Dark Sexy Knight (A Modern Fairytale)(78)

He was damn sure it wasn’t him.

He looked up. “This thing that’s wrong with me? I don’t know if it can be fixed. It’s like I’m . . . broken, doc.”

Dr. Warren leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “No, Colton. You aren’t broken. You’re sick. Just like your father was sick. What you have, as you know, is a medical condition—an anger disorder called intermittent explosive disorder, which we’ve started treating medically and psychologically.”

“Like I said, broken.”

“Recovering,” said Dr. Warren with a warning edge in his voice. “Since we started you on that SSRI three weeks ago, you’ve started healing. Let me ask you this: is there medical maintenance involved with controlling a disorder like diabetes? Yes. Will there be medical maintenance involved to control your IED? Of course. Diabetics take insulin; you take an SSRI. And you already know that when you head back into the real world, you’re going to need to continue with psychotherapy and your medication regime, but you also have some tools for when that boiling and churning starts inside.”

Colt sighed. It was true that since he’d been taking the SSRI medication, he hadn’t felt the simmering rage that had been his constant companion for most of his life, and it was a blessed relief. He would still get annoyed or irritated, but those feelings didn’t build and build until they climaxed with him breaking furniture or hitting people.

Despite the fact that he didn’t experience any negative side effects with his medication, it made him feel weak to have to take it. Part of him hated that he was going to need to be on medication for the rest of his life. He shared as much with Dr. Warren.

“Does insulin make a diabetic weak? No. It’s a medication that saves his life. An SSRI is saving yours. Besides, we don’t know that you’ll need to be on the meds forever,” he said. “The brain is uncharted territory. It’s possible that, after a few years on the SSRI, we could try weaning you off and see how you do. You’re a strong man, Colton. What’s amazing to me, as I’ve shared with you before, is how well you managed to control your anger, medically unaided, for most of your life. You’re strong. Much stronger than you give yourself credit for. But there was only so much longer you could have lasted without putting someone in a coma . . . or worse. I know you may not want to hear it, but the best thing that ever happened to you was being remanded into my care.”

Doc Warren was trying to be encouraging, but Colt knew better. The best thing that had ever happened to him was Verity . . . the woman he’d willfully shoved out of his life thirty days ago.

“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” said the doc softly, with his uncanny knack for reading Colt’s mind.

Colt swallowed over the lump in his throat, remembering her broken voice after he told her he never wanted to see her face again. He shook his head. “No. I . . . I hurt her. Bad. If I was her . . .” He paused, the wave of sadness inside almost unbearable. Sadness, not anger. Another important distinction, though the small victory was washed away with his sorrow. “. . . I’d be long gone by now.”

“Maybe.” Dr. Warren nodded, giving Colt a sad smile before cocking his head to the side. “But love’s unpredictable. That guy in the song didn’t expect a hundred yellow ribbons either.”

“What guy?”

“I’m dating myself here,” said the doc, laughing softly. “Old song called ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.’ Don’t know it?”

Colt shook his head.

Dr. Warren sighed. “Well, it’s about this guy, and, well, I guess he just got out of jail after a few years. And this is in the seventies, before cell phones and the Internet, so he wrote his sweetheart a letter saying he’d be passing her house on a bus, and if she tied a yellow ribbon around the oak tree in the front yard, he’d get off the bus and come home to her. If not . . .” The doc shrugged. “. . . he’d stay on the bus and leave her alone to get on with her life.”

Colt leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk. “What happened?”

“Let’s see . . . Well, I guess they get to her neighborhood, and the guy can’t even bear to look out the window, you know? Because he’s sure the tree will be bare. So he asks the bus driver to look for him. And suddenly the whole bus starts cheering, and he looks out the window. Instead of one ribbon, she’s tied a hundred around the tree.”

“Fuck,” said Colt, clenching his teeth and blinking his eyes.

Dr. Warren gave him a look for swearing, then shrugged. “I’ll forgive that one because that song, my friend, is one hell of a tearjerker.”

Colt stared down at his hands on the desk, thinking about the guy on the bus. He knew exactly how he felt. But at least that lucky bastard had a speck of hope. Colt didn’t even have that. He’d told her to go, and after the way he’d treated her, he was certain she was long gone.

The doc cleared his throat. “What do you have to lose by writing to her? If she’s already gone, you lose nothing. If there’s a chance she stuck around, it could tip the scales in your favor if she knew you were sorry. If she knew that you still, well, love her. That is, if you do love her.”

More than anything.

“What if she doesn’t write back?”

“Again,” said Dr. Warren, “what will have you lost by trying?”