I think back on our college ‘relationship’ through whiskey-tinted goggles, and realization washes over me. Was Kimberly a little pushy? Sure. Did she doodle Kimberly Bennett on any blank surface she could find, and plan out our wedding in painstaking detail? Most probably. But did she ever, even once, make me feel unwanted or unloved?

Not one fucking time.

Move on, Cain.

So I give in to the memories. I put my money on nostalgia. Relationships have been built on much less. History has a way of binding people, and tonight, I’m willing to take a chance on the past.

Move on, Cain.

I wrap my arm around her waist and give it a squeeze, smiling. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot, babe.”

And here I go, jumping in with both feet … moving the hell on with my life.

“Rusted From the Rain” by Billy Talent

Present Day

“ARE YOU GOING to keep your promise?”

“I’m doing the best I can, Lucas. I want to keep my promise, but between you and your parents, it’s very difficult