Chapter 6
SIX
Wild
The quiet stretches too long.
That’s usually when it happens.
One second I’m sitting there, chest tight but manageable, the words spilling out before I can stop them. The next something snaps back into place. The mask. The armor. The thing that’s kept me upright for years.
I feel it lock in.
My jaw clenches. My shoulders go rigid.
This is a mistake.
I push out of the chair, pacing the small office like the walls are closing in. “This is bullshit,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “I shouldn’t be here.”
I don’t look at her. If I do, I might lose whatever control I have left.
“Wilder—”
“I don’t need this,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to be. “I don’t need someone picking apart my head like I’m broken.”
The word hangs there. Broken.
Fuck.
I hear the chair shift as she stands, but she doesn’t step into my space. Doesn’t challenge me. Doesn’t flinch.
“I’m not saying you’re broken,” Amelia says calmly. “I’m saying you’re hurting.”
I spin on her then. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
The anger burns hot and fast, flooding my veins. I hate that it’s here. Hate that it’s aimed at her of all people. She didn’t do anything to deserve this.
Her eyes don’t harden. They don’t soften either.
They steady.
“You’re right,” she says evenly. “I don’t know everything about you. But I know what happens when someone’s grief has nowhere to go.”
I scoff. “So now you’re the expert?”
“I’m trained,” she replies. “And right now, I’m the person sitting across from you.”
I rake a hand through my hair, breathing hard. “I don’t want to be angry,” I snap. “But it’s like…” I gesture helplessly at my chest. “It’s just there. I didn’t ask for it.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “Anger feels safer than the rest of it.”
That hits harder than I expect.
I laugh bitterly. “Yeah. Because if I stop being pissed, I might fall apart.”
She nods once. “That’s a real fear.”
I turn away again, gripping the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. My voice drops, rougher now. “I don’t want to take this out on you.”
“I know,” she says.
Not it’s okay.
Not don’t worry about it.
Just, I know.
Something in my chest cracks.
She steps a little closer. Not crowding me, just enough that I know she’s there. Solid. Unmoving.
“You don’t need to perform here,” she tells me. “You don’t need to be strong or controlled or likable.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Then we start with what you’re already doing,” she says gently. “You stayed. You didn’t walk out.”
I look at her then.
She’s not afraid of me. Not impressed. Not trying to fix me or flirt or manage my reaction. She’s just steady. Like she can handle the worst of me and isn’t going anywhere because of it.
“Sit,” she says softly.
This time, I do.
The anger doesn’t disappear. It simmers. Coils. But it’s quieter now. Contained instead of explosive.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean to…”
She shakes her head. “You don’t need to apologize for having emotions.”
I huff a weak laugh. “That might be the first time anyone’s ever said that to me.”
Her lips curve just slightly. “Then we’re already doing something right.”
I lean back in the chair, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. The mask is back on but it doesn’t fit as tightly as it used to.
And somehow she saw every ugly piece of it and didn’t back away.
That scares the hell out of me more than the anger ever could.
The room settles again after the edge wears off, the silence different this time. Not fragile. Not tense.
Just heavy.
Amelia sits back down, giving me space, her hands folded neatly in her lap. No clipboard. No notes. Just her attention.
“Can I ask you a few things?” she says.
I shrug. “You already are.”
A corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t take the bait.
“When you think about your dad,” she asks carefully, “what’s the first memory that comes up?”
I don’t answer right away. I stare at the scuffed floor, jaw tight.
“Teaching me how to throw,” I finally say. “Not gently either. He stood behind me and kept saying, again, harder, don’t baby it.” I snort quietly. “Guess that explains a lot.”
“Did you like it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I loved it. Because when I did it right he smiled. Didn’t happen often.”
She nods, absorbing that. “And now?”
My chest tightens. “Now I keep thinking I didn’t do enough. Didn’t call enough. Didn’t tell him—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “This is going nowhere.”
She doesn’t push. Just lets it sit.
“Do you feel angry at him?” she asks instead.
The question lands harder than the rest.
“Yes,” I say instantly. “And that makes me feel like a shit son.”
Her voice stays even. “Two things can be true at the same time.”
I huff a laugh. “You really believe that.”
“I do.”
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones. My head throbs. My chest aches. Every emotion feels too loud.
“I think I’m done,” I say abruptly, pushing to my feet. “I can’t do any more of this today.”
She stands too, nodding. “Okay.”
No argument. No disappointment.
That somehow makes it worse.
“I’ll see Susan later,” I mutter, already heading for the door. I just need air. Distance. Something solid.
My fingers wrap around the doorknob.
“Wilder.”
I pause but don’t turn around.
“You don’t have to come back today,” she says softly. “Or tomorrow. But when this hits you later, because it will, remember that grief doesn’t make you weak. It means you loved someone deeply. And that matters.”
My hand tightens on the metal.
Fuck.
I turn around before I can overthink it.
She’s standing there, calm and steady, eyes warm but not pitying. Just real.
The next part happens without permission from my brain.
I cross the room in two strides and pull her into me.
She gasps softly, then relaxes, her arms coming up around my back like she expected it. Like she knew this was coming. I bury my face against her shoulder, breathing her in.
Clean, grounding, human.
“Thank you,” I murmur, rough and low. “For not treating me like I’m made of glass.”
Her hand presses lightly between my shoulders. “You’re not.”
I pull back before I do something I can’t take back. Our eyes meet for half a second too long.
Then I step away.
I open the door.
And I walk out knowing damn well I just crossed a line and the worst part is, I don’t fucking care.