Between the Shadow and the Soul - 9. Aiding and Abetting a Stalker

August 4, 2016

"Hey, Greg."

I startled such that my phone clattered across the small table and I nearly dropped my four-shot latte. That would've been a crime. Or a tragedy. Probably both.

Looking up at the owner of that devilishly delicious voice, I found Keigan staring back in dismay. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Maybe I should've cleared my throat or something."

As I fetched my phone from the opposite edge of the small table, I gave him a self-deprecating smile as I explained, "No reason to apologize. I'm still trying to wake up."

He gestured to the venti cup in my hand. "That not helping?"

For a second or two I aimed a doubtful grimace at the coffee in question. Then: "Nope. And it's my second."

"Second?" he inquired with a chuckle.

"Four shots."

That made him laugh, a deep, throaty rumble that brought a smile to my face.

I'd like to hear that more often.

"Obviously you don't have an issue with caffeine. At least I hope not."

"Nope. Don't crave it and it doesn't wake me up or keep me up. But I love coffee. I mean I really love coffee. If I have any addictions, this is it." And with that I took another sip of the hot ambrosia.

Turning a pleased expression back in his direction, I gave an unnecessarily dramatic "mmmm" afterward. But it wasn't just in response to the coffee.

From his position standing beside me and my position in the chair, looking at him gave me a clear view of what hid beneath his loose, billowed open-sided shirt, the sleeves and most of the cloth having been cut away.

I quickly turned away, back to the table, knowing otherwise I'd stare, blush, lick my lips, or even reach through that inviting hole and caress his ridged abs, defined pecs, and dark, perky nipples that screamed for attention.

"Mind if I join you?"

Gesturing to the empty two-person table I told him, "It's kind of crowded but I think you can squeeze in."

He stepped around the table and pulled the chair out, his smile brightening my morning mood. It didn't hurt that it brought out those damnably cute dimples of his.

As he settled opposite me, once again I found myself admiring the guy.

How old is he? Twenty-five, give or take?

He sure is easy on the eyes. Maybe he played lacrosse or was a swimmer. He has the build.

How tall is he? I'm always sitting when I see him, so it's hard to tell.

Short straw-colored hair disheveled with that just-out-of-bed look, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth, still sporting his California tan that didn't seem to have faded at all in the two weeks since we'd met, Keigan looked the part of a typical surfer boy.

I don't think he has an ounce of fat on him, but he's not wiry and rangy like a runner. I wonder if he'd indulge me if I asked him to take off that barely-there tee...

Setting his own venti cup on the tabletop with both hands wrapped around it, Keigan leaned back and gave a contented sigh.

"You do this every morning, right?"

Fuck! Are stalkers all I ever meet?

Perhaps the scowl that exploded onto my face was excessive, but it certainly got the point across.

Looking abashed, he leaned forward, hands spread and open in an entreaty for understanding, and immediately explained, "I'm sorry. Again. I'm not stalking you." Shaking his head with self-deprecating frustration, he dropped his face and mumbled, "You're doing it again, K."

"Wait. What? Doing what?"

He shook his head as he met my hard stare. "Nothing. My inside voice must be broken." Waving away the conversation's derailment, he said, "Your friend told me you come in here pretty much every morning."

Damn it, Nate, quit meddling!

I'd have to have a serious discussion with my best friend later. I knew he did what he did out of love for me, out of a desire to see me happy and fulfilled, but sometimes he was a real nosy-parker.

Right now isn't the time for this shit. Don't I already have enough on my plate?

Keigan dropped his face into his palm. "I've had to apologize twice already and I've been here less than two minutes." Looking up he added, "Can we maybe start over?"

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming my nerves as my expression relaxed. After taking another sip of coffee, I shook my head with a grin and responded, "Yeah. It's all good. You're not catching me at my best, so maybe we're both fumbling the ball this morning." Placing my elbows on the table, my coffee held in both hands between them, I leaned forward a bit to engage him with more friendliness in my demeanor as I pointed out, "You've been here for two weeks. Have you been trying to catch me in here every morning?"

