Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alec
Last night, I didn’t go home.
I crashed at the Reznor abode so we could finish tracking vocals and tighten a few transitions before Barret disappears this weekend with Cleo and Eddie. It made sense—logically. Working, staying focused, and using music like a shield has always worked.
And it did—mostly. Because losing myself in reverb and static is still the best way to shut everything else out.
By the time I wake up the next morning, I feel wired.
Determined. Like a guy who’s going to conquer shit before noon.
I have the energy reserved for people running marathons or quitting something cold turkey.
I’ve done the latter more times than I care to admit.
And in a burst of brilliance or delusion, I decide that yes, I’m getting attached and probably falling—but I can undo it just as easily.
People detach from things every day in ways and fall out of love easily, don’t they?
They’ve been here for what? Eight weeks?
Seven weeks and five days, you idiot. Like you’re not counting.
Fine. I know exactly how long they’ve been here. But as of this morning, I’m building new boundaries.
Today, I am a fortress.
No. Fuck that—today, I’m a goddamn island.
I get up, shower, and change into the emergency clothes Eddie insists on keeping for me in the guest room—“In case you crash here again,” he said. I eat a bowl of cereal before the rest of the house wakes up, because the last thing I need is to accidentally feed the herd.
As I head for the door, I tell myself avoiding them—my family and Mara—is totally reasonable. It isn’t cowardice. It’s smart. Logical. Healthy, even.
Then why the hell does something inside me feel . . . off?
Why does it feel like I’ve gone a day without oxygen?
It’s not normal, how much I noticed her absence yesterday. Or how I kept looking at the clock, wondering if she’d text. Or how Mila’s voice kept replaying in my head, rearranging my whole day like I was supposed to be on frog-duty or snack patrol.
Probably.
No, definitely.
It’s as if something in me rewired itself around them without asking. And the worst part is, I didn’t even fight it. I let it happen. I wanted it.
And now? It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I turn on the radio to drown it out—only to get hit with “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” like the universe has a fucking sense of humor.
As if I needed a stadium anthem reminding me that yeah, I’d probably walk five hundred miles just to hear her laugh again in that half-sleepy voice she uses when she forgets to protect herself.
Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I need to start my fucking morning.
By the time I reach Dr. Bennet’s office, my jaw’s tight, and my grip on the steering wheel feels fused to bone. I park, walk in, and collapse onto his couch like I’m hoping it’ll swallow me whole.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just glances up from his notepad like he’s already bracing for whatever bullshit I’m about to hurl his way.
“Alec,” he says, greeting me with that calm tone he probably practiced in school. “How are the grounding exercises?”
“Grounding,” I repeat, nodding like I’ve rehearsed. “Yes. Very grounded.”
I sink deeper into the cushions like I’m trying to hide inside them.
He folds his hands. “That almost sounded convincing. Do you believe it?”
“It should be convincing. I practiced.” I let my head fall back. “Let’s get this over with. I have a full schedule of avoiding emotional mistakes today.”
He raises a brow. “Such as?”
“People,” I say. “Mostly one in particular.”
Even saying that much tugs something in my chest I don’t want to name. It feels like betrayal to admit it aloud—that I’m affected. That someone has touched a part of me I swore didn’t exist or broke a long time ago.
He waits. He’s too good at waiting. We could stay forever challenging each other to see who’ll give up first. I let him win because I don’t have all fucking day.
“It’s one of those days,” I mutter. “Where everything feels like too much.”
He leans back. “Too much what?”
I shrug. My hand plays with the fraying thread on my cuff. “People.”
“And by people, you mean . . . ?”
I don’t answer. He already knows. I’ve been talking about her too many times during our sessions ever since . . . probably since she arrived and her scary child made me want to jet out of the city or maybe even the country.
But of course, he wants me to say it.
“Her,” I mutter. “And the kid.”
Dr. Bennet nods, slow and understanding in a way that feels like he’s rearranging my ribs from the inside out. “You said last time you were here that you felt yourself getting attached.”
“That was hypothetical,” I snap. “It was more like a what if I get attached?”
He raises a brow. “And now?”
I breathe out through my teeth. “Now I think I was misunderstating the situation. And I’ve decided to create emotional space.”
