35. Grayson

Chapter 35

Grayson

I clench the steering wheel and watch a brunette head disappear behind the automatic doors at the airport. Something primal in me tells me I need to chase after her. To put her back in my car and not let her go. I inhale a deep breath like every website about post-traumatic stress disorder says to do. Macy "diagnosed" me with it. Apparently, she's done plenty of book research to know about the disorder, however, she's not a professional, so I take what she says with a grain of salt and read the articles she sends me because I love her. I check my phone at each traffic light on the drive home. I get several texts from her, per my request.

I'm through security.

At my gate.

Once I park my car in the driveway my phone dings again.

Just boarded the plane.

I have no idea how long she's going to be gone since she bought a one-way ticket to Idaho so she can sell her house and move her belongings across the country. She might rent a moving truck, which makes it feel as though my airway is being restricted every time the thought crosses my mind.

I've made it less than a foot through my front door when I see a blue hair tie on my kitchen counter. The one Macy always has on her wrist. She puts it in her hair when she writes or when the wind is relentless. Sometimes she mindlessly plays with it in her hands, tying it in knots or wrapping it around her fingers. I pick it up and slide it onto my left wrist. This is all I'd have left if something happened to her, driving all the way from Idaho to Florida. This flimsy blue band might outlast her. I bring my wrist to my nose and inhale the scent of her shampoo, which will fade overtime. If she doesn't return, I'll never smell it again.

It's not even noon and my morbid thoughts have already begun. To get my mind off such tragic possibilities, I grab my laptop and bring it out onto my porch and perch it on my lap. I work for an hour, numbing my mind with numbers. No matter what happens, two plus two will always equal four. Math will never be taken from me, so I cling to my numbers until something in my peripheral moves and gains my attention.

Standing on the railing of my porch is a pelican with an injured leg. The one Macy refuses to feed. My mind is back on her, and my worry is amplified to the point where I can't even add two plus two. I shut my laptop and go inside, where I see white dusty shoeprints covering the floor.

I pull out a mop and wipe away the tracks. Once I'm done, I feel slightly better, until I see new shoeprints. I slowly look down at my feet and realize I never removed my shoes.

My mom was vigilant when it came to reminding Delilah to remove her shoes when we walked through the door. My dad always seemed to have a million thoughts swirling through his head and never remembered to take his off. I can recall my mom's irritation and the look of confusion on his face when she'd cross her arms over her chest and glare at him. He'd look down and laugh at his forgetfulness, remove his sneakers, and mop up the chalky floor.

My dad and I are not the same. He was creative like Macy. I'm more analytical like my uncle. I've never forgotten to remove my shoes. In fact, I understand why it's necessary. The white pebbles in the driveway leave the soles white and chalky. I can't function in anything less than pristine.

I put my dirty sneakers by the front door and mop again, remembering my mom's glare, my dad's easygoing laughter, and Delilah's sigh as she sat and untied her shoelaces. I always think the pain will kill me, but it never does. My heart continues to beat, keeping me from them.

I want to drown in a bottle of bourbon or whatever will burn the most as it goes down to distract me from the grief, but if I did that every time it hurt, I'd never be sober, and that's not the life they'd want for me, so I put my shoes back on and run until my thoughts have cleared.

Chest heaving and sweat dripping down my back, I chug a glass of water from the sink and recall the last conversation I had with Macy.

"Please come with me," she begged from my passenger seat.

I wanted to. It'd be so easy to get a plane ticket and follow her. To ensure she was safe. But Macy deserves more than I could give her if I left and avoided my problems. I need this. I need to let her go across the country. I need to let myself be terrified. I need to see her return home in one piece. Maybe then, once she's back in my arms, I'll learn that my fear is irrational. Maybe it will finally loosen its grip on me.

"You know how much I want to see all those farms," I joked. "But I think staying will be… I don't know, good for me."

At night when I'm in bed, I get a text from her.

Macy

Landed in Idaho. My dad just picked me up. Long flight. How was your day?

I roll over, squinting at the bright screen and text back.