Despite his skin tone, he blushed so ferociously that he looked burned. I could practically feel the heat from across the table. He scrunched his face as he snickered to himself, "Yeah. Well... Uh..." While a grimace and a grin fought for control of his features he added, "I'm not very good at this stalker thing, huh?"

I had to laugh. He was so embarrassed, like I'd caught him with his britches down. Or... Well... Um... Something like that, I was sure.

Yum. Now there's a visual to carry around with me, I thought.

"What?" he asked, drawing me out of my head.

Realizing I had a shit-eating grin on my face as I let my mind consider what he'd look like in less clothing, I laughed again—at myself—then said, "Just had a funny thought."

"Looked a whole lot more interesting than funny if the look on your face meant anything."

I drank greedily from my coffee to hide my own embarrassment. Obviously Keigan didn't have trouble reading my expressions. I'd have to keep that in mind.

"So back to my question..." I prompted.

After swallowing a bit of his own coffee he admitted, "Yeah, so, uh, maybe I've been swinging by here every morning." Then with mock indignation he added, "But it's not all about you, Mr. Man. I go to the gym early, stop here for some coffee, then go to the restaurant to start the opening procedures."

"But you don't open until ten in the morning!" I insisted, as if he didn't already know when his restaurant opened each day.

"Really? Ten o'clock, you say?" Sarcasm dripped from the word.

Chuckling, I played along by explaining, "In fact it really does. While you've been gallivanting all over California working on your tan—which is gorgeous, by the way—I've been supporting your restaurant with my hard-earned dollars." Trying for a look between haughty pretension and know-it-all bastard, I finished, "Ergo, I'm quite familiar with the schedule."

I couldn't take my eyes off his face, eyes crinkled and full lips pulled up in a grin, merriment written on his Nordic countenance. Well, I couldn't take my eyes off his face until he moved.

When he shifted slightly in his seat, his shirt pulled to the side, slipping over his left nipple, revealing a perfect quarter-size circle with an erect nub.

There's not a bit of hair to be seen. Except from his armpit. Which just shows he's a natural blond.

Dragging my eyes away from his chest and back to his face, his cheeks showed signs of another blush spreading around his dimples. And it kept spreading, kept growing, kept raging like an out-of-control wildfire. Finally he ducked his head as his faced glowed crimson.

Oh my goodness gracious! Just looking at him made him blush. How cute!

He tried to make it look like an unconscious move when he pulled his shirt back into position, thereby hiding that yummy bit of flesh and ruining the peepshow.

Then he looked up and set his eyes on mine, the grin and blush fading. "Sorry. Shit! I gotta stop apologizing. Or I gotta stop needing to apologize. You're messing with my head." His hand fluttered about, obviously having no real destination or plan, and he shook his head as his mouth worked in silence.

I came close to failing as I stifled a laugh.

Now there's a textbook example of discombobulation. And check out the unexpectedly charming way he involuntarily communicates things, especially when he's disarmed and distracted.

I bit my tongue before I burst into an uproarious fit of giggling.

"Stop! You're throwing me off my game."

Focusing on him, I tried damned hard not to admit to myself how entertained I was by his flustered antics. And aroused by how naturally attractive he was, something he not only didn't flaunt but clearly tried to keep under wraps.

Because he just pulled the shirt out at the front so it doesn't hang so revealingly off his pecs and nipples. He wants to be more than his appearance, methinks.

"You have to admit, Keigan, whatever that was," I said as I waved my hand in his general direction, still fighting the urge to snigger, "it was comical."

And it was. He's so flustered—

Oh flying fuck. Maybe he's straight and he's completely embarrassed that he was giving a free skin show to a gay man.

He huffed, but he couldn't pull off dismissive or disgusted because he was smiling, eyes twinkling. Then he took a deep breath and let out a dramatic sigh.

