroy anything good and beautiful in this world. Which is why I never should have given into my desire for Lia. One taste of her, and I was hooked.

The door to Mom’s apartment opens, and Chase steps outside. He stares at my truck in confusion. He’s probably wondering why I’m just sitting here and not unloading the groceries. Knowing him, he’s eager to get this visit over with and get as far away from Mom as possible.

Taking a deep breath, I grab the bags sitting on the seat next to me and slide out of the truck. I don’t make eye contact with Chase, but I feel his eyes on me. He’s probably worried I slipped and took a hit. I can’t say I blame him. I have a shitty track record with addiction.

“You okay, man?” Chase asks as I pass him and enter the apartment. I nod in response.

I wrinkle my nose when I take a breath. Despite Chase’s efforts to clean, it still smells like a filthy bar after a wild night of partying. The smell of rotten food, stale beer, and vomit still linger behind the thick layer of pine scented cleaner and disinfectant.

Visiting Mom is a great reminder of why staying clean is so important. I don’t want to live like this. Because this isn’t living. I’m not even sure it’s surviving.

“Where’s Mom?” I call out to Chase.

“Still in the shower.” Chase says as he enters the kitchen with several bags of groceries in hand. “She’s in a shit mood, so prepare yourself. I know she’s always nicer to you, but today her mood is special.”

“Great, can’t wait.” I mumble.

“You’re in a mood too, I see.” I still feel Chase staring at me as I unload the groceries. He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to get into a discussion about my mood right now. It’ll only lead to a fight.

I shrug instead. “I got stuff to make Sloppy Joes. Hope that’s okay.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. If I turn around to face him, I’ll probably find him with his arms crossed over his chest with a hard look on his face. That’s how he always looks at me when he knows I’m keeping a secret from him. Our twin connection makes it hard to hide things from each other.

“From a can or from scratch?” he asks.

I shoot him a glare. “You know me better than that.”

His lips turn up into a huge grin and I internally celebrate that he so willingly let me change the subject from my mood to dinner.

He knows I hate the shit from a can. But Sloppy Joes from scratch is one of my favorite meals.

“Do you want to cook, or do you want me to do it?” he asks.

“I’ve got it if you want to unload the rest of the groceries.”

I finish unpacking the groceries I carried in with me before I get the pan out to fry the ground beef. Thankfully, it’s already clean. Chase probably had to scrub all the dishes before I arrived. Mom hasn’t cleaned her own dishes in years. Hell, she can’t even clean her apartment, which is why it smells so bad in here.

“How bad is she today?” I ask Chase once he finishes unloading my truck.

“Man, I think she’s getting worse.” He sighs and leans against the counter next to me. “Found her passed out in her own vomit. A needle was still stuck in her arm.”

“She’s shooting again?” I whisper. That’s not a good sign. Not that anything she does is good, but needles worry me the most. There’s some seriously bad shit being sold around here, and Mom is not picky about her suppliers.

“Looks like it,” Chase says. “She’s also lost—”

“There’s my favorite son,” Mom mumbles as she stumbles into the kitchen.

I suck in a breath at the sight of her. Her shirt is hanging limp off her shoulders and her pants are sliding down her waist. Her face is sunken in and every bone in her body is sharp and defined like her skin has shrunk tight around them. She looks more like a skeleton than a living person.

“Mom,” I whisper.

She takes a step toward me but collapses on the floor before she reaches the counter. Chase and I lunge for her at the same time. I reach her just before her head hits the ground.

“Goddammit, Mom.” With her head in my lap, I examine her arms. They’re bruised and covered in needle marks. She’s so thin, I don’t even know how she’s finding veins to stick. “Who are you getting your shit from?” My words come out harsh and angry.

Mom stirs in my arms. When she opens her eyes and meets my angry glare, she frowns. “Let me go.”

She pushes me away and tries to get to her feet, but she’s too weak to hold herself up.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Chase asks.

She glares at him and growls. “Don’t lecture me about eating. I eat when I’m hungry.”

“More like you’re too high to even notice you’re hungry,” I say. I reach for the pack of rolls I bought and dig one out. “Here, eat this.”

She knocks it out of my hand and turns her face away from me. “I’m not hungry. Where’re my needles?”

“In the trash.” Chase barks. “Along with everything else I found.”

