23. Connor

It wasn't like I'd never thought about talking to someone.

Of course, the first time someone had suggested it, I'd been fighting with Trev and his words had lashed out and cut me.

You need to get some fucking help.

After that, it'd felt impossible to do it, like spreading the wound he'd made a little bigger. Then we'd separated, and it'd felt unfair to do the work after he left.

Then, last fall when I got back to the city, after I'd gotten back from Cider Landing and realized there was something I wanted that required me to... at least edge toward healing, I'd sought out a psychiatrist. She'd helped me figure out medication, but when I drifted off on a tangent, she'd very patiently let me know that psychotherapy wasn't part of her usual practice, but encouraged me to seek out someone to talk to.

She'd even given me a list of people that she thought might be helpful for me to reach out to. I just... hadn't.

It was hard, thinking about taking up someone else's time with my problems. And I didn't want to hear, yet again, that I needed to move on, distance myself from my past, from Jessie, from Cider Landing. I didn't want to hear that everyone was right, that I was being stubborn and ridiculous.

But even if I hadn't expected that, well, I still expected any therapist to have better ways to spend their time than talking to me, right? I had enormous privilege. Wouldn't it be selfish to pay someone for the privilege of complaining?

Maybe I'd waste their time, or worse, I'd be the focus of someone's acute attention for an uncomfortable length of time and?—

No, no, I just hadn't worked up the courage.

But Mattias was obviously struggling with his grandmother's aging, and, well, he was right. If he'd benefit from talking to someone about what he was going through, I certainly would. Even if the idea of talking about myself for an hour made my skin crawl, I could try this. We'd do it together.

When we got back to the inn, Mattias set me to mixing the cookie dough. While I stirred it, he pulled out his computer to call a local place and make us appointments.

Nerves made my stomach clench, but this would—this would be fine, right? Definitely wouldn't make Mattias realize what a mess I was and that he was better off not indulging me.

"Hey," he looked up when he was done with the phone call. A second later, he was at my side, gently running his hand down my forearm. "You don't have to go that hard," he said, a teasing note in his tone. He smiled when I looked at him, but it wavered. "And you don't have to do this with me if it's too much."

I felt a stab of disappointment—his, not mine—and flinched. "No, it's not—" I clutched the wooden spoon so hard my knuckles went white. "I'm just worried. I'm scared you're going to, uh, find out I'm too much or too broken or a fucking mess and that it'd be better if you... didn't? Which is—honestly, I get it. I am a lot and kind of broken and a total fucking mess, and I have no idea how to fix it—how to be someone worth, I guess, being with?"

The fear came up my throat, choking the air out of me. After all, hadn't everyone left? Jessie'd disappeared. Trev couldn't stand being around me. Dad died. Mom was disappointed. Most of my friends had—well, people picked sides in a divorce, even a relatively amicable one, and Trevor was more fun to be around than me, because I was so fucking stuck, and I couldn't breathe, and?—

"Hey." Mattias eased the spoon out of my hand and pulled me around to face him, but I couldn't take it.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I pinched the bridge of my nose. Still, Mattias's hands rubbed the tops of my arms and I could hear the smile in his voice.

"You are a lot," Mattias said quietly, "mostly a lot of good things, but not all perfect things, which, duh. Nobody's perfect, but you're pretty freaking great, and not broken, and you're less of a mess than I'd be in your shoes. Like, you didn't just sink into the floor and live like a cave bat, so, honestly? Pretty fucking impressive, in my opinion."

A single laugh bubbled out of my spasming chest and I dropped my hand, blinking fast, still avoiding looking into his eyes because?—

Well, Mattias was so fucking good, and I'd fallen apart.

"But even this," I griped. "I'm supposed to be charming and suave and sweep you off your feet and instead, I'm falling apart in your kitchen."

When Mattias tugged at my wrist, I looked at him. Once he had my eyes, he looked pointedly down at my chest. "I have to remind you of something," he said.

"What?"

"You are a guy who regularly wears shirts with his name printed on them. You, my friend, are cringe. But you are free." He tugged my arms again, stepping closer. "I know who you are, Connor. I like who you are. A handsome man who likes birds and dragon books, who turns tragedy into opportunity, who's kind and generous, and who is surprisingly humble given that, like I said, you've got your name right there, hand stitched on your freaking chest."

I scowled. "It's a comfortable shirt."

Especially now that it was broken in. It'd been years since I'd worked for Darling International, but in that time, the shirt had just gotten softer.

Now, Mattias was grinning. His arms slipped around my waist.

"I love your shirt," he mumbled.

Then his lips were right there—I didn't know who'd closed the distance, maybe both of us, but the kiss was lingering and sweet. It was just on the edge of turning into something more when the oven beeped to let us know it was preheated.

"Cookies?" Mattias asked, his hand sweeping across my back.

I took a shaky breath and nodded. "I think, yeah, cookies."

I let myself hope, just for a second, that he really knew what he was getting into, that I could let myself fall, and he'd be there to catch me.