Me

I bet you look super sexy with plane hair. Day was great, have so much more time on my hands when I'm not distracted by your presence.

An image comes through, and I laugh. It's a selfie of her with wild hair.

Macy

If my presence stumps your productivity that much, perhaps I should stay here.

Me

Macy Elizabeth Brookes, you're coming home to me and I'm going to be the happiest, most unproductive bastard this island has ever seen.

Macy

Elizabeth?

Me

An estimated guess. What is your middle name?

Macy

It's May for my birth month.

I google her zodiac sign.

Me

If I had known you were a Taurus, it would've saved us so much trouble. Our signs aren't compatible.

Macy

Well, they're the most sexually compatible.

Me

No surprise there.

Macy

I'm kidding. I don't know anything about astrology.

Me

Macy May Brookes.

Macy

Yes?

Me

Nothing. I just like the sound of it.

Macy

My dad doesn't play music when he drives. I should probably stop texting you so we can fill the awkward silence.

I frown.

Me

Text me when you get to your parent's house.

Macy

Will do. Talk later.

I set my phone beside me and wait for her text, which never comes. Two hours have passed, so I call her twice before she picks up. She sounds half asleep when she answers. "Hey."

"You never texted," I say. "I've been waiting for your message."

"I'm sorry," she says, sounding like she's mid-yawn. "I fell asleep in the car and hardly remember walking to the guest room. I fell back asleep the second my head hit the pillow."

I let out a breath of relief. "It's okay. I'm glad you're safe."

"Do you want to stay on the phone while we sleep?" she asks.

"Yeah." I curl onto my side and rest the phone on the pillow. "Goodnight, Macy May."

"Goodnight, Daniel Grayson."

She hardly texts me the next day. I know she's busy, but I imagine the worst.

A week goes by, and nightmares chase me awake every night. With little sleep, my thoughts become paralyzing. I hardly eat. I only leave my bed to use the bathroom. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I curse myself. Macy can't return home to this .

After several Google searches, I call a therapist by the second week. Her name is Linda, and she says she'd be happy to help me. I'm seeing her Friday.

When Friday comes, I pace the living room and clench my phone, considering calling and canceling. I assume therapy is like ripping open the stitches that are hardly keeping me in one piece. Like rebreaking a bone so it heals properly.

Macy deserves someone who's brave.

I grab my keys and drive off the island to meet Linda at her office. My hands shake and I sweat through my clothes, not bothering to play the radio. I was too anxious to eat my omelet this morning, despite how hungry I was. Every time I tried to take a bite, I felt like I might gag.

I glance at the small office building; the outside is a beige color that begins to fade in some areas. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts.

I locate her office, and when I open the door to the small waiting room, cool air and the scent of strawberries greets me. I nearly freeze in place, my eyes automatically going to the candle on the receptionist's desk.

"How can I help you?" the lady asks.

I clear my throat, hoping my emotions don't break up my voice. "I have an appointment with Linda. My name's Grayson."

"Perfect, just have a seat and she'll be right with you."

There are only four chairs, so I take the one closest to the door in case I decide to make a run for it. I inhale the comforting scent of strawberries. I tell myself that Delilah pulled some strings to make the room smell of her favorite fruit, knowing that once I smelled it, I'd have no choice but to stay.

My knee bounces and I press my palms into my thighs, trying to calm myself. I stare at a painting on the wall, trying to decipher what it is. The spiky circles look like bacteria under a microscope, though, that's certainly not what the painting is supposed to be. The door to the hallway opens, stealing me from my thoughts.

"Grayson," a dark-haired woman with kind eyes says.

I stand and follow her through the short hallway to a small office. A white noise machine is placed by the door to drown out any noise.

"First time seeing a therapist?" she asks as I stare at the blue couch, not making a move to sit on it.

I nod. "Am I supposed to lay down?"

She chuckles. "I've never actually had a patient lay down, but you certainly can if you would like."

I clear my throat and sit on the sofa. "That won't be necessary."

She sits across from me on a plush green chair. "So, Grayson, what brings you here?"

