35. The Homework
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE HOMEWORK
Malakai
As I sit on the armchair and twiddle my thumbs, I can’t help but feel like I’m fully on display. The office is nice—it’s modern and warm, with personal touches here and there. Monica, my therapist, is an older woman with short, gray hair and a flowy, colorful outfit. She’s not sitting behind her desk, but rather on the couch across the room, so it feels less like a therapy session and more like two people talking casually.
That’s probably the point.
“Tell me about your job,” she says, smiling.
I clear my throat. “Well, I’m the headmaster of Saint Helena Academy. Before that, I was a pastor and I worked for various churches around Crestwood.”
She nods once. “So spirituality is important to you?”
I nod. “It is.” The words feel hollow, almost rehearsed. I frown and lean forward, clasping my hands together between my knees. “Or, it used to be.”
The session is already half over. The first thirty minutes, I spoke about my childhood and growing up at Ravage Castle. I told her about my father, and how close I was to my brothers. I thought she’d say something about the infamous Charles Ravage, but she didn’t. Instead, she only smiled and told me how wonderful it was that I was close to my siblings.
Monica’s expression doesn’t change. She simply tilts her head, like she’s waiting for me to fill the silence.
“It feels like I’m evolving,” I admit, the weight of the confession settling over me. “And in doing so… religion has become less important. At least, not in the way it used to be. I mean, when I first got into this profession, I found a lot of personal fulfillment. I still remember the sense of pride when I got my first job as a pastor at a tiny church on the coast. And even accepting the headmaster position at Saint Helena was one of my greatest achievements. I fully believed in the school mission, and though some of the people in my bubble were more close-minded than me, I knew I was doing good. I believed in helping my students. I was the person they knew they could trust.”
“You’re speaking in past tense,” she notes, sitting up straighter. “I see people from all walks of life, Malakai. Children and teenagers, young married couples, men in their eighties, rape victims, you name it. And the only consistent thing between all of these people—and often why they seek therapy—is because they’ve changed. Something or someone has disrupted their status quo—whether it be an extramarital affair, or perhaps a burglary that leaves them with PTSD. As humans we are allowed to change. We are allowed to change our mind about things like religion. Nothing about life is stagnant.”
I swallow. “I suppose that’s true.”
“So, what disrupted the status quo?” she asks thoughtfully.
I exhale slowly, tracing the faint pattern in the carpet beneath my feet with the toe of my shoe. “I had an old friend move back to town. Julian. He and his wife have become… important to me.”
Monica nods. “Important to you? How so?”
I hesitate, the words lodged in my throat like stones. But this is why I came here. If I can’t say it aloud, how am I supposed to fix it?
“Well… we’ve all sort of entered into a romantic relationship.”
Smiling, Monica clasps her hands together on her lap. “It’s very important to have these romantic relationships, you know. To foster connection. It’s wonderful that you’ve found two people to share that with.”
I nod slowly. “It is. But I can’t help but feel like… I don’t belong.”
“Do they make you feel that way?”
I think back to last weekend—the soft brush of Sophie’s fingers through my hair, the press of Julian’s lips against my skin.
“Mine.”
“You’re fucking mine, Ravage. I don’t care how long it’s been.”
“I don’t care who’s touched you since. You were mine then, and you’re mine now.”
The way Julian’s gaze had shifted when he said, “Imagine watching her with another man together.”
The shadow of doubt. The space that opened between us even as we stayed physically close.
No, I realize. It’s not them.
And, of course, the looks on their faces when I walked out of their house last week.
I hadn’t seen Julian, but I had kept my word and helped Sophie with the shop after I got done at Saint Helena. Our time was spent in near silence, but I could feel her eyes on me constantly. And every evening when I said goodbye, she looked like she wanted to say something. Last night, I swear I saw tears in her eyes when I left.
“No, it’s not them,” I tell Monica. Sighing, I lean back and run my hand down my mouth. “I suppose I just don’t feel worthy of them. Like they’re too good to be true. Like I’m waiting for them to move on.”
Monica’s eyes sharpen, and she leans in slightly. “Malakai, that sounds less like a relationship problem and more like something you’ve been carrying for a long time. Has that feeling—of being unworthy—always been there?”
I hesitate. My hands come together in my lap, and my fingers twist and untwist nervously.
“Maybe. I guess that’s possible.” Sighing, I continue. “I’ve always tried to do the right thing, but it always feels like it’s never enough. Like maybe… I’m never enough. For God. For my students. For Julian and Sophie.”
Her kind expression doesn’t falter, but there’s a thread of empathy woven into her calm demeanor now. With her, though, it doesn’t feel like pity. It feels like she understands.
“That’s a heavy burden to carry. But here’s the truth, Malakai—you don’t have to earn your worthiness. It’s not something given by others, nor is it something you lose. It’s inherent. And that feeling of being ‘not enough’—that’s the piece we’ll work on together. It’s not something we can untangle in one session. It’s certainly not an easy fix. This work you’re doing—the work of understanding and accepting yourself—it’s a process. It’s not always linear, but it is deeply worthwhile.”
Nodding, I feel both relief and frustration. Relief that there’s a reason for this constant knot in my chest, and frustration for the daunting task of doing something that feels insurmountable.
Monica continues. “For now, I want to give you some homework.”
