17. Johnny

Kurt's curled up into me here on the floor. I'd suck his gorgeous cock again in a heartbeat—anything to delay contact with the outside world. Plus, I like making him wild—he deserves some sexy experiences in his life. I can give him those.

Instead, I say something distinctly unsexy. "Can I admit I'm nervous about going to the therapist? It won't be like talking to you. I don't know how I feel about talking to a stranger." Some people might argue that Kurt is almost a stranger, but he doesn't feel like one. Not at all.

He smiles at me. "Want me to go with you to the appointment? I mean, I'm going to drive you, but if it would help, I could sit in on the session."

Usually, I'm intensely private. But look where being private got me: a gun and piles of pills. In many ways, Kurt's the safest person on the planet for me, because he doesn't know me and doesn't seem to be judging me. I'm not getting a pitying vibe from him, either. Just a genuine desire to help—and maybe a bit of a crush on me.

Which is fine, because I've got a big crush on him. Despite how blue I've been, he makes me … not happy, but as happy as I can be under the circumstances. I want him, and he's one of the few things that breaks through the fog and pain.

"I reckon I'd like you to come in with me," I admit.

Too weak to handle my own problems.

Kurt nods and kisses me. "I'd be happy to. I promise I'll be respectful of anything you say, and I'll never use any of it against you. Ever."

There goes my heart warming up to him even more. The last place I want to go is to a therapist's office, but Kurt's right. I need to. He's talked me into having a sliver of hope that I could feel better.

Why do I believe him? Maybe it's because he's new to my life and has a fresh perspective … and I've got nothing else to lose. I do have things to gain, though. I might be able to save my mama and be around to see her healthy again.

And maybe be able to spend more time with Kurt.

For Mama, and for him, I'm gonna do my best to fix what's going on inside my head.

We get tidied up, but we still have a little time before we need to leave. "Mind if I call my mama real quick?" I ask.

"No, of course not. I'll let you be." He heads out to the balcony while I dial her number from the couch, my eyes on the ocean outside—and him. Mama answers immediately.

"Hey," I say. "How are y'all?"

"I'm as pleased as a pup with two tails," she says, but she sounds even more frail than usual, and I know she's fibbin'. "Now that I hear your voice."

I ask her about her doctor's appointments and her caregiver and my sister. Once we've exhausted those topics, I can't avoid talking about me. "So, I have some news."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I met someone. A man."

"You did?" She sounds delighted. "Who is he?"

"His name is Kurt Delmont, and actually, we got married."

Her voice gathers strength I didn't know she had. "John Haskell, y'all did not get married and forget to invite your mama to the wedding."

I squirm. "I'm sorry, Mama. The wedding wasn't exactly planned. We were in Las Vegas, and one thing led to another … I do apologize for not inviting y'all. If it makes you feel better, only strangers were there."

"I don't think it does make me feel better," she says haughtily, and her tone makes me smile. It also makes my heart ache.

"I'm sorry for springing this on you. Maybe we'll come up and visit sometime soon. Would you like that?"

"I'd love that," she says.

Kurt reappears, tapping his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one.

"Then we'll arrange it. Sorry, Mama, for the quick call, but we've gotta go to an appointment. I'll talk with you later. Tell May Ella hi. I love you."

"I love you, too, Johnny, and give that husband of yours my love as well."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"He's family. End of story."

Trust Mama to make things so simple.

"Mama sends her love," I tell Kurt.

"Then I do the same," Kurt says, his dark brown eyes wrinkling at the corners as he smiles.

My limbs feel light, and my heart expands. My new husband just accepted—more than accepted—my beautiful mama, and it makes me even sweeter on him. If I'm not careful, I could find myself really into this guy.

I pretty sure I'm okay with that, even if he's a politician. I can overlook a man's profession. He's overlooking mine, after all.

After I hang up, Kurt and I head to the therapist's office, which, it turns out, is up the coast a ways.

