She adds, “Can you tell me why you think you’re so angry?”

My gaze trails back to her. “Again, shouldn’t that be your job?” I mumble.

Her eyes move slowly from mine down to the notepad on her lap as she jots down God knows what. After a minute of listening to the pen scrape against the paper, she places both of them on the couch next to her. Then she crosses her arms and says, “My first crush was Taylor Hanson. You know that boy band, Hanson? You might be a little young. Anyway, the middle one. When I saw their first music video, I thought he was a girl and didn’t think twice about them. When I found out he was a boy, I started to pay attention. Of course, crushing on a guy you thought was a girl can do bad things to a pre-teen’s sexual assumption. It’s safe to say I questioned my sexuality for a good year after. I tried to like the older brother, he was more manly, but I kept going back to Taylor—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I cut in.

She shrugs. “I’m paid by the hour. You need to be here. If you won’t talk, I will.”

My eyes narrow.

“So the older Hanson brother didn’t really—”

“Jesus Christ. Okay! Ask your questions.”

She smirks, then straightens up and puts the professional mask back in place. “So, Ky, why do you think you have anger issues?”

“I don’t,” I said, point blank.

“Your file says different.”

“I was having a bad day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

I suck in a breath and release it with a huff. Then I give in to the inevitable. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe it’ll be easier this way. “I’d just left a buddy’s funeral.”

Doctor Aroma quirks an eyebrow. “And how did that make you feel?”

I scratch the back of my head in irritation. “How do you think it made me feel?”

“Angry, I suppose, considering the outcome.”

“I didn’t do it because I was angry. I did it because if I didn’t then one of my brothers would have. They have wives, kids, lives. They have a lot more to lose than I do.”

“And why do you think you have nothing to lose?”

My irritation turns up a notch. I’ve avoided thinking about it since that day, and I’ll continue to avoid it. “If I give you all of this now, we’ll have nothing left to talk about.”

“I’m sure we can find other things,” she says, picking up her notepad and pen again.

“So this Taylor Hanson...”

She fakes a smile but goes along with my need to change the subject.

I let her yammer on about her celebrity crushes during her teen years. The entire time, I fail at not thinking about Garcia, his parents, and his pregnant wife, who cried through the entire funeral.

It should have been me.

“Ky?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Do you have anyone in your life you can talk to?”

I sigh. “Again, isn’t that what you’re here for?”

She smiles, but it’s tight. “That’s a shame. Maybe you should work on that. I’m positive it will help, a lot more than you listening to me talk about the kid who played ‘the real boy’ in Casper.” She slaps her knees and stands up. “Today was good. You did well. Take my advice, Ky, and I’ll see you next time.”

I walk out of her office, a couple blocks from my apartment, without uttering a word.

Ky: On a scale of one to ten, how mandatory is this therapy bullshit?

Jackson: Eleven.

***

Stepping off the elevator onto my floor, the sight before me makes me forget everything. No lie; I’ve wanted to bump into Madison since the first time I saw her. Hell, I’d take ogling her from afar. I even stood in front of her door a few times and raised my hand to knock. At the last second, I’d stop myself and question what the hell I was doing. My game was rusty at best. The times I’d been home from tour, I was always with my buddies. We’d wear our uniforms, walk into a place, and the deal was practically sealed. Now I was alone, and Madison doesn’t seem like the type to give a shit about my uniform—though I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

She sits with her back to her door, her knees up and her arms covering her head. “Hey...” I say cautiously, standing in front of her.

She looks up, her eyes glazed and her cheeks wet.

I squat down so we’re eye to eye. “Are you okay?”

She shakes her head.

“What’s going on?”

She speaks so quietly I almost can’t hear her. “I locked myself out.”

“Is the maintenance guy out?”

“The what?” she asks, and I can’t help but laugh.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

She shrugs. “An hour. Not sure.”

“And this is why you’re crying?”

She frowns and wipes her tears. “I didn’t know there was a maintenance guy.” Standing up, she brushes her hands down her shirt. “And please don’t laugh at me.” She crosses her arms, keeping her eyes cast downwards. “I already feel stupid enough.”

I stand up too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The guy who’s going to let me back into my apartment.”

I pull out my phone and dial the number I was given when I moved in a month ago. When he finally answers, I give him the apartment number and he shows up a minute later with a master key.

“Enjoy,” he says, winking at us.

Her eyes narrow at him before she steps inside.

“Madison,” I say, and her eyes widen slightly. It feels good to be able to say her name—to her—out loud, instead of just in my head, over and over. “I’m sorry if I made you feel stupid.”

Her forced smile cuts me off. “It’s fine, Ky. Good night.”

She shuts the door.

I look at the time.

It’s one in the afternoon.

***

Madison: I locked myself out today.

Sara: Did you call the maintenance guy?

Madison: I didn’t know to do that.

Sara: So how did you get in?

Madison: Ky.

Sara: ?

Madison: He called the guy.

Sara: Did you let him into your apartment?

Madison: No. He just opened the door and left.

Sara: I meant Ky.

Madison: Oh. No. Should I have?

Sara: I have no idea.

Madison: I hate this.

Sara: Me too.

KY

“Hi,” she squeaks, looking down at the pizza box in my hand.

“Your place or mine?” I try to joke, but the shakiness in my voice betrays the confidence I’m trying to exude.

She doesn’t move.

I square my shoulders and clear my throat. She still doesn’t respond. After a beat, I tell her, “It’s my form of an apology.”