I arch a brow. “Homework?”
She smiles. “Yes. Before our next session, I want you to write down one thing every day that you like about yourself. It could be something you did that day, something about your personality, or even something you notice about yourself physically. Whatever feels right. The point is to start identifying these pieces of yourself that are already enough—already good.”
I blink at her. “That sounds… hard.”
“It might be,” she admits. “But it’s also practice. And like anything else, it will get easier with time. I also want you to spend a few minutes reflecting on what Julian and Sophie see in you. They’ve chosen to include you in their lives, Malakai. They see something in you that’s worth loving. What do you think that might be?”
Her words land heavier than I expect, a knot forming in my throat. I manage to nod, swallowing hard. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” she says, her smile kind and warm. “I don’t expect you to have all the answers right away. But you have to be willing to explore the questions.”
The session winds down after that, and Monica thanks me for my honesty. She reminds me for the second time that it’s okay to feel uncomfortable with these truths I’m uncovering.
Perhaps this time, her advice will stick.
As I leave her office, the weight on my shoulders feels a little different—not lighter, exactly, but less suffocating.
The homework she’s given me feels daunting, but as I step out into the brisk evening air, I think maybe it’s a step I can take.
Pulling my phone out, I type in a number I have memorized. It rings a few times before a female voice answers.
“Kai? It’s Juliet. One sec, let me grab Chase. He’s in the garage working on one of his damn cars.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, Jules.”
“How are you?” she asks. I can hear the creaking floorboards of their old town house just outside of San Francisco.
“I’ve been better,” I tell her honestly.
“Who do I need to beat up?” she asks, and there’s the sound of a door opening.
Huffing a laugh, warmth fills me at her words. I never had a sister, but Juliet feels like one now that she’s married to Chase, my younger brother.
“No one. It’s all on me this time.”
“I see,” she muses. “Well, I’ll hand you over to Chase. And, Kai?”
“Yeah?”
“You can always talk to us, you know. Or maybe come up here for a visit. Maybe the fresh, foggy air would do you some good.”
I stop walking. “Yeah. Maybe I will. Thanks, Jules.”
After we say goodbye, I hear her mutter something to Chase.
“Hey,” he says, sounding out of breath. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk about Rod Dumplant,” I say firmly.
Chase exhales. “Yeah. I heard about what happened. The whole board heard, actually, because Rod sent a very angry email about the situation with Bradleigh, and then something about ‘moral decay within leadership’ and the risk of setting a dangerous precedent for the school’s values.’ I meant to call you about it.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry about him, Kai. He’s made a lot of enemies. The last thing he wants is for us to vote him out.”
“And how much would you be paying the rest of the board members to do that?” I ask, grinning.
“That’s neither here nor there, but they’d be remiss to forget that I have the most sway with the board of directors, and I could replace them all if I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
“Why? You’re my brother. If he’s making your life hell, then there are ways to take care of that. Bigotry has no place at Saint Helena, or anywhere.”
I sit with his words for a few seconds, feeling unexpectedly emotional.
“Should I call an emergency meeting?” Chase asks. “I can probably get on a flight over the weekend, and we can sort it out together…”
“Actually, can I come up to you?”
He’s quiet for a second. “You’re always welcome, Kai. Just let me know when so I can take some time off work.”
“Sure,” I answer, forming a tentative plan in my head.
“Everything else okay?” he asks, his tone tinged with concern.
I run a hand through my hair. “Not really. But I can tell you in person.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Wait,” I rush out. “How did you know?”
“Know what?” Chase asks, a tinge of amusement in his voice. I realize I’m probably making zero sense.
“That Juliet was the one for you.”
He pauses for a beat, and I can hear the faint creak of floorboards. “Because even when I pushed her away, she stayed,” he says quietly. “She showed up. Over and over.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“That’s good to know.”
“Come up,” Chase urges. “It’ll make Juliet’s week to host you. No one ever comes to visit us,” he adds petulantly. Classic little brother. “Do it for her,” he teases.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’ll send you my flight details.”
We hang up, and I sit there for a long moment, staring at the darkened screen of my phone.
The weight in my chest feels a little heavier now, like something fragile I’ve been balancing for weeks is starting to crack.
“Because even when I pushed her away, she stayed.”
Chase’s words echo louder than I expected, lingering long after the call ends.
But with Julian and Sophie… I left. And they let me.
That thought sinks its claws in deep, twisting.
Maybe that’s what’s been gnawing at me this whole time. The idea that if I stepped back far enough, they wouldn’t follow.
Because maybe I’m not as essential to them as they are to me.
The low, persistent noise of downtown presses down on my shoulders, and for the first time in years, the solitude feels suffocating instead of comforting. I glance around the groups of people out and about—the couples and friends, the college students, the people scurrying to their night shifts.
I rub the back of my neck, exhaling sharply.
Maybe I do need to get away.
A few minutes later, I’m back in my apartment, setting Willy’s food down in his porcelain bowl. I sit down on the couch, and it doesn’t take long to find a flight up to San Francisco.
Before I can second-guess myself, I book it.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m moving toward something instead of running away.
But even as I close my laptop and lean back against the couch, I can’t shake the image of Sophie’s eyes lingering on me as I left the shop last night—or the way Julian didn’t try to stop me.