When we walk in, I learn from the sign on the door that the therapist is named Christian Gray, which makes me smile. I read those Fifty Shades books to get some ideas for scenes, though it took me a while, because I'm not a great reader. I liked them, though.

"Um, Dr. Gray?" I say.

She's an elegant Black woman with a kind manner. "That's me, though I encourage you to call me by my first name, Christian. Are you John Haskell?"

I nod and shake her hand. "Most people call me Johnny. This is my husband, Kurt Delmont. You probably know that, because he's the one who made the appointment. I'd like him to join us. Is that okay?" I ask. I trip over the word "husband," but I like the way it feels when I say it.

"If you'd like to have him here, then of course. If at any point there's a reason I want to talk with you on your own, we'll agree among ourselves and have him step out," Christian says. "Welcome. Please make yourself comfortable." She shows us into a small room with big windows and a view of the coast. It doesn't have one of those stereotypical chaise lounge couches like you see in cartoons, but there are a few comfortable chairs and a regular couch, along with side tables with boxes of tissues on them. It's a generic room, and that makes me feel better. Like being here ain't so weird.

Kurt sits down next to me on the couch, his knee pressed to mine, and it's amazing how much less alone I feel with that contact. I fill out a few forms, and Christian waits and watches.

When I'm done, she asks, "What have you come to see me about?"

The truth is, I don't want to talk with her about anything. Even though I'm trying to be positive, I don't actually believe I can get better.

"Um. Well. I dunno how to start," I say, wringing my hands and wishing I were anywhere else.

"Then why don't you just start with how you're feeling right now."

"Numb," I say immediately. "And … shitty."

She nods and scribbles something on a paper. "How long have you been feeling numb and shitty?"

"Months," I say. "Maybe years."

Kurt goes still.

"Has the level of numbness and shittiness been the same over that whole time span, or has it changed?" Christian asks.

I clear my throat. "It got really bad the past few weeks."

"How so?" There's no judgment in her eyes. She doesn't know me. She's a professional. This is confidential.

I'm safe.

Kurt is here and already knows.

"I was planning on killing myself."

Christian maintains a professional demeanor and doesn't react. Kurt takes my hand and squeezes it.

"Did you have a plan in place as far as how and when?" Christian asks, putting down her notepad and studying me.

"Over the weekend. Yesterday or the night before."

Christian asks me more about what I meant to do … and I tell her. How sick Mama is. How crushed I was when I found out May Ella and I weren't good matches to donate a kidney to her. And then how her insurance denied coverage for the surgery anyway. I'd remembered I had life insurance and checked to make sure that Mama was the beneficiary and would get the money. Since I'd had the insurance more than ten years, the suicide clause didn't apply. I'd checked around and found some unsavory people who said they could get her a kidney without having to wait. I'd worked everything out to the last detail, including what I should be dressed in for my funeral: my favorite jeans and boots. How I'd collected pills for months—more than enough to go to sleep and never wake up. But maybe I'd been putting it off until this last setback with my mama's care. When it all got to be too much.

When I'm done talking, I look over at Kurt, and his eyes are welling up. Like the therapist, his expression holds no judgment. Just sadness.

I'm sad, too, I realize. My throat and lungs are sore, my body's cold, and I have no energy. My chest aches, and my nose is running.

I hadn't been sad for months—just numb—and it almost seems like an improvement to feel anything. Even something uncomfortable.

Huh.

"That's a lot to go through," Christian says. "We'll have plenty to talk about in upcoming sessions. For now, are you still having thoughts of killing yourself?"

I shrug. "I mean … yeah. All the time. I'm not gonna do it today. Kurt tossed my pills and took away my gun." I pause. "And he's talked some sense into me."

"It's good you have him," she says, "although I might not characterize what he did as talking ‘sense,' since our feelings aren't necessarily driven by logic. How present is the desire to kill yourself right now?"

"Um. On a level of one to ten, it's like a four or five. Or six, maybe."

She nods. "That's still higher than I'd like. What was it two days ago?"

"Ten."

"Last week?"

"Eleven."