With his composure regained he said with mock derision, "I know we open at ten, thank you very much. But we can't just throw open the doors and let people in without preparing. You know, like putting the chairs back on the floor, setting up the salad and condiments bars, filling the ketchup, mayo and mustard dispensers along with the salad dressing dispensers, making fresh tea... Well, let's just say we have hours of work to do before we can serve our first customer."

Tickled though I was with his attempt at a serious reply despite the grin he kept fighting, I admitted with respect in my voice, "Actually, dude, I hadn't thought of any of that stuff. I've never been a restaurateur or even worked in fast food, so I have no clue what's involved. Makes sense, though."

He swallowed the last bit of his coffee before setting the empty cup on the table. For a brief moment he stared down at the table where his cup stood. But when he looked up, there was definite mischief in his eyes. His mother had the same look when she was up to no good.

After a theatrical clearing of his throat and a ceremonious straightening of his posture, he asked with pompous innocence, "So you like my tan?"

It was my turn to be flustered, my mouth hanging open but no words coming out, blinking repeatedly and too often, cheeks heating up as they no doubt turned red.

I'm a schoolboy again, addled and mesmerized and really thinking this guy is cute as hell and I'd like to see more of what's under the clothes and I'm really enjoying this encounter and don't want it to end and his flirtations are so subtle they have to be authentic or accidental and I wouldn't mind getting to know this guy as a friend and a lot more and—

Holy shit this has to stop.

"Uh... Yeah..." I mumbled.

He tried to smirk but gave a half-grin instead, relaxing back into the chair. "I'm glad to hear it. But I have to be honest. I come by it naturally. My grandfather was a pure-blood Cherokee and I got my skin color from him. I'd look like this even if I lived in Seattle."

Seattle. Dad. Mom. Dinner a few weeks ago. Mom's tough love. My breakdown. Her convincing me I needed to see Uncle Farid again. My agreement to do so. Which was why I wasn't going to work. Which was why I'd been procrastinating at Starbucks, delaying the inevitable discomfort, hoping to find some excuse for not going.

I glanced at my watch. "Shit!"

"Got a hot date?" The humor in his voice was coupled with a bit of concern.

"No," I answered as I stood, dropping my phone in a pocket and grabbing my empty cup, "I have an appointment."

Even to my own ears I sounded dismissive, as though I hadn't enjoyed the encounter, as though I didn't want to do it again.

It wouldn't work. It never does. Say goodbye and leave.

"Listen, I have to go." And with that I'd completely brushed him off, something I realized as I turned abruptly and headed for the door, ignoring the sorrowful surprise on his face.

It's better this way. You know how it is. You know how it goes.

When do you stop letting the past control the present and define the future? Huh? Huh? When do you move on from all of it? When?

I've tried. It's always the same. I attract the assholes, the guys who look good on the outside but are a mass of writhing worms and dead things on the inside, the guys who want something from me but don't want something with me.

Bullshit! You're scared.

I'm broken. Of course I'm scared.

I left without looking back.

* * * * *

Aunt Jan sat behind the reception desk just like she'd been doing for thirty years or so. She wasn't just Uncle Farid's wife; she was his partner, and together they staffed and ran the business into which they'd been pouring their hearts for decades.

She rushed from behind the large pine desk and wrapped her ample arms around me, hugging me to her ample bosom, squeezing me tightly and nestling her many chins and ample jowls on my lowered shoulder as I embraced her.

"I didn't think you'd come. Oh my darling, I didn't think you'd come," she sniffled into my shirt.

I couldn't reply. Tears pooled in my eyes until they fell and an unrealized sob choked back my words. I fought against the dueling ideas of having a total breakdown right there or making a swift escape. Or doing both at the same time.

Swaying slowly, holding me closely, Aunt Jan sniffed from time to time but otherwise made no sound. She knew what I needed, so she was giving it to me as best she could.

After several minutes, after each of us had taken enough deep breaths to bring us some calm and some control, she pulled back enough to look me in the eyes.