“Needles? Really?” I reach for her arm to hold her close, but she pushes me away. “Mom, stop it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“The only ones doing to the hurting are you two.” She cries. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Because you’re our mom,” I say. It’s not entirely true. At least not for Chase. He’s not here because she’s our mother. He’s here because of me. Because I refuse to abandon her.

“Fuck you!” Mom cries. Her words sting far worse than they should. She says shit like that to Chase all the time. But never to me.

With me, she’s always kind and gentle. We’ve always shared a bond that she and Chase were never able to forge. Probably because of my damn addiction. But still. She’s never spoken to me like that.

“Mom, don’t.” I beg, but it’s no use. She pushes against my chest and scrambles to her feet. She wobbles but catches her balance before she falls.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she says before she sways and stumbles out of the kitchen. She’s not in the mood for either of us today.

Something about her actions hit me hard. Much harder than it should. Mom has always been a hateful person, and the drugs are nothing new.

But she looks far worse than I’ve ever seen her. Her refusal to eat isn’t a good sign either. Soon she’s going to be craving that next hit, and when she doesn’t get it, that anger of hers is going to multiply.

I know because I’ve been there. I’ve never used needles, nor did ever lose that much weight, but I know that anger all too well. I may be in recovery, but I still feel that anger every day of my life.

“Don’t touch me!” Mom yells at Chase for the hundredth time. Mom is always so mean to Chase. She says horrible things to him.

“Mom.” Chase rubs his forehead in exhaustion. “Just sit down and eat.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, either.” She grumbles, but does what he says anyway. Then she looks over at me and smiles. “There’s my good boy.”

Apparently, she’s already forgotten how she just yelled at me too.

Her words suffocate me. My clothes suddenly feel too tight, and I can’t breathe. I’m no good boy. Good boys don’t do drugs and hang out with a motorcycle gang. And they certainly don’t knock up the one woman they should never touch.

She reaches out and squeezes my arm, and all I see are the bruises and marks from needles. I study her face. It makes me sad to see her like this.

She’s killing herself, and she’s too strung out to even notice it.

“Fuck,” I mumble, push to my feet, and rush to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Mom cries out, but I don’t answer.

I can’t process this. Not right now. Seeing Mom like this is more than I can handle.

As soon as I step outside, a rush of cool air washes over me. It’s almost fall and the days are cooling off. It’s a sad reminder that my motorcycle days are coming to a close until spring.

I stare at my truck, and my skin crawls. I need my bike so I can ride off and disappear into the hills. That would give me the peace I desperately need right.

So would holding Amelia, but I’ve fucked that up. That’s what I always do when good things come into my life.

I’m too much like my mother. It’s bad enough that I’ve already ruined my life. Now I’ve gone off and ruined Amelia’s life.

If Amelia knows what’s good for her, she’ll never speak to me again.

“Christian, where are you going?” Chase calls after me. I make it all the way to my truck before he reaches me. He grabs my arm and forces me to face him. “What’s wrong with you? You’re white as a ghost.”

“Just let me go.” I push him away, but he doesn’t budge.

“No. Not until you talk to me.” His tone is firm, making it clear he’s not backing down. I either talk or he’s not letting me out of his sight.

We’ve been down this road too many times. He knows my tells, and I’m about to lose it. When I lose it, I use.

“Bro, I can’t.” My chest tightens and I feel the start of a panic attack coming on. I haven’t had one of those in months. Maybe even more than a year.

I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on my breathing, taking slow deep breaths the way my therapist taught me to do. Usually this works, but right now, it’s not doing a damn thing to calm me down.

“Christian, talk to me.” Chase’s hands grip my shoulders, and that’s when I realize I’m sliding to the ground. My anxiety is winning, and I’m losing control.

I don’t know how long I lean against my truck hunched over before I look up at my twin. When I do, the look on his face has me wishing I could erase this entire day.

“I’m fine,” I say in a rush. “Promise.”

Then I push to my feet and dig my keys out of my pocket. But Chase is faster, and he snatches them from me before I can catch my footing.

“You’re not running. Talk to me.” Somehow, he sounds both authoritative and caring.

“Just let me go.” I grab for my keys, but he jerks his hand out of my reach.

“Are you using again?” he asks.

His words are enough to snap me back to the moment. I stare at him like I don’t know who I’m looking at. I understand why he’s asking—I would too if the roles were reversed—but it still pisses me off. I’ve been clean for over two years with no intention of backsliding.