"Are you on any medication?"

"Other than PrEP, no. Nothing for my head."

"Okay, let's talk about your mood. Do you ever feel hopeless?"

"All the time," I admit.

"Have you lost interest in things you used to enjoy?" Christian's eyes are intelligent and assessing, but I still don't feel like she's judging me. More like evaluating. Which I guess makes sense.

"I can't even remember what I used to enjoy. I feel nothing. Or—I can't even say that, because feeling nothing would still be a feeling. It's like I'm … empty."

"Empty," Christian repeats. "Have you felt empty for more than two weeks?"

I chuckle mirthlessly. "I can't remember the last time I felt anything other than …" I pause. I don't wanna talk about vengeance. "Other than bad feelings." I squeeze Kurt's hand. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he says immediately.

"I mean," I try to explain, "it's not like I'm crying all the time. I feel sad about my mama, but that's not sitting around feeling sad. It's hard to explain."

"What about feeling irritated?"

"Not so much."

"Angry?"

"Yes." I hesitate. "More like guilt."

"Guilt," Christian repeats. "Do you know why?"

I study my boots. "Maybe because I can't help my mama."

"So do you feel helpless?"

"Yes," I say, and some vehemence comes out. "I feel stuck. Like I can't do anything right. I can't change anything, and I can't make anything better. And it's all gone to shit."

"You feel stuck," Christian says. "Have you had anything change physically? Lost or gained weight?"

I shake my head.

"Do you sleep well?"

"Not really."

"How's your appetite?"

"Don't have much of one," I say.

"And over the past month, how often have you had thoughts of suicide?"

"The past month?" I ask. She nods. "I'd say every five minutes or so. Maybe more. I couldn't shake the idea. Can't shake it."

"And before that?"

"Yeah, definitely before that, because it took me months of refilling the medication and not taking it before I got enough pills. As time went on, though, I got more and more … bad. Just feeling worthless. Like the only value I have is if I kill myself so my mama can get better."

"I'm so sorry you feel that way," Christian says kindly. "You know that's not true, don't you?"

I shrug and bite my lip. Kurt's been trying to stay quiet and let this be about me—which I appreciate—but his hand tightens on mine.

"Your life has value whether you send your mother money or not. The idea that you can only be worthwhile or worthy if you kill yourself is simply not true," Christian repeats.

"No fucking way is it true," Kurt says.

"You can say that, but I don't believe it," I say, then look at my feet. "Just being honest."

"Please do be honest," Christian says. "Who do you have to talk about with this? Besides Kurt, that is?"

"No one."

"Over the past few months, have you isolated yourself?"

"Kinda. Maybe. I mean, yeah, I guess." I tilt my head. "Is all of this depression? I thought depression was sitting in a dark room and crying. I go for runs. I … function."

"Depression can manifest in many ways," Christian says. "Yes, I'm inclined to think you're experiencing a major depressive episode. Especially given your recurrent thoughts of suicide. Besides work, do you do things you enjoy?"

I laugh mirthlessly. "No. Can't think of any. Shoot, I'm not good at this. I dunno how to talk about it."

"You're doing just fine. Men can be less likely to discuss their feelings and seek help, which means their issues are more likely to go undiagnosed and untreated. But you're doing a great job right now. Keep it up."

"So what do I do about all this? Are you gonna put me on drugs?"

"You seem fairly stable right now, and I can see your partner is supportive, but given the degree of planning you described, I think a short inpatient stay would be beneficial for you while we figure out what, if any, medication may be appropriate. What do you think about inpatient care? It would give you an opportunity to really focus on your recovery. Is that something you're interested in?"

"No," I say, and Kurt stiffens his back and starts to cross his arms over his chest. There's my pushy husband. "But I'll do it anyway." I put my head in my hands for a moment, then look up, my eyes stinging. "I gotta be up-front with you. I'm tired enough to try anything."

She gives me a compassionate smile. "I think you'll be glad you did." She turns to Kurt. "Will you be okay managing without your husband for a few days?"