A short, heavyset woman, Aunt Jan's mousy hair had more gray in it and her laugh lines were more pronounced around her eyes and mouth, but otherwise she looked as vibrant and cheerful as she had the last time I saw her, which was—

"Almost fifteen years, my darling," she cooed softly as she leaned back, cupping my face in both hands, her cheeks wet with tears. "After you left last time, I never thought we'd see you again. Fifteen years—"

"And he hasn't aged a bit," came a gravely, deep, rough voice with just the barest hint of an accent.

Uncle Farid stood in the open door to his office, hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks, his blue button-down shirt open at the collar. Like his wife, he was a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper. His mustache was trimmed and perfect as always, also more gray than black. His mocha skin sagged a bit more than I remembered.

"If mirrors weren't telling me fifteen years have passed, I'd swear you couldn't be more than twenty years old, you rascal."

I shrugged and ducked my head, a wee blush painting my cheeks. "Genetics," I offered.

"Damn lucky, I'd say," Aunt Jan countered as she gave me a playful smack on the arm.

"Real damn lucky," Uncle Farid added as he approached.

By the time he stopped in front of me, I felt like a fifteen-year-old again, a broken boy with a broken body who would never be whole. The warmth in his dark brown eyes, the comforting smile on his face, and the stench of the cigarettes he smoked all the time dragged me back to a place I didn't want to revisit.

The gruff and no-nonsense man pulled me into his arms and wrapped me in a hug that was powerful, both in strength and in meaning. My arms immediately circled around him and I slouched so I could rest my head on his shoulder.

Tears I couldn't stop fell on his shirt and sobs I couldn't stop shook my soul and words I couldn't stop muttered into the air: "Please help me, Uncle Farid."

Aunt Jan locked the office door before returning to us, wrapping both of us in her short arms.

And standing there in the lobby of the most respected sexual assault and trauma psychiatrist in Texas, the three of us wept.

* * * * *

His office had been utterly transformed since the last time I'd visited. Where once it had been distant and somewhat grungy and utterly utilitarian, it now felt like a lounge, with cozy furniture and warm lighting and new carpet. I didn't doubt it worked wonders on his patients.

Aunt Jan sat on the sofa to my left, not too far away but not close enough for me to lean on her. That was Uncle Farid's doing. They loved me and wanted to help, but he took his job seriously. And sometimes that meant forcing people to face their crippling problems without a crutch to lean on.

After rummaging around in a locked drawer, he pulled out a small secure memory card in a fitted plastic case. From atop the desk he grabbed a yellow notepad and a small digital recorder.

"I think it's important to remember where we were," he told me as he took a seat in the chair angled toward where I sat. He always spoke with a precise yet comfortable cadence and tone, the barest hint of a Lebanese accent hiding behind the English he spoke so well—one of six languages he knew fluently, I might add, the brainy bastard. Leaning forward and showering me with a loving expression, he added softly, "So we know where we're going."

As he slid the memory card into the recorder he explained, "This is from our last session."

"You've upgraded," I interrupted. Back then he'd used a small cassette recorder, always having to stop and turn the tape over or deal with a tape that the recorder decided to eat.

"We may be twice your age, Greg, but we're not Neanderthals." He waggled the recorder in the air for emphasis. "This is just for playback. The room's wired for sound, so we're already being recorded."

"Huh..." I looked up at the ceiling, around at the various walls, then back to Uncle Farid. "Neat."

"As always—and as you know—the recordings are used only for my own records and reference. No one ever hears them but me."

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Thank fuck," I muttered nervously.

They both tittered, as though they'd just heard a rather dirty joke. Despite their ages—both in their late fifties—they'd said before that they couldn't be prudes given what they encountered every day, the stories they heard, the pain they set loose, the anger they allowed to be vented. Uncle Farid once explained, "If we constrain our work with our own sensibilities, we'll be further harming those who've already been harmed enough."

With a vague gesture toward the recorder he'd set on the coffee table he asked, "Remember when we last met?"

"Yeah," I replied softly, not looking away from him but not looking at him either, "January of 2002. And I'm really sorry."

He waved away my comment. "Greg, no one better than your Aunt Jan and I understand what was happening with you. We've never felt slighted by how you acted."