“No.” I knock my shoulder against his as I push past him. Digging into my jacket pocket, I grab a cigarette before I take a seat on the step outside Mom’s apartment door. After lighting it, I take a long drag. The nicotine instantly calms my pounding heart, and my nerves settle. It’s nowhere near the same effect I get from taking a hit, but it helps.

“Please tell me what’s going on.” Chase takes a seat next to me. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know you. I sense turmoil.”

I meet my brother’s worried gaze. As much as I don’t want to say the words, he will not find peace until I talk to him. He understands me too well. We’re too connected.

“She’s pregnant,” I whisper.

His brow furrows. “Who’s pregnant?”

“The girl I’ve been seeing.”

His eyes widen and his shoulders slump. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” I take another drag from my cigarette before I drop my head and run my fingers through my hair. “I’m not sure that’s even the worst part.”

“Worst part?” Chase raises a brow as if to say how could it possibly be worse than an unplanned pregnancy for a recovering addict like me.

I take another drag from my cigarette and brace myself for his response. Chase will always support me no matter what, but this is huge. So huge it’s going to cause problems for everyone.

“Christian, you’re scaring me. Will you please just say it?” He squeezes my shoulder. I lift my eyes to his and the worry I see makes my gut wrench. He’s only ever looked at me like that when I was using.

“It’s Amelia.” Saying her name out loud feels both wrong and like a welcomed relief. We’ve been seeing each other in secret for so long that it’s good to finally get it out.

“Whoa …” He releases my shoulder and falls back on his ass. The look of shock on his face actually makes me chuckle. It takes a lot to shock Chase, and this definitely did the trick.

“Yeah.” I snort. “I may be fucked in more ways than one right now.”

“Amelia Koch?” He whispers her name like somehow saying it will cause all the Koch brothers to instantly teleport to our location. “That’s the girl you’ve been seeing?”

I nod.

“Fuck, man.” He sighs and rubs his hand over his jaw. “How long has that been going on?”

I shrug. “A couple of years.”

“What?!” He closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. “Dude, why her?”

“We didn’t plan it. It just … happened.”

“How does something like that just happen? It’s not like you two hang out in the same circles. That had to take planning.”

“It just did, alright!” I yell. My anxiety is rising again, and if I don’t get a hold of it quickly, I’m going to be right back where I was a few minutes ago.

His question is reasonable considering he’s right. Amelia and I don’t run in the same circles and there’s no reason for us to have ever gotten together. We wouldn’t have if I hadn’t walked out and caught Badger assaulting her.

We sit in silence for several minutes, which I’m grateful for. It gives me time to focus on my breathing and calm the fuck down. I finish my cigarette and crave another one, but I don’t bother digging one out. I need to quit, but it’s one of the few things that keep my urges for drugs at bay.

“I take it, she plans on keeping it?” Chase asks.

“I think so, yeah.” I let my head fall forward and rest it on my knees. “I can’t be a father, Chase. I’ll only fuck it up.”

He reaches over and squeezes my shoulders. “No, you won’t. You’ll be an amazing father.”

I look up at him. “How do you know that?”

“Because you know everything not to do. You’ll give that baby everything we never had and more. I know it from the deepest parts of my soul.”

I shake my head. “I wish I believed that.”

“You’ll see. Just be patient with yourself.”

He takes a seat next to me on the step. Then lets out a deep sigh and looks around like he’s expecting trouble to come rushing around us. With the way this small town is, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

“When it gets out that she’s pregnant and you’re the father, it’s going to be an all-out war in this town. You know that, right?”

I nod. Knowing Amelia’s brothers, they won’t stop until I’m six feet in the ground. The feud between our families is too deeply rooted in our lives and this community. No one will understand.

“We’ll deal with it when that day comes,” I say as I push to my feet. “Today, we need to deal with Mom and make sure she eats. She’s killing herself.”

Without another look at my twin, I head back inside. Mom may not be the best distraction right now, but she’s still a distraction. And that’s something I desperately need.

“Christian, you can’t just barge in here without an appointment,” Dr. Johnson says. “We’ve talked about this.”

I ignore her and drop into the chair opposite her.

“What good is a therapist if I can’t call on you when I need you?” She opens and closes her mouth several times as she struggles to find a response. My rebuttal is making it hard for her to maintain her professionalism.

She’s irritated with me, and I don’t blame her. I’ve done this more times than I can count.

