In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(27)

Up and down.

Up and down.

“So, is ending your life something you gave a lot of thought to?”

I sigh, taking in his modest navy-blue carpeted office. Pretty much what you’d expect from a shrink: a desk, a few chairs, some framed certificates, and lots of books. “Honestly? No. I mean . . . I don’t know how many nights I wished I’d gone to bed and simply not woken up, but I wasn’t really planning on anything.”

He nods like he understands. Does he, really? Or does that answer just fit the textbook definition of depression? “But that night . . .” he prods.

“That night . . .” I pick through my foggy recollection. Most of my thoughts veer toward the same thing nowadays anyway, so it’s not hard to pinpoint. “I started thinking about how f**ked up everything is, how many people I’ve hurt, and how I’ll never escape this feeling. How maybe I wasn’t meant to live. Then I thought it’d be a good idea to down half a bottle of scotch.”

“A depressant cocktail to amplify your deep depression. That worked out well, didn’t it . . .” The ball goes up and down. Oddly enough, it makes the entire conversation feel that much more casual. Like we’re not talking about how I tried to kill myself. I wonder if that’s a shrink technique. “How’d you end up in the car?”

An image of Kacey’s face hits me. I’m not willing to bring her name into this conversation yet. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I carry her around in my phone. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I sat outside her house. I definitely don’t want to admit what happened at that frat party. “I started wondering if being in a car will always be uncomfortable.” That’s one thing Kacey and I seem to have in common, though her phobia is on an entirely different level.

He kicks his feet up onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “And what made you put the hose in the exhaust and start the car?”

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

“What does it feel like?”

How can I possibly describe what’s going on inside me? I don’t think there’s any way to do it justice. But I try. “Like I’ve been wandering along an old dirt road for two years with no end in sight. Not a soul around me.” Again, Kacey’s face flashes through my mind. The feel of her mouth against mine, her arms wrapped around mine, her body wanting mine. For her, it was just another drunken night, another moment’s respite from her misery. For me, it was something deeper. On this endless, isolated journey, it was a momentary connection with the only other person to walk away from the accident. And it reminded me of what I’ll never have again, because who the hell would want to be stuck on this lonely road with me?

When I glance up, Dr. Stayner’s blue-gray eyes are dissecting me. Not in a “this idiot’s going to pay for my kitchen reno” way; in a way that’s full of compassion. I swallow against the forming lump. “So how are you gonna fix me?”

“Oh, I can’t fix you, Trent. I’ll take all the credit, mind you. It’s a great boost to my ego. But you have to fix you.”

Curiosity overcomes me. “You know my real name isn’t Trent, right?”

“Yes, your parents filled me in on your history.”

“So why are you calling me Trent? Do you agree that I should have changed my name?”

He shrugs. “Who do you want to be?”

“Not Cole Reynolds.”

“Then I guess that makes you Trent Emerson, now doesn’t it?” He tosses the ball a few more times. “I had a patient once. His name was Benny Flanagan, but he insisted that we call him Fidel Castro.”

I can’t stifle my snort. “What did you—”

“Fidel Castro.” He chuckles. “Fiddy, for short. He had some very serious identity issues. But, eventually he remembered that he was Benny Flanagan.”

“And what if I don’t ever want to go back to being Cole Reynolds again?”

“What if you can’t?” Dr. Stayner counters without missing a beat.

I frown. Is that a trick question?

He slaps the ball on his desk with a hard thud. “That’s what this is all about. You can’t go back. You can’t change what happened. You can’t resurrect the dead. You can only find ways to help yourself come to terms with it all. That’s the only way you’ll ever move on. What do you, Cole, Trent—whoever you want to be—need in order to move on? Because we can change where your future is heading. That’s why you’re here. We all want you to have a long and happy future.”

“Okay . . .” What he’s saying makes sense. To be honest, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. But when Dr. Stayner says it, I feel like he’s giving me the permission that I can’t give myself. “So, how am I going to fix myself?”

His feet slide unceremoniously off the desk. “Well, first and foremost, by remembering that you’re human.”

■ ■ ■

For a glorified mental hospital, this isn’t so bad. It’s not what I ever imagined a place like this to be. There are definitely no lunatics ranting about the end of the world or the army of voices in their heads. There are a lot of really nice people in private rooms and smiling staff to get you whatever you need; there’s a gym that I’ve spent a good deal of time in; there’s a small yard with oak trees and tiny purple flowers waking up after a long winter, and wooden benches you can sit on to enjoy the spring air.