Hunter
I’m still recovering when they make me stand in front of the judge again three days later.
The courtroom feels too small, the lights too bright.
My hands won’t stop shaking, even though I haven’t touched a drink since they carted me out of group.
Ramirez sits in the back row like some silent witness.
Tim is here, too, looking calm as ever, but I can feel the disappointment rolling off of him.
The judge looks at me over the top of her glasses as if I’m exactly what she expected.
“Mr. Hale,” she begins. “You not only missed two therapy sessions. But you were found blackout drunk in the middle of a court-mandated therapy session. And then taken to the hospital by ambulance. This is a direct violation of the terms of your probation.”
I swallow hard. Yeah, all of that is true. I spiraled hard.
She continues, “Mr. Peterson has recommended intensive one-on-one therapy. I agree. You will attend a weekly session with a court-approved therapist until that therapist determines you are stable enough to return to active duty as a firefighter. You will also attend AA meetings—at least two per week—and provide proof of attendance.”
My stomach drops. Fuck, I really screwed myself this time. So badly even Robby’s voice is silent. Nothing to say to this mess, asshole? No, I’m glad you’re getting help or I always knew you were a fuck up?
“What if I don’t do it?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I don’t actually mean it. I want help. I can’t live at rock bottom for the rest of my life.
The judge’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you are no longer a firefighter, Mr. Hale. Your certification will be revoked. You will also be in violation of your probation, which could result in fines or jail time. The choice is yours.”
The room is silent except for the pounding in my head.
I nod slowly, the weight of it settling on my shoulders like concrete.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
She signs the paperwork with a sharp scratch of her pen. “You have two weeks to find a therapist on the approved list and begin sessions. Do not test me again.”
I walk out of the courtroom feeling like I’ve been hollowed out.
Ramirez catches up with me in the hallway. He doesn’t say much, just claps a hand on my good shoulder.
“You’ve got a lot of people who still believe in you,” he says. “And my offer still stands. Call me anytime.”
I don’t answer. What is there to say? The whole firehouse knows I’m a fuck up now. A drunk. Useless as Robby decided I was at the end. There is no hiding who I am behind a fake smile and laugh.
Once I’m outside alone, the city noise hits me like a wave. I pull out my phone and open our chat. My thumbs hover for a long time before I start typing.
Me: I’m sorry for showing up drunk and making everything worse.
You were right. We both need to heal, and I can’t keep dragging you down with me.
You deserve so much better than what I can give you right now.
This is me letting go. Take care of yourself, Charlie.
I hope one day you find someone who doesn’t break you.
I hit send before I can delete it, then turn my phone off and shove it deep into my pocket.
The first step of healing is letting go of the obsession that helped drown out Robby’s voice.
And facing my future head-on… and my past.
Even if it feels like I just ripped my own heart out.
Two days later
The therapist’s office is on the third floor of a nondescript building downtown. No soft lighting or plants. Just plain walls, two chairs, and a desk that looks like it’s been witness to a lot of inner thoughts. The nameplate on the door reads Dr. Elias Middleton.
I sit down before he even offers. My hands won’t stop shaking. I haven’t had a drink since the night I blacked out, and it shows.
Dr. Middleton is in his late forties, sharp-eyed, salt-and pepper hair, and a calm but no-nonsense presence that I picked up over the phone when I made the appointment. He doesn’t smile like Tim does. He only watches me as though he’s already seen through every wall I’m trying to keep up.
“Mr. Hale,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I received your file from the courts. We have a lot of work to do if you want to recover. Do you want to tell me your version of the incident that led you to my office?”
I clear my throat. “I fucked up. And got drunk.”
He stares at me, not one bit of softening in his gaze.
“I don't sugar-coat. You’re here because the courts say you have to be. I’m here to help you stay alive and functional.
If you want to waste both our time, tell me now and we can sit in silence for fifty minutes every week until the judge gets tired of it. ”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Straight to it, huh?”
“I find it saves time.” He leans back slightly. “Tell me why you drank yourself unconscious in the middle of a therapy session.”
I stare at the floor. Robby’s voice is quieter today, but still there, whispering that I’m a fuck-up who doesn’t deserve help.
“I… I pushed someone I care about too far,” I say finally. “He had a panic attack because of me. I left when he asked me to. Then I drank until I couldn’t feel anything anymore.”
Dr. Middleton nods once, no judgment or pity. “And the panic attack triggered you how?”
I shrug. “Made me feel like the monster I already know I am.”
He watches me for a long moment.
“Why do you feel like a monster?”
I shift in the chair, the leather creaking under me.
“Because I hurt him,” I mutter. “I was rough because I got impatient and in my head. I held him down. And I ruined everything…he broke because of me. He started shaking and crying, and I just…I froze. I realized I was scaring him. Hurting him. Just like…”
I stop. The words get stuck.
Dr. Middleton doesn’t push.
“Just like what?” he asks eventually when I don’t continue.
I swallow hard. “Just like everything else I touch turns to shit. My ex. The fire. Now him…he didn’t deserve any of it.”
He nods slowly, writing something down.
“So you see yourself as inherently destructive,” he says. “And when this person had a panic attack during intimacy, it confirmed that belief. So you drank to punish yourself for it.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the floor.
He leans back slightly.
“We’re going to unpack that belief,” he says. “But not all at once. For now, I want you to tell me what happened right before you made the decision to hold him down. What was the moment that made you decide to do that?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t think it was a conscious thing. I just kept thinking about how my ex always cheated on me and the sex was less after that…and Charlie seemed fine with not having sex at all. So I thought maybe he was getting it somewhere else, too.”
“How long was your relationship with this new person?”
“A couple weeks.”
He lets out a slow breath, almost like a sigh, but there’s no judgment in it. Just clinical observation.
“Being a gay man myself, I know that sometimes one-night stands are a thing and real relationships are harder to come by… but in a normal, healthy relationship, that sort of intimacy usually takes time. Especially for someone with trauma like yourself.”
I feel my face heat. I look away, jaw tight.
“I know that,” I say, voice low. “I knew it then, too. But the thoughts just kept coming. That he was probably seeing other people. That I wasn’t enough. That I was just… temporary. So I got rough. I pinned him down. I wanted to feel like I had him. Like he was mine. I was jealous.”
The words taste bitter coming out. I hate how they sound. How possessive and fucked up they are.
“So insecurity and fear of abandonment triggered possessive behavior,” he says. “You tried to regain control through sex. And when he had a panic attack, it confirmed every negative belief you have about yourself.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the floor, shame crawling up my throat like bile.
He continues, calm and steady. “We’re going to work on that. The insecurity. The possessiveness. The guilt. All of it. But first, you need to understand something important, Hunter.”
He waits until I look at him.
“Intimacy isn’t a right. It’s not something you get to demand, no matter how much you want someone. You crossed a line. And that’s something you’re going to have to sit with.”
I nod, throat tight. “I know.”
The rest of the session passes in a blur of questions I don’t want to answer and truths I don’t want to face. When the hour is up, I feel more exhausted than I did after any bender.
Dr. Middleton stands and hands me a card with an AA meeting schedule on the back.
“Same time next week,” he says. “And Hunter? This only works if you’re honest. Even when it’s ugly.”
I take the card and nod.
As I walk out of the building, the weight of everything I admitted sits heavy on my shoulders.
I still haven’t heard from Charlie.
And I’m starting to think that might be for the best.