He picks up his pen, taps it once against his legal pad. “Emotional space.”
“That’s it,” I say. “It’s the healthiest thing for everyone.”
Dr. Bennet lifts his pen, taps it once against the yellow legal pad. “Healthy to create . . .” Another tap. “Space.”
“Emotional space,” I clarify, because if he’s going to repeat what I’m saying, he can at least do it accurately.
His eyes don’t move, but I can feel the question before he says it. “And what does that space look like for you?”
“Distance,” I mutter. “No contact. Less time. More logic.”
“And how does that feel?”
“You always ask that,” I say. “You don’t have anything new in your repertoire?”
He sighs. “Okay, then tell me why that is? Why do you need this space?”
I should tell him I’m terrified, but it sounds ridiculous even in my own mind. Who’s afraid of a woman shorter than me, and her tiny, pink-umbrella-wielding child? Apparently, I am. They scare the hell out of me in ways that feel too real, too close, too . . . new.
“They’re temporary,” I tell him, proud of how mature the sentence sounds. “I’m busy. Letting them get used to me would be unfair.”
“So you think you’re being fair?” he asks, brows dipping probably being all judgmental, or perhaps just curious in a way that makes my skin itch. “Isn’t that their decision? You mentioned they’ve moved around a lot. They probably know more about short connections than most, including pen pals.”
“Pen pals?” I repeat, trying not to think of the letters. The ones that hollowed Mara out as she read them. The ones that cracked something open in me when she cried into my shirt like she didn’t believe she was allowed to need anyone.
And it’s absurd—absolutely absurd—how watching her fall apart made me want to stand between her and anything that could ever hurt her again.
I don’t think I’m capable of that kind of protection, not really.
But the instinct was there. Strong enough to rattle me.
Strong enough that I haven’t stopped thinking about whether she read more letters last night while I was gone or . . . what if her heart broke again?
Do I tell him that part?
Do I tell him the truth—that something about her has rewired my entire body against my will? Should I confess it’s not just attachment, but that I might be developing feelings?
I inhale slowly, but the words spill out anyway.
“She does something to me,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. It’s fucking ridiculous.”
Dr. Bennet gestures for me to continue.
“Physically . . .” I drag a hand over the back of my neck.
“Whenever she walks into a room, my chest pulls tight and my damn pulse trips over itself like it’s trying to catch up to her.
My hands always want to reach for something—her, a chair, the wall—just to ground myself.
And don’t get me started on the way she smells. It’s . . . stupidly distracting.”
I scrub my palms over my jeans, frustrated at how true it all is.
“She shows up in my thoughts when I’m not paying attention.
Little things—her laugh, the way she talks with her hands, how she tilts her head when she’s curious.
I’ll be mid-drum sequence and suddenly wonder if she’s eaten today or if her kid convinced her to buy frog stickers again. ” I tap my temple. “It’s constant.”
I let out a breath and stare at the ceiling.
“And emotionally . . .”
This is the part that feels too big. The words slow down in my mouth. They feel too precious, and too much like a confession I should keep locked behind my ribs.
“She makes things move inside me I didn’t think still worked,” I say, my voice low.
“It’s like she rewired places I assumed were permanently shut down.
She cries, and it rattles through me, and there’s this unbearable ache to hold her through it.
And when she smiles . . . fuck, when she smiles, I want to rise into it.
To claim it. Just meet her there. Match that brightness with the best of what’s left in me. Maybe even fuse it with my soul.”
I pause, the silence stretching too long.
“It feels like she’s pulling something out of me that I didn’t think existed. And it fucking scares me.”
I don’t stop there, I continue. “Mara is this small burst of color walking through a life that tried to wash her out, and she’s still trying. Still trying to see something good. And that . . . gets to me. More than it should.”
Dr. Bennet’s gaze doesn’t move from me.
“And the worst part?” I say. “She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. She doesn’t know what she makes me feel. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with any of this.”
I lean back, sinking into the couch cushion like it might save me.
“She’s light,” I whisper. “And I’ve spent years being afraid of anything that bright. I don’t want to get hurt—or worse, hurt them.”
“Why do you think you’ll hurt them?” He narrows his gaze.