"We were hurt, we missed you, we love you dearly, but we never took it personally," she said in a hushed voice.

"All we've ever wanted was for you to be okay." He reached over and gently squeezed my leg. "That's all we want."

"Okay," I mumbled.

"I want you to listen." He leaned forward and pressed PLAY on the recorder, then he sat back and lit a cigarette.

Already the tears were welling in my eyes, unshed but not inclined to stay that way. I blinked repeatedly to clear them. Then I cleared my throat. Then I listened.

"How are you this morning, Greg?"

[Sounds of Farid lighting a cigarette before inhaling deeply, followed by a slow exhale.]

"It's 8:30 AM on a dismal Friday morning. I'll be late for school again today because once more I'm sitting in an oppressive little room. It's the same oppressive little room I've visited every Friday for seven months, and twice a week for two months before that, and three times a week for two months before that, and every weekday for a month before that.

"For a year I've been held hostage in this oppressive little room, held hostage by an aunt and uncle who think they know what's best for me, sent here by parents who think they know what's best for me, recommended to be here by school counselors who think they know what's best for me, referred here by doctors who think they know what's best for me.

"So how do I feel? Tired. Tired of trying to make all of you understand it's over, it's in the past, there's nothing to rehash, nothing to discuss. Why can't you let me be?"

"We're trying to help you—"

"But none of you understand! You can never understand! No one can. Some things that're broken can't be made unbroken. Some things buried in the past shouldn't be exhumed."

"You're not broken. You're hurt, that's all, and you can overcome that, overcome the pain and betrayal, knock down the barriers you've erected—"

"The barriers are there to protect me. They're not coming down."

"What about the pain? Don't you want—Why are you lying down, Greg? Good grief, you've seen too much television. You're not expected—"

"I lie on this scratchy, sickly, brown vinyl couch to distance myself from what's expected of me."

"And what do you think is expected of you?"

"To relive the unlivable, to talk about the unspeakable."

"It's only unlivable because you've made it that way in your mind. People survive these kinds of traumas by working through them, taking away their power and making them just bad memories."

"I've already dealt with it. This is pointless."

"How have you dealt with it?"

"The blind spot."

"The blind spot in your head?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your blind spot."

"I've already told you about it."

"I'd like you tell me again. If you would be so kind."

[An exasperated huff.]

"It's like a black hole, a mass of swirling darkness, a shadowy place where I've pushed the horror and tragedy of my fifteenth birthday and its aftermath. No light reaches it, I never look at it, I never go there. It's all gone."

"Please take your sunglasses off."

"It's bright in here."

"We both know that's not why you put them on."

"If not to shade my eyes, why'd I put'em on? If you're so smart, tell me that."

"They make you feel impartial, detached, like you're not really part of this session, only an observer. Because you think behind those lenses I can't see your eyes wandering the room, searching, seeking, looking for something to help you escape, something to hold your interest."

"Huh. Well, it's still bright in here."

"What are you looking at?"

"The smoke."

"Why?"

"It's the only thing in this oppressive little room that ever changes, so it's the only thing I haven't already stared at for hours on end over the last year."

[A frustrated sigh.]

"If you intend to pass judgment over me—your last judgment, I should say—you better make it a good one."

"I don't pass judgment on anyone, Greg. You know that better than most."

"You won't get another chance."

"Why do you say that?"

"This is our last session."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Neither are Mom and Dad, but they will be when I get home."

"Do you think it wise to end our sessions? Have they not helped at all?"

"No, they haven't! I want it all to go away, I want to put it behind me so I can move on, I want to forget it ever happened so I can try to live a normal life. Why can't you understand that?"

"Those aren't realistic expectations, Greg. And it takes time to work through trauma like this."

"Don't I know it. And we've done our time together, thank you very much, so this is it. Mom and Dad'll back me up."

"Then we'd better make the most of it."

[Papers shuffling and another deep inhale.]

"Are you having any nightmares?"

[Silence.]

"Have you talked to Nate about what happened and how it affected both of you?"

[Silence.]