I blink several times trying to find the words. The white noise hums, and it is the only sound in the room. "My girlfriend says I have PTSD."

She raises her brows. "Does she now?"

I smile at the discussion of my favorite topic. Macy. "She's not a therapist, but apparently the ‘signs' I'm showing are textbook. So, here I am."

"Can you tell me a little bit more about these signs?" She leans back, crossing her legs at the ankle.

"Nightmares. Anxiety. Um, a lot of…unwanted thoughts."

"Sounds like a lot to deal with. Why don't you tell me a little more about these unwanted thoughts."

"Right," I say. I glance out her window, tree branches blow in the wind. "I keep picturing my girlfriend…dying."

She writes something down. "Why do you think that is?"

"Well, I know why, but I've actually only said the words once." She waits patiently while I clench my jaw and try to steel myself enough to speak. My eyes sting when I say, "My entire family died in a car accident when I was six." A tear slides down my cheek when I blink. "I've been isolated since then, until recently. I haven't had much to lose, but now I love this girl and—" My voice breaks. "I can't lose her too."

Linda is kind and sensitive. I tell her about the anxiety and the reoccurring nightmare. She suggests an approach called EMDR. She explains that it stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, and that it helps people heal from trauma. Linda says she can direct my eye movements by moving her hand from side to side, or I can choose to tap my thighs bilaterally while I recall the memory of that day. Apparently, this process will help me overcome the PTSD.

We schedule for twice a week. I leave through the waiting room, smiling when I inhale the scent.

The hot sun greets me when I step outside, and I glance at the beige building, not as intimidated by it as I was an hour ago.

I've already had four therapy sessions by the time I get Macy's text.

I'm going to rent a moving van and drive my stuff down. I'll be home in a week or so.

The week she's on the road, Linda tells me it might be good to spend time with a friend. When I call Elliot, I hold Macy's hair tie in my hand, hoping the blue thing will give me the courage to say the words again. He answers on the second ring. "Hey, I know you probably don't want to hear from me, man. I-I wanted to apologize for the other night and explain."

It's silent for three heart beats. "Okay."

I tell him that we already met when we were kids and that my family passed away, not able to get into much detail. I explain my PTSD diagnosis, which Linda officially gave me. "That night when I got the alert that Macy was in a crash, it was like I was reliving it. I just wanted to let you know. I'm sorry that I scared you and the girls."

"Shit," he says. "I've heard bits and pieces about what happened to your family while I was growing up, but I had no idea it was you . I'm so sorry for your loss."

"How would you know? And hey, do you mind telling Julia and Sarah? I don't want them to think I'm some nutjob dating their friend."

"Of course, man. I'm not doing anything tomorrow; you want to do something?"

I release a relieved breath. "Yeah, that'd be great."

The next day, Julia and Sarah lay on chairs and bathe in sunlight. They don't treat me any differently than they do each other, and I'm grateful for it. Elliot and I sit on a sandy sheet beneath the navy-blue umbrella he brought. He hands me a slice of watermelon, and when I take the first bite, sticky juice drips down my chin.

"Hey, by the way, I need to spend the night at your house," Julia says to her sister.

Sarah lowers her sunglasses and raises a brow.

"There was a cockroach in my bathroom," she says as way of explanation.

"I'm not following," Elliot says.

Julia sighs. "I screamed and shut the door. I have no clue where it went! It could be anywhere now."

For the first time in weeks, I laugh.

"I'd eat a cockroach for the right amount of money," Elliot says.

"That's disgusting," Julia says.

"You would too for the right price."

"No, I wouldn't!"

"Ten thousand dollars?" I ask.

She looks at me like she's considering it, then Elliot claps his hands together and says, "Told you!" He leans back on his elbows. "You just have to get past that initial pop."

Sarah snorts and Julia looks like she might retch.

Later that day, Elliot and I search Julia's house for the insect. After an hour, Elliot sighs and says, "I guess Julia is sleeping on our pullout couch."

I'm so exhausted from being in the sun for the majority of the day that I fall asleep the second my head touches my pillow. No nightmares.

