Wild Thing

18. Eighteen

Eighteen

DYLAN

Present Day

S haring all the sinful parts of myself had me feeling sick.

Sitting in Dr. Crowe’s office, a heavy knot of nausea twists in my stomach as I recount how the affair with Brax had begun and burned out of control.

But this silence? It was dragging on longer than usual. Any second now, she'll tell me what I know that it is.

Shameful.

Disgusting.

I knew it was. That's why I was here, after all. Therapy was about honesty, even if it meant tearing your soul to shreds in the process.

When I first started seeing Dr. Crowe, I expected her to berate me for having an affair.

For betraying my relationship.

For ruining Brax and Ally's.

But, so far, she hadn’t.

But I had a sinking feeling that this time might be different.

The only sound in the room was the scratch of Dr. Crowe’s pen as she scribbled something in her notebook. Her movements were precise, controlled, and her perfectly threaded eyebrows were arched in a way that made it nearly impossible to gauge what she was thinking.

Maybe she's making a note to never introduce her husband to me.

I stole a quick glance at the family photo on her desk and wondered what it would be like to be married to a therapist.

Does she psychoanalyze her husband the way she did her patients?

Does he ever call her out on it?

Do they fight and then have angry, make-up sex?

Or does she work her voodoo so that their marriage glides along in robotic perfection?

God, this silence. It's making me fucking crazy.

More so than I already am.

Finally, Dr. Crowe sets her pen down, slipping it into the fold of her notebook before closing it calmly.

She meets my eyes, her voice steady. “What are you feeling right now, Dylan?”

“Embarrassed and sickened,” I say honestly, the words tumbling out. “It's like I can't stand to be in my own skin. My heart—” I pause as my throat constricts. “It hurts. My actual heart aches. It feels like my chest is going to cave in. Like I can’t breathe.”

I fall silent for a moment.

"And the worst part is, I can't tell the difference between what's heartbreak and what's guilt," then, I add, “I'm really fucked up.”

A single tear slips down my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw as I wipe it away. I've never been a cryer until I started therapy.

Now I cry all the fucking time.

The guilt and shame is suffocating. I don’t know if it’s slowly poisoning me, or if I’m already nearly dead from it. “I’m really fucking sad.”

Dr. Crowe gives me a lopsided smile as she leans forward. “What you’re feeling, Dylan, is heartbreak and remorse. Quite the combination."

“Okay,” I say cautiously, unsure of where this is going. “Is that… a good thing?”

Dr. Crowe chuckles quietly.

I feel my face redden. What the fuck?

“Well, narcissists and sociopaths don’t typically express such a raw admission of self-loathing. So, no. It’s not a bad thing.”

I let out a slow breath. “So… we can rule that out?”

“Yes, we can rule that out,” she says, chuckling again. “In one of our early sessions, you called yourself a ‘bad person.’ But bad people don’t feel regret. They don’t feel shame. And they certainly don’t feel remorse.”

“So… I’m not a bad person?”

"No, Dylan. You're not."

It might take me a while to agree with her, but I appreciate the optimism, nonetheless.

"In fact," Dr. Crowe continues, "I believe you're a good person who made some bad choices—several, actually. But that doesn't make you evil or beyond redemption. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here, being brutally honest about your past, working to improve yourself, and to manage your impulses. Would you?"

I nod. My eyes drift back to the family photo on her desk. Her kids are lucky. Imagine having a parent this capable of forgiveness.

"Dylan, on the topic of impulsivity, I want to explore yours," Dr. Crowe begins, her voice calm but direct. "From what I understand, you said you were planning to end things with Zack once you got home."

She smooths her hands over the notepad resting in her lap.

Here comes a question that I don't want to answer.

"Why couldn't you and Brax wait?"

I hesitate. I've wondered the same thing a thousand times over.

“It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” I admit. “I couldn’t control myself for just one week. Sitting here and talking through it all, I can see how we should’ve just waited. But when I was around him," I pause. "I–I lose control.”

Fuck, this was painful. I miss him so much.

Dr. Crowe’s expression was blank. “Would you say you're motivated by instant gratification?”

I press my thumb into the palm of my hand, the sharp pressure a welcome feeling.

Aren’t we all driven by instant gratification?

“I guess,” I murmur. “I was so unhappy with Zack… so dissatisfied with how my life was turning out. Brax was like–like a lifeline. A sign."

“How so?”

I pressing my thumb harder into the palm of my hand, desperate to feel something—anything, even physical pain.

"Have you ever met someone who makes life feel like it’s in high definition?" I ask. "That's what Brax is like for me. When we first broke up, I mourned our relationship for months, maybe even years. I never got over him. I also didn't think I’d ever see him again, so when I did, I just… I didn't want to let him go."

Dr. Crowe remains still and quiet. A sign for me to continue spilling my treacherous guts.

"My life with Zack was so stifling. Controlled. Isolating. Everything was planned, predictable. I felt unsupported. My spark was fading. Maybe I was borderline depressed, I don't know."

I reach down beside my chair and retrieve my emotional support water bottle, before continuing.

"But Brax… this sounds really fucking cheesy, but, he jumpstarted my heart. He made me feel alive," I huff a small laugh out. "Which is ironic considering that I now feel fucking dead inside."

"It takes guts to admit that."

Maybe therapy is working. I might actually be evolving. That would be nice.

"So, tell me. What happened next?" Dr. Crowe asks.

Oh boy. Here we go.