"Do you think talking to your parents would help?"

[Silence.]

"Is there anyone you've met that you might be interested in?"

[Silence.]

"Greg, please don't ignore me."

"I'm not ignoring you."

"I can't help you if you don't listen and don't talk."

[A derisive huff.]

"I listen to your words. But I also listen to your meaning."

"And what meaning did you hear?"

"If you're not having nightmares yet, count your blessings and hope the reprieve continues. Stop wallowing in your own self-pity and see that other people were affected by what happened. Your parents think you're shutting them out of your life. If you don't get over it already, you'll die a lonely old man."

[An exasperated huff.]

"No. You didn't hear me at all. I asked questions that meant precisely what was asked."

[Silence.]

"Are you going to answer any of my questions?"

"Not this time. Not anymore. I'll just wait you out."

"Wait me out? In what way?"

"I'm done with this oppressive little room and its constant digging at a wound so it never heals."

[Papers shuffling. Faint sounds of a pen writing on paper. Then silence.]

"What are you watching?"

"Your acrid smoke wafting up in little puffs and whirls and occasional clouds."

"But you're looking at the windows."

"A particularly interesting structure of smoke tempted me in that direction."

"Do you see anything interesting outside?"

"I've stared out those windows many times over the last year. Nothing out there out there is ever interesting. Bleak and lifeless in winter, colorful yet dying in autumn, burning bright in summer, racing to grow in spring, but through it all nothing interests me."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Today it's bright. Intolerably bright. Green, verdant grass, a few cheery clouds meandering about an otherwise empty, boundless blue sky. Trees are tickled and titillated by the infrequent breeze.

"And here in this oppressive little room, I'm dark and decaying."

"Why do you say you're dark and decaying?"

"Uncle Farid—Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sure while we're in therapy I should refrain from addressing you in so familiar a manner."

"Don't be childish, Greg. I'm here to help. Being snide and petulant keeps us from making progress."

[Fingers strumming against something soft yet near the recorder. Strumming. Strumming. Strumming.]

[Silence.]

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

[Silence.]

"What are you looking at now?"

"Your words drifting in the smoky air before going limp and lifeless between us. Eventually, because I refuse to feed them with an answer, they starve and die, falling listless and shriveled to the floor below."

"Do you always fall back on eloquence when you're angry?"

"I'm not angry."

"Frustrated?"

"Definitely."

"Is that when you become literary?"

"Whatever."

"Do you think being pretentious helps? Because that's what you're doing—using magniloquence to create distance."

[Silence.]

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

[Silence.]

"Did you hear the question?"

"Yes. But you clearly didn't hear me."

"Of course I heard you. I'm your uncle and I love you more than you know. And I'm damn good at this thing I do here in this 'oppressive little room' as you call it, so hearing what people say happens to be a honed skill in my repertoire. Hearing is how I help people get better—"

"Only you're not good enough to fix everybody, something you told me before all this shit happened. Some of your patients, like me, can't be fixed. It's taken a year of this oppressive little room for me to see that, and now I resent you and this charade and all of it."

[A disappointed sigh.]

"I'm sorry to hear you resent me, Greg. No matter what happens here, you're still my nephew and I still love you dearly and wholly."

[Silence.]

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

"I got what I deserved."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I danced with the devil and he took me to hell."

"You certainly didn't deserve what happened to you."

"If you play with fire, you're apt to get burned."

"It's not uncommon for assault survivors to feel like they somehow brought it upon themselves. Is that how you really feel?"

[Silence.]

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

“Who."

"What?"

"You mean, who brought me to this place in life, not what."

"Tell me, then, who brought you to this place in life?"

"You think you're smart because you tricked me into admitting I'm thinking about the 'who' that broke me, that took so much and gave nothing, that made me this wretched, empty shell. Of course I know who brought me to this place. But I won't say his name. Never again."

[A deep inhalation followed by a heavy, stuttered sigh.]

"You were right the first time. What brought me to this place was the right question to ask."