Right or wrong, I stand by what I said. I never know what to say at our scheduled appointments. The timing is all wrong and pointless. I need to talk about my issues when they hit me. I can’t schedule my feelings. It doesn’t work that way.

“You can’t do this. As I’ve said several times in the past, I understand your point. But I’ve got other clients. I can’t let them walk in whenever they’re having issues. Please tell me you understand that.”

I shrug. That makes sense too, but I don’t want to give into her logic any more than she wants to give into mine.

“I’m dying here. I need to talk now , not in a week. Besides, I checked with your receptionist first to make sure you were free. At least give me that.”

She lets out a deep sigh. I’ve been seeing her for several years now, so her irritation with me doesn’t bother me one bit. She knows I can handle it. “Yes, but this is my lunch break. I have a session in …” she checks the time on her computer, “forty minutes. When am I supposed to eat?”

“Don’t let me stop you. Eat.” I wave my hand at the sandwich sitting on her desk. “I don’t care if you multitask. But I need advice now. It can’t wait.”

“Are you taking your medication?” she asks.

“Yes. Every day.” I’ve been on depression medication for about a year. It’s helped a lot but doesn’t stop me from having episodes.

She stares at me. Maybe it’s more of a glare. It’s one of those looks a mother gives their child when they’re in trouble. At least I think that’s the look. I’ve seen Grams give it to us on more than one occasion, but I can’t be sure. It’s not like my mom ever disciplined us.

Maybe that’s why I like Dr. Johnson so much. She’s a good mother figure and a great therapist. She tells me like it is and doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

But she does it with the same care and affection I’d expect a good mother to do with their child. That’s what I need.

Dr. Johnson’s probably around the same age as my mother. She could be a little older. It’s hard to say. She’s not haggard and too thin from years of substance abuse like my mom. But I like to think she’s around the same age, regardless. It allows me to think of my sessions as conversations with a loving parent, not a clinical therapist.

Healthy? Probably not. But it works for me.

She adjusts her glasses on her nose and tucks her long, dark hair behind her ear. She’s getting grayer around her temples, leaving silver streaks down the sides. It looks sophisticated and classy on her.

“You know I want the best for you, Christian, but this can’t keep happening. I cannot accommodate you like this every time you have a breakdown.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I understand, and I’ll try to do better. But this really is an emergency.”

She checks the time again and sighs. The frown on her face tells me she’s not happy about this, but she’s giving into me anyway. “Okay, you’ve got fifteen minutes. Tell me what happened.”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, clenching my fingers together. “I think my mom is reaching her end. I’ve never seen her look so bad and she’s using needles. She never uses needles. It hit me hard.”

I pause and wait for her to respond. She watches me carefully before she speaks. “I bet it did. It’s never easy to watch our loved ones degrade from drug abuse. How did that make you feel about your own struggles with addiction?”

I drop my head and close my eyes. I hate this truth about myself, and I wish I could bury it and forget it’s a possibility. But I can’t. That won’t lead to healing.

“That could have been me. It still could. The cravings don’t go away. My body still wants the high. Desperately. I could turn out just like her.”

“That’s true. It could happen. If you lose sight of the man you want to be. Is that the man you want to be? A drug addict that doesn’t care if he lives or dies?”

“No!” I snap my head up, surprised by her question. She’s never asked me that before. It’s blunt and almost emotionless, like she’s trying to provoke a reaction.

“Exactly. You want to be better. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you work so hard to fight against the cravings. You are not your mother, Christian. Don’t forget that.”

“How do you know? I share her DNA. I’m an addict too. I could—”

“ Recovering addict. There’s a difference. Do not lose sight of all your hard work. You may share DNA with her, but you are not the same.”

“But—”

“No buts.” She pushes her sandwich to the side and leans forward on her desk. “Remember what we talked about? Don’t undermine your self-worth with but statements.”

“It’s so hard though.”

“I know. Working on ourselves is never easy.”

Silence falls over us as she waits for me to respond. She does that often as a way to try to get me to talk more. Sometimes it works, but today I don’t want to talk. I just want her to tell me how to make it all better.

“What else happened?” she finally asks to nudge me along. “This isn’t just about your mother, is it?”

I rub the back of my neck. My shoulders and neck have been tense ever since Amelia dropped the pregnancy bomb on me. It’s only gotten worse the longer I’ve avoided the issue.

“No, not entirely.”

“What else happened?”

My body tenses more and I hyperfocus on a spot on the floor to distract me. Then I take a few deep breaths like she taught me. It helps enough that I can at least begin this conversation.