"How would you say your anxiety has been on a scale from one to ten since our last session?" Linda asks, crossing her legs at the ankle and tilting her head, awaiting my reply.

"Well, I spent time with my friends like you suggested," I say.

"And?"

"And I didn't have a nightmare that night. But the next day I couldn't focus on my work, so I requested Macy's location, which she sent. I watched a little blue dot slowly move across the map for several hours. So, I'd say nine."

She smiles and writes something down. "All of our sessions, you answered ten. What brought you from a ten to a nine?"

"A nine isn't good," I say.

"It's an improvement."

"Hardly," I mumble. "It's not a ten because after looking at her location for most of the day to make sure it was still moving, I made myself stop. And at first it felt like I had lost whatever semblance of control I had. I reminded myself that Macy is smart and she's a good driver. I realized checking her location wasn't going to change anything. It made me feel like I was in control, but I wasn't, and staring at a blue dot all day is pathetic, so I went for a run and then met my friend Elliot at the restaurant he works at."

Linda smiles the entire time I tell my story. "What did you do differently that day?"

"I accepted that I don't have control over everything."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Horrible…but also a little relieved. Worrying was my way of feeling in control, but it doesn't change anything and just makes me feel sick to my stomach."

"Your anxiety might be at a nine, but your progress is substantial. This is really brave work."

I give her a tight-lipped nod.

"I think we can pick up where we left off last session with our EMDR. Are you okay with that?"

I inhale a deep breath. "Yes."

"Okay, I want you to bring up that memory we started with last time. Let me know when you have it."

I remember it. The look on that police officer's face when she struggled to tell me what happened. I nod.

"What thoughts come up when you think of this image. Tell me with an ‘I am' statement."

I think of that moment when the officer told me my family went to heaven. And then my disbelief, so I say, "I am shocked."

"Okay, and how much do you believe this statement on a scale from one to seven."

"Um, I guess seven." I shrug.

"Think of that memory and the words ‘I am shocked.' How disturbing is this to you on a scale from one to seven."

My heart races. "Six."

"Where do you feel it in your body?"

"My chest."

"Okay, let's get started Grayson, and if at any point it gets too much, I want you to say the word ‘Stop.' Okay?"

I nod.

"Go to that memory and tap your legs bilaterally, and let's see what comes up."

I do so, closing my eyes and letting my mind take over. Fragments of that night come to mind. I feel every emotion I did when I was six, and then Linda tells me to open my eyes after about a minute and asks what came up. I explain it to her briefly, and she tells me to keep going with it. I let my mind lead me where it needs to go, to the memories that need to be reprocessed, so I can heal. By the time it's over, my eyes feel swollen from all the tears I shed.

We talk for the last five minutes of session. "I think what stuck with me after all these years is how happy I was that day. Obviously, I was upset that Macy was going home, but for the most part, it was a good day. There was no… warning . One second, I was a little kid playing with my best friend, and the next, I was an orphan who lost not only my parents, but my twin sister. I think my mind tries to protect me by constantly being ready for it to happen again, reminding me that tragedy can break out at any moment."

"And that part of you, the one that's trying to protect you, how old does it think you are?"

I feel my teeth grind, my chest skipping a beat when I realize the answer to her question. "It thinks I'm a child."

"That's what I thought. I want you to close your eyes and show that part of you how old you are now, and everything you've accomplished as a twenty-three-year-old."

I think of the job I have, and how hard I worked to buy my house. I think of Macy and how lucky I am to have found her again. I feel myself tear up.

"I want you to thank that part. It served to protect you when you needed it, but now let's ask it if it's willing to let up now. Is it?"

"Yes," I say after a moment.

"Good," she smiles. "How does that feel?"

Like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders . "It feels pretty relieving," I say. Something sprouts in my chest. It feels like the beginning of hope, and I think if I continue to water it, it will grow into something beautiful. I vow to always put in the work, even when it's hard, because I want to see it flower.

So, when Linda asks if I want her to block me in for every Monday and Thursday at nine a.m., I say yes.