Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
CAMERON
TWO MONTHS LATER
Office of Dr. Naomi Sage
Well Mind Counseling, West Village
The late September air exhales through the city.
The heat of the summer has finally broken and the breeze carries crispness and the promise of even cooler temperatures.
The leaves along the sidewalks are starting to surrender to amber and rust, and begin gathering in soft drifts along the stoops of buildings.
The trees outside Dr. Sage’s office window are caught between seasons, half-green and half-gold.
Like me they’re in their own transition.
Her office is on the third floor of a quiet building in the West Village.
It’s a little bit of a hike to get here but well worth it.
The waiting room smells faintly of eucalyptus and something citrusy, and inside her small office everything is deliberate.
Warm wooden shelves, and thoughtfully muted art.
There’s no clutter, no harsh lighting, and a soft woven rug.
Dr. Sage herself is calm in a very un-clinical way.
She’s probably in her late thirties or early forties, and she wears her beautiful micro-braids in a large bun on the top of her head.
Her thoughtful eyes don’t dart away when I struggle to hold contact, and she listens in a way that's alert, but personal and intentional.
She makes me feel heard without feeling too exposed, and that's harder to find than people think.
I sit back into her couch, my fingers loosely threaded in my lap, and I take in the view through the window for a moment.
After the assault, I didn’t trust my own body.
I didn’t trust my instincts anymore. My memory.
My strength. Nothing. The first week after it happened, I kept replaying everything, the bar, the spinning sidewalk, the way my limbs wouldn’t respond.
I blamed the drinks. I blamed myself for staying, for not leaving sooner.
For letting Marc near me at all. Riley wouldn’t hear any of it, but trauma doesn’t listen to reason.
So I put myself in therapy. Not because I’m broken. But because I refuse to let what he did to me define the shape of my future.
Dr. Sage glances down at her notes, then back up at me. “You mentioned at the beginning of our work together that alcohol was… a coping strategy,” she says carefully. “Where are you with that now?”
I shift back into the couch, fingers laced loosely in my lap. “I’m sober,” I say. “Three months now.”
Her eyebrows lift in recognition. “Three months is significant.” She smiles. “How does it feel to say that out loud?”
I let out a breath through my nose. “Strange. Good. Terrifying.”
“Tell me about the terrifying part.”
“I guess it’s the idea that I don’t have a buffer anymore,” I admit. “No quick escape hatch. No ‘just one drink’ to smooth the edges.” I glance toward the window. “I had been doing good on my own but that night at Sal’s…” I trail off. “That was the last time.”
She nods knowingly. “And what do you do in those moments where you feel like you might slip?”
“I call my mom. Or Riley,” I answer. “Or I go for a run, maybe paint. Or I sit with it. Which… sucks.”
She smiles faintly. “Sitting with it is often the hardest work.”
I nod. “I don’t want to be someone who loses himself when things get hard.”
“Do you think that's about control? Or finality?” She prods.
“Maybe? I’m not going to say I’ll never drink again,” I add. “I think that feels too absolute. But right now, I need to know that when I walk into a room, I’m fully there.”
“And how does that version of you feel?”
I consider it. “Clear,” I say. “Pretty raw, but clear.”
She nods. “So it sounds like you’re choosing presence.” Dr. Sage shifts slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her notes resting loosely on her knee. “How’re you sleeping?” she asks gently.
“Better,” I say, nodding my head slightly, pulling my gaze from the outside world to her.
“Are you still having the dreams?”
I take a breath and shake my head. “No. Neither of them.”
“That’s great,” she agrees, making a small note on her pad. But when she looks up, she calls me out. “Why doesn’t that seem to feel—” She searches for the right word.
“Happy?” I select for her.
“Okay, sure. Why doesn’t it seem to make you happy?”
I drum my fingers on the tops of my legs, and search for an answer. “They’re gone, or at least they haven’t shown up in a couple weeks.”
“And yet,” she presses carefully, “you don’t sound relieved.”
“I am relieved,” I say quickly, shifting in my seat. “Trust me. I’m glad I’m not waking up drenched in sweat thinking I can’t move and that someone is over me. Or hearing metal tearing in my sleep, hearing my late fiancé scream.”
Her gaze softens. “Do you regret how the police handled it?”
My jaw tightens. “They didn’t handle it,” I respond flatly. “There wasn’t enough evidence. Even with Riley. Even with the bartender saying he saw Marc hovering.” I shake my head. “It became he-said-he-said.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “And how does that sit with you?”
“It makes me angry,” I admit. “But I’m not surprised.” I stare at the rug for a moment before continuing. “I filed a formal complaint at work and HR took it seriously. They force transferred him from New York and put him on a probationary period.”
“And?”
“And I heard a month later he was fired. Inappropriate conduct on a layover. I can’t say I was shocked.”
Dr. Sage’s brows lift slightly. “How did it make you feel?”
I exhale slowly. “Vindicated, I think,” I say first. “Like I wasn’t crazy.”
A beat. “And also unsettled.”
“Unsettled how?”
“Because it meant it wasn’t just me.” My voice is quiet now. “Which means there were probably others before me too.”
She nods once.
“You stopped a pattern,” she states.
The words land differently. “But I didn’t necessarily get justice,” I reply.
“But you got accountability,” she counters gently. “Those aren’t always the same thing.”
I sit with that.
“Do you wish the legal outcome had been different?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say immediately. “I wish he’d had to sit in a courtroom and hear what he did described out loud.” My throat tightens. “But I also don’t want to spend my life in that story.”