We haven't told her that we just got married or any of that, and it feels like she doesn't need to know. For now, Kurt's mine, and that's all that really matters. He's acting like a husband should, and I'm beyond grateful for that.

"I'll miss him, but I'll support him in anything he needs," Kurt says. I believe him. He's done nothing but be supportive of me since he found my pills. I wonder how different our lives would be if he hadn't.

Would we have gotten our marriage annulled?

Would I be dead by now?

I shudder.

"What's going on in your head?" Christian asks.

"Just thinking about my choices."

"Everything you do is a choice," she says. "Do you understand that?"

"I do. Just sometimes it feels like I have no choice."

"What does having no choice feel like?"

"Hopeless." Hot tears sting my eyes.

"Do you want to feel better?" Christian asks softly.

Do I?

I told Kurt I'd go along with this, but I'm not sure I've made the decision deep down. In the back of my head, I always knew I could ditch him and kill myself somehow. But … I can't go on like this. That's clear. And if the doctors can help, then, "Yes. I wanna feel better," I say, and Kurt lets out a breath.

I mean it, I think, for the first time.

Fucking loser.

"I'm very glad to hear you say that," Christian says. "The most important thing for your recovery is that you decide to get better. That's it. I'm not saying there won't be a lot of work ahead, but deciding is the key to everything. It comes from the Latin word decidere, which literally means to cut off. You're cutting off all other options. There's no going back, Johnny. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah." My voice is barely above a whisper.

"Good. That's the essential first step."

Christian tells us about a facility close by that she recommends. "You can go inpatient for a few days—they'll decide how long based on your evaluation and how you respond once you're there. After that, there's a two-week daily outpatient care program where they come and get you and you attend sessions for a half day. Then we could go into a more commonplace therapy schedule, maybe once or twice a week at first. How does that plan sound?"

"It's overwhelming," I admit.

She nods. "I can understand that it's a lot to take in. But you don't have to tackle it all at once. Just take it one step at a time. What do you think about checking in tonight? I'm concerned about your suicide plans, and I think the best choice for you and for your husband is to move forward with treatment right away."

"Wait, you mean, like, right now? I'm not packed or anything. Well, I ain't got that much stuff—" Panic starts to hit me, but at the same time I'm so numb it don't really matter.

"You don't need to pack. They'll provide clothes and whatever else you need. You don't have to bring anything with you."

Going into a strange place with nothing is somehow more frightening than voluntarily selling all my worldly possessions. Because it's just me and … that's it. Not even Kurt.

Christian tilts her head, studying me. "I'll call over to the hospital and see if they have a free bed. Hang on." I'm boarding a train that's already moving down the track, and I just found out there are no brakes. Kurt squeezes my hand, and I focus on that to try to calm down. Into her phone, Christian says, "Hello, this is Dr. Gray. I have a patient who's interested in inpatient care for depression and suicidality. Do you have a free bed right now? Great. I'll let them know. Thank you." She hangs up. "Systems are go. So, what do you say?"

Shit damn fuck holy fuck what am I doin' shit oh my Lord in heaven I ain't got a clue.

"Check me into the mental institution," I say, hoping I don't come to regret that decision.

"Behavioral health hospital," she corrects gently. "Kurt, if I give you the address, will you take him?"

Kurt nods. "Of course." He leans over and kisses my cheek. "You got this, babe."

"Thanks," I say gruffly.

"Wonderful. Then we don't need to call emergency transport." Christian gives me a reassuring smile. "This is the first step on your way to recovery, Johnny. I think you're making the right choice, and I look forward to helping you as you progress on this path." She stands up, and so do we.

"Thank you, ma'am," I say, and realize I'm not wearing my hat. But I bow my head.

She smiles and shakes my hand. "You're going to feel much better soon. I know it."

Her confidence is heartening. Kurt hands her his credit card to pay for the session, which makes me feel all kinds of weird—I mentally add it to my tab—and once that's taken care of, we're on our way.