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

"I blame everything on it, the thing that did this to me. If I don't, it would mean I'm here because this is the course I chose for myself. Which isn't the case."

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

"Fifteen. On my fucking fifteenth birthday, no less. It took so much from me, put me in the hospital, permanently scarred me—thank fuck Mom let me get the phoenix tattoo to hide the scar. Well, it hides the scar people might see. There are others, physical and psychological, that no one but me will ever know about."

"Some of us know about all the scars. We might not see them, but we know about them."

"Good for you. Good for some of you who know. Fucking good!"

[Silence.]

"What do you think brought you to this place in life?"

"Is it any wonder I'm so fucked up? Nope, not in my opinion. And you know I've shoveled enough shadows in my head to hide a million such events, covered enough memories to leave a black hole in my mind, and you know that's as good as it'll ever be for me."

"That's not true, Greg. We can work through it. You can learn to cope with it, put the past in the past, heal the pain and the wounds, move forward. It can be better."

"I couldn't face what happened the first time. Why do people think I can or want to face it time and again? As if I'm telling a humorous story and want to share it with the world. I won't even share it with myself.

"This is pointless."

"I have full confidence and hope that we can break through the barriers you've erected, that we can move forward, that we can start shining a little light into that lightless realm in your head. But I need you to work with me, Greg."

"The Fiend."

"What?"

"The Fiend is what brought me to this place in life. The Fiend is what brought me here."

"The Fiend?"

"I won't say its name. To say it is to call forth the devil that it is. It's The Fiend, the vile, foul, demonic thing that eats children. Only it didn't quite get to eat me. It just gnawed on me a bit, wounded me severely, took from me many things that can't be replaced or returned, left me bruised and bloody and battered, left me forever changed, wounded.

"The Fiend brought me here. And I'm done giving him the power."

[Sounds of movement.]

"Where are you going?"

[Silence.]

"Greg, stop, please. Tell me where you're going."

"I'm leaving. We're done."

"Because he—The Fiend—brought you here?"

"And I'm tired of letting that fucking bastard ruin my life."

[A door opening then slamming.]

[Silence.]

Uncle Farid leaned forward and pressed STOP on the recorder. He was on his third cigarette since we'd entered his office. Smoke didn't collect in the room, though. If I had to guess, I'd say he learned from some of the complaints he received and he put in some kind of filtration or ventilation system.

I wiped my eyes and sniffled, but I held his gaze.

Aunt Jan held my hand firmly in her lap, her other hand gently stroking my arm. She had tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice surprisingly hoarse.

"You've got nothing to apologize for, my darling," she immediately told me.

"She's right, Greg. We've never had bad feelings about how you left or about not seeing you afterward."

"But fifteen—"

"Hey," he interrupted, leaning forward and squeezing my leg firmly and not letting go, "you were unconscious for three days before you woke up in the hospital." I flinched. "You'd had emergency surgery and had to have more." The hand my aunt held squirmed, which only made her hold tighter. "He betrayed your trust, used your emotions against you, brutalized you..." I squeezed my eyes shut. "And you tried to push it all aside, pretend like it didn't matter, like you could forget about it and move on without any help."

He scooted to the edge of his seat so he could face me more directly, his hand still squeezing my leg.

"Look at me, Greg."

I opened my eyes and stared into his warm brown gaze.

"What brought you here today?"

"A boy. A fifteen-year-old boy."

Understanding passed across his face. "Is he a catalyst or a cause?"

"A catalyst."

"A reminder?"

"Yes."

"Just a friend?"

"Yes."

Nodding, the barest hint of a smile on his face, Uncle Farid released his hold on my leg and sat back a bit.

Then he asked, "Are you having any nightmares?"

"No. I've never had nightmares, not even about this."

"Have you talked to Nate about what happened and how it affected both of you?"

"No. But I know I need to. He said something a while back, about seeing what was happening but doing nothing because he was just a kid, wasn't sure what to do. I know I need to talk to him."

"Do you think talking to your parents would help?"