“You know the girl I’ve been seeing?”

She nods. “Did something happen with her?”

I let out a low, frustrated snort. “You could say that.”

She raises a brow and stares at me with that pointed look that says my attitude is not welcomed in today’s sessions. Her patience is thin.

Clenching my hands into tight balls, I force the words out. “She’s pregnant.”

“Ah,” she says like everything has just become clear. “And you don’t think you’re good enough to be a father.”

“There’s nothing to think about.” The words sound angry coming out of me. “I’m not good enough. This is going to ruin her life.”

“Nobody’s life is going to be ruined. Will things be hard? Yes. But you’re a good man, and from what you’ve told me about Lia, she’s a good woman. You two can handle this.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t be with her.” The tension and fear inside me build and my words sound panicked.

“Yes, you can. She’s chosen you the same as you’ve chosen her. You are together.”

“You’re not listening. We cannot be together. Our relationship is a secret.”

She furrows her brows. I’ve never told her that Amelia is the sister of our family rivals. I’ve kept that part to myself. “Mind telling me why?”

I let out a low growl and drop my head back on the chair. I’ve told Dr. Johnson about the feud. She’s aware of how much the Kochs hate us and us them. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never told her more about Amelia. All she knows is we’ve been dating for a couple of years and that she’s important to me and my recovery.

“She’s a Koch,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?” she asks with confusion lacing the words. “As in your family’s rival?”

I nod. “She’s my enemy’s sister.”

“Okay.” She drags the word out like she’s too stunned to speak. This is a first, because Dr. Johnson always has something to say. “I didn’t expect that. Certainly explains why you’ve been so tight-lipped about her during our sessions. Why didn’t you trust me with this before?”

“I didn’t tell anybody. Neither did she.”

“Your twin didn’t even know?”

I shake my head. “He knew there was a woman in my life, but he didn’t know who. We didn’t want anything to screw it up, so we didn’t tell anyone. Once one person knows, then it’s no longer a secret.”

“Have your families found out?”

“Not yet.” I sigh and lean forward. I’m struggling to sit still in this chair. I want to pace or hit something. Anything to expel this pent-up energy. “They’ll know soon enough. She wants to keep it. I told Chase but that’s it. I’m not sure who she’s told.”

“This isn’t about your families, is it?”

I furrow my brows. “What do you mean?”

“Your anxiety. It’s not being fed by your worries over your family or hers. You’re anxious because you doubt yourself.”

“I can’t do this!” I yell. My frustration with my current emotional state is getting to be too much for me to control. “She’s ruined, and it’s all my fault.”

“Christian,” she says calmly. “She’s not ruined. You’re both responsible for this pregnancy. She willingly entered this relationship with you, same as you did with her.”

“Yeah, but she’s a good person. I’m not.”

“No, that’s one of those lies we’re working on reversing. You are a good person.”

“A good person wouldn’t have done the things I’ve done. Just look at me and my life. I can’t be a good father.”

“Our past actions don’t dictate our self-worth. You’ve learned from those actions, and you’ve grown. You’re a good man, and you’ll be a great father. And I’ll tell you that however many times I have to until you believe it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you have a good heart.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and stares at me while she chews. After she swallows, she takes a drink from her water bottle. “You’re here by choice. No one ordered you to go to therapy. You made the conscious decision to be better and do whatever it took to save your life. You’re kind, funny, and loyal. You care deeply about your family and friends. You love deeply and fiercely. You are good and worthy of good things. One of these days, you’ll believe it. Until then, we keep working on that list of lies that make you think otherwise. Okay?”

I sag in my chair and swallow back a groan. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s told me this. She keeps telling me that the day will come when I believe her, but so much time has passed since she started working with me that I’m doubting her.

I push to my feet and crack my neck. “I hope you’re right. ’Cause if you’re not, I’m going to lose her and fuck up a kid.” Then I point toward her half-eaten sandwich. “Sorry I monopolized your lunch.”

She says something after she calls out my name, but I don’t hear her. I’m already out the door and halfway down the hallway. I’m not sure what I thought I’d get out of a session with her. She always tells me the same damn thing, but somehow, I feel better.

Not great, but better. And that in and of itself is a miracle.

Maybe that’s a sign that this will all be okay after all. I’m not sure how, but I’ll take even the slightest sliver of hope if it means I get to keep Amelia.