Chapter Thirty-Six
Breakthrough
Crew
Dr. Reyes’s office hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve been coming here.
Same beige couch. Same abstract art on the walls that I’ve never understood. Same box of tissues on the side table that I’ve never touched. The consistency used to comfort me—one more thing I could count on, one more anchor in a world that felt perpetually unstable.
Today, it just feels familiar. And that’s enough.
“You seem different,” Dr. Reyes observes. She’s a small woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and a bullshit detector that could rival any FBI interrogator. “Something’s shifted.”
“Maybe.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I stare at the abstract art—blue and gold swirls that might be the ocean or might be nothing at all. “I’m taking Emmie on a date tonight.”
“The roommate.”
“Yeah.”
“The one you ended things with because you were convinced you’d ruin her life.”
I wince. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“How would you prefer I say it?”
“I don’t know. Less accurately.”
Dr. Reyes almost smiles. She’s been my therapist long enough to appreciate my particular brand of deflection. “So what changed?”
What changed? Where do I even start?
“We went to the cabin,” I say slowly. “The one in Oklahoma. I finished it, and she convinced me to have a housewarming. Friends came. We spent the weekend together, and I—” I run a hand through my hair. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. That I don’t want her. That I’m not—”
The word sticks in my throat.
“Not what?” Dr. Reyes prompts gently.
“In love with her.”
The words hang in the air. I’ve never said them out loud before—not to Foster, not to Emmie, not even to myself. But sitting here, in this room where I’ve slowly learned to dismantle the walls I built around myself, they feel true.
“That’s significant,” Dr. Reyes says.
“I know.”
“How does it feel? Saying it out loud?”
I consider the question. “Terrifying. But also…” I search for the right word. “Right. It feels right.”
“And the date tonight? What are you hoping for?”
“I want to do it properly this time. Not fake. Not an arrangement. Just me and her, figuring out if this can be real.”
“Do you believe it can be?”
A month ago, I would have said no. A month ago, I was convinced I was too broken, too damaged, too fundamentally incapable of being what she needed. I would have listed all the reasons I couldn’t have this—my OCD, my anxiety, my trauma, my inability to let people in.
“I’m starting to,” I say. “Believe it can be real.”
Dr. Reyes nods slowly. “That’s growth, Crew. Significant growth.”
“It doesn’t feel like growth. It feels like I’m about to jump off a cliff and hope there’s water at the bottom.”
“That’s what vulnerability feels like. You’ve spent your whole life building walls to protect yourself. Choosing to lower them—choosing to let someone in—that takes courage.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Sometimes they look the same.” She leans back in her chair. “Can I share an observation?”
“Could I stop you?”
“No.” Another almost smile. “When you first came to me, you were in survival mode. Every decision, every routine, every relationship—or lack thereof—was designed to minimize risk. To keep you safe from the kind of pain you experienced as a child.”
I nod. This isn’t new information. Still sucks to hear her say it so plainly. The sad, lonely boy became a sad, lonely man.
“But safety isn’t the same as living,” she continues. “And somewhere along the way, I think you started to realize that. The cabin you built. The friendships you’ve maintained. And now, Emmie.” She pauses. “You’re not just surviving anymore, Crew. You’re choosing to live. That’s not nothing.”
I stare at the carpet, throat tight.
“The fear won’t go away,” Dr. Reyes says.
“Not completely. You’ll still have moments where your brain tells you to run, to protect yourself, to push people away before they can leave.
But you have tools now. Strategies. And more importantly, you have evidence that you can do hard things and come out the other side. ”
“Evidence?”
“The cabin. Your career. Two years of consistent therapy.” She holds my gaze. “You’re not the same person who walked into this office, Crew. You’ve done the work. You’ve earned the right to want things.”
Wanting things is dangerous. The old thought surfaces automatically—a reflex, a scar that never fully healed.
But maybe Dr. Reyes is right. Maybe I’ve spent so long protecting myself from loss that I forgot to consider what I might gain.
“What if I mess it up?” The question comes out smaller than I intend.
“Then you mess it up. And you learn. And you try again.” She tilts her head. “What would you tell the version of yourself who aged out of foster care at eighteen? The one who had nothing and no one?”
I think about that kid. Angry. Scared. Convinced that he was fundamentally unlovable, that something was broken inside him that could never be fixed.
“I’d tell him it gets better,” I say quietly. “That someday he’ll have an apartment. A job he’s good at. And people who give a shit about him.” I swallow hard. “I’d tell him he’s not as alone as he thinks.”
“And what would you tell him about love?”
The question lands somewhere deep.
“I’d tell him—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “I’d tell him that he deserves it. Even if he doesn’t believe it yet. Even if it takes him thirty years to figure out how to accept it.”
Dr. Reyes is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is gentle. “So why can’t you tell yourself that now?”
I don’t have an answer.
Or maybe I do, and I’m just not ready to say it out loud. Shit, there’s something in my damn eye. I blink hard and inhale sharply.
“Crew.” She leans forward. “You’ve spent your whole life believing you’re not worthy of the things other people have. A home. A family. Love. But beliefs aren’t facts. They’re just stories we tell ourselves—and stories can be rewritten.”
I think about Emmie. The way she looks at me like I’m worth looking at. The way she stayed, even when I pushed her away. The way she makes me want to be better—not because I’m not enough, but because she makes me believe I could be more.
“I want to rewrite it,” I admit. “I want to believe I can have this.”
“Then start there. Start with wanting it.” Dr. Reyes smiles—a real smile this time. “And see where it takes you.”
I leave her office feeling lighter than I have in months.
The fear is still there—it probably always will be. The self-doubt and anxiety. But underneath it, something else. Something that feels suspiciously like hope.