"Yes. I'm not sure it'll help me. I really don't want to rehash this any more than necessary. But I'm sure they need to talk about it from their perspective, and they probably want me to talk about it as well. At least somewhat."

"Is there anyone you've met that you might be interested in?"

My mouth opened, closed, opened again, closed again, then opened but remained silent. I wasn't sure how to answer that.

Have I? Maybe? No? Kind of maybe sort of? I don't know?

"I don't know. After this morning it probably doesn't matter."

"Yes it does, my darling," Aunt Jan interjected.

"Let's come back to that in a minute, shall we?" Uncle Farid asked. No one disagreed. He schooled his features, the faint smile vanishing beneath a harder, more professional visage. Then: "Tell me, Greg, what brought you to this place in life?"

I took a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing Aunt Jan's hand, a gesture she returned without hesitation, then I said, "Who. And his na..." I cleared my throat. "His name's..." I shook my head. Cleared my throat. Blinked several times, stray tears forced to rappel down my cheeks. "His name's—" My voice broke, but I intended to get past this, all of this. Clearing my throat one more time, I defiantly said, "His name's Richard. Richard Sawyer."

* * * * *

After I left Uncle Farid and Aunt Jan at their office, almost three hours after I'd arrived, I stopped by Starbucks on the way home. For my third four-shot latte of the day. I intended to have something stronger—several somethings, I should say—later in the day.

Later being no less than five minutes after I got home, coffee be damned.

After paying for my drink and leaving the shop, I walked to my car. But I found myself thinking about what my aunt and uncle had said before I left them. Then I glanced at Fat Daddy's, my favorite burger joint that just so happened to be owned by Keigan, the hot Nordic collegiate fantasy dude that I'd blown off rather coldly earlier in the day.

"You can never have too many friends," Uncle Farid had said.

"Don't make any promises," Aunt Jan had said.

"Stop treating every guy with suspicion and dread," Uncle Farid had said, "because it attracts the suspicious and dreadful and repels everyone else."

"Stop assuming the worst of people," Aunt Jan had said.

"The road to recovery starts with admitting you have a problem," Uncle Farid had said, "and the longest journeys always start with a single step."

"You alienated almost all your friends and family," Aunt Jan had said, "so isn't it time to start rebuilding your social circle?"

Before I changed my mind, before I could second-guess myself, before I let The Fiend—no, not The Fiend—before I let Richard or Marc or Andrew or my own doubts drag me home, I turned away from my car and marched into the restaurant, bypassing customers waiting to order, finding Denise behind the counter eyeing me curiously.

"Hi, Greg," she said as I approached.

"Hey, pretty lady." She giggled and blushed slightly. I always loved getting that response from her. "Is Keigan around by any chance?"

She tried to fight off a knowing grin, failed, ducked her head until she regained her composure, then looked at me with all the seriousness she could muster. Without saying anything else, she pointed over my shoulder toward the booths that lined one of the windowed walls.

Glancing behind me, I saw him immediately. Turning back to her, I leaned in so fast she couldn't react, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and merrily said, "Thank you!"

His back to me, Keigan sat facing the table, spinning an empty drink glass in small circles and staring at the invisible patterns it traced on the tabletop. He never saw me coming.

Shoving my venti latte in front of his face I told him, "Third one of the day."

He nearly jumped out of the booth.

Oops.

Dropping my empty hand on the back of his seat and the other on the table in front of him, I leaned down close to his startled face.

"I enjoyed this morning, brief though it was," I said, "and I'm sorry I ran off so abruptly. I was in fact late for an appointment." After a quick inhale and a subtle sigh, briefly lowering my gaze, I met his inquisitive star again and added, "But I was also rude. I'm sorry about that."

His mouth opened but I shushed him and gave a quick shake of my head.

With a growing smirk I continued, "If someone wants to be my friend and they think stalking me will help, they'd need to know I'm usually in Starbucks on weekdays by six in the morning and on my way to the office no later than quarter of seven." Standing, I finished, "I think that'd be a good place for a friendly stalker to get started."

With that I left, never giving him a chance to reply, though the smile he wore said plenty.