Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(84)

“That’s excellent,” she says. “But I also want you to give yourself grace if it ends up being hard. I fully support you wanting to make new memories—it’s been working well for you—but this day still has baggage.”

“It’s not fair,” I say fiercely.

“I never said it was,” she says. She leans in, clasping her hands together again. “Penny, does Cooper know anything about Preston?”

“No,” I admit.

“Why do you think you’ve been holding back?”

I shred the tissue into little strips, then realize I’m making a mess, so I ball it into my fist instead. I force myself to meet Dr. Faber’s eyes. “What if he finds out and decides it’s too much to handle?”

“Has he done anything that makes you feel like that’s a possibility?”

“It’s always a possibility.” I fiddle with my moon ring; it’s that or grab another tissue to destroy. “What if he thinks…”

I can’t even say it aloud, but Dr. Faber catches my drift.

“Only you know the right time to tell him,” she says. “But I would encourage you to try to be open about it. Go with your instincts on this one. You just told me that you’re starting to trust him. If you trust him with your past, it could bring you even closer.”

“Or send him away.”

“Maybe,” she says. She reaches forward, covering my hand with her own. “But love is almost always worth the risk.”





51





PENNY





All good at the therapist





Finished now





Coop



Good girl. I’m out front





I stuff my phone into my bag and pull up my collar before heading out of the building. Cooper’s truck is right by the curb. I hide my smile—the echo of praise bouncing around in my mind—as I pull open the door. I’m grateful that he isn’t making me walk all the way across the parking lot, because the wind is miserable.

The first year I lived in New York, I thought the change in weather would help me. When I lived in Tempe, February meant nice, mild weather. A nice night is what led to that house party, after all. I wanted the bitter air and messy slush to remind me I wasn’t anywhere near Preston.

It hasn’t exactly worked out like that, but maybe this year—with Cooper’s birthday to celebrate—I’ll finally move on. I ended my session with Dr. Faber on a hopeful note, especially since my meds are still working well and I’ve been able to successfully use my coping mechanisms. Plus, I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack since I met Cooper, and that must count for something.

He leans over to kiss me as I buckle in. It’s toasty warm in the truck cab, and his beard scratches against my skin pleasantly. I deepen the kiss before he can pull away, and somehow, that makes him lean his elbow on the horn. The honk startles us both into laughter.

Love. Dr. Faber mentioned love. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever tell anyone those words ever again. I’m still not sure, but the possibility sparkles in the distance like a far-off sun shower.

“Whoops,” he says, darting in for one last kiss before putting the truck in drive. “Sure everything’s okay?”

“I’m good,” I say firmly. I take out my phone to text the same thing to my dad. “It was mostly a checkup for my next prescription.”

“Good.” He cranes his neck around to make sure no one is coming before he pulls out of the lot. “Good girl. I’m proud of you.”

I flush. “It was just a therapy session.”

“And that’s hard fucking work. There are gummy bears for you in the glove compartment.”

My heart does the staccato as I pull them out. When Dad used to take me to therapy, back when I needed it more often, he always had a pick-me-up for after, ice cream or a trip to Barnes and Noble or even gummy bears. The fact that Cooper thought of the same gesture is sweeter than he knows.

“You’re still cool with going to this game?” he asks.

“Totally. I want to meet your uncle.”

“Cool.” He settles his hand on my thigh, driving one-handed. Heat fills my belly. The casually possessive nature, combined with the fact he didn’t draw any attention to it, is hot enough to make me want to ask him to pull over. I haven’t blown him in his truck since we first got together, so we’re due for it. Maybe after the game. The other day, he joked about me fingering him, and since then, I’ve been unable to stop thinking about how hot it would be to give him a taste of his own medicine—especially if I had his cock stuffed down my throat at the same time. It’s something I’ve always been into, but I didn’t even put it on The List; I didn’t think that I’d ever be able to find a guy that in-tune with my fantasies.

He glances over. “What are you thinking about?”

“Dirty things.”

He shakes his head. “You’re hornier than I am.”

“Only sometimes.” I play with his fingers, biting my lip as I look at him. He glances over again, swallowing, and I almost ask him to ditch the game so we can go fuck instead, but I know how important all of this is to him. The relationship he’s been building with Ryan, which his mother is grateful for because she doesn’t know the first thing about hockey, and the one he’s rekindling with his uncle now that he’s two years sober and back in his life.