She leans forward slightly. “That sounds pretty important.”
“It is. I’m glad the dreams about him are gone,” I say firmly. “I don’t miss reliving it. I don’t miss feeling trapped.”
“And Drew?” she asks softly. That one hits deep.
“The crash dreams aren’t as vivid anymore either,” I admit. “It used to be twisted metal and vivid. Now it’s more silent.”
She lets that settle.
“It feels like avoidance, I think.”
She waits.
“As awful as it was to live through that plane crash over and over again, that was the only time I saw Drew. He doesn’t come to me in my dreams anymore.”
Silence stretches between us.
“So when the dreams stopped,” she finally says. “What replaced them?”
I consider that. “Nothing really. That’s the thing, just blank sleep. No images. No fear. But also no, like, processing. Just a…”
She goes to write something down but stops as I trail off. She looks up, waiting. “Cameron?”
I exhale. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just weird.”
“Try me.”
I look down at my hands, flex my fingers once, then give in.
“There’s this forest,” I say quietly. “In my dream.”
She leans back slightly, attentive.
“It’s always the same. Misty. Pine trees. The air feels cold and dense, but not threatening. Like it’s holding something.”
“And you’re alone?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “But I’m not scared.” That’s the part that feels important. “I’m walking,” I continue. “Not running. Not lost. Just moving forward.”
She nods slightly. “And?”
I swallow. “Last night was different.”
Her pen pauses above the page.
“I heard something moving through the trees. Heavy and controlled.” My chest tightens slightly just remembering it. “And then it stepped out.”
“What stepped out?”
“A deer,” I explain. “But not small. Not delicate. Enormous. Deep red coat. Massive rack of antlers. It just stood there. Looking at me.”
“How did you feel?”
“Seen,” I admit. “Not threatened. Just… seen.”
She nods slowly. “And then?”
“It didn’t charge. Didn’t run.” I shake my head. “It just held my gaze.”
A beat passes.
“And when I woke up?” I let out a soft, disbelieving breath. “All I could think about was Scotland.”
Her eyes sharpen slightly.
“Scotland?”
“Yeah. Remember Gregg? He told me once.” My voice lowers. “There’s an old telling, and that if you come across a deer like that in the forest, you’ve wandered far enough.”
The words hang between us and Dr. Sage tilts her head. “How does that interpretation sit with you?”
“I don’t know,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just a dream, right?”
She smiles faintly. “Is it?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
She studies me with frustrating and compassionate clarity.
“Why did you hesitate when I asked if anything replaced the nightmares?” she asks softly.
I sigh. “Because it feels dangerous to admit I’m still dreaming about something connected to Gregg.”
She nods. “Does the deer feel like danger?”
“No.”
“Does it feel like Marc?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Does it feel like Drew?”
I shake my head and she lets that settle.
“So perhaps,” she offers carefully, “it isn’t about trauma.”
“Maybe.” I swallow. “Maybe it’s about choice.”
She smiles gently. “And what happens if you’ve wandered far enough?”
I close my eyes for a moment. “I decide where to stand.”
Dr. Sage studies me for a long moment, then sets her pen down entirely. “I think you've hit a breakthrough.”
I blink at her. “Because of a deer?”
She smiles. “Because you’re no longer dreaming about survival. You’re dreaming about standing still.” She folds her hands in her lap. “I also think you’ve been avoiding something.”
“You mean London.” I sigh.
“Mhm.”
I look away, half-smiling. “Occupational hazard. It’s a big airline, but a small world.”
“And yet,” she says mildly, “you’ve consistently swapped out of your London trips.”
“You’ve been keeping a tally?” I let out a quiet laugh.
“I’ve been listening.”
I run a hand over my jaw. “I didn’t want to run into him,” I admit, “at the airport. Or on a layover. Or worse, on the plane.”
“And now?”
I sit with that for a moment. “Now I think that might’ve been… silly,” I say slowly. “What are the chances? It’s not like he’s just strolling through the terminal waiting for me.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Okay,” I add, exhaling. “Maybe not silly. But definitely avoidant.”
Dr. Sage nods. “So what are you doing about that?”
“I’m flying back tonight actually,” I say, meeting her eyes “First time back to the U.K. since everything.”
“And how does that feel?”
“Terrifying,” I admit. “And weirdly steady.”
She tilts her head. “Steady?”
“It doesn’t feel like I’m running anymore,” I say. “If I see him, I see him. If I don’t, I don’t.”
“And Riley?” she prompts gently.
I huff a soft laugh. “She’s on the trip with me. She’s been seeing Julian. Swapped out of all her Italy trips we had together to see him as much as she can.”
That earns a small, satisfied nod. “And how does that feel?”
“Complicated,” I say honestly. “He’s Gregg’s best friend. It makes the world smaller.”
“Does it make it feel inevitable?” she asks carefully.
I hesitate. “I don’t know. But it makes avoiding feel pointless.”
Silence settles, not heavy this time.
“I don’t know what will happen if I run into him.” I sigh. “I don’t know if I’ll fall apart. Or stay calm. Or just stand there.”
“Well, you’re sober,” she reminds me gently.
I nod.
“And you’re aware,” she continues. “And you’ve done difficult things before.”
I let that sink in and she leans back slightly, her tone softening. “Fate will do what fate does,” she says. “Airports are strange crossroads. So are forests.”
I smile faintly.
“All you can do,” she adds, “is rely on your strengths and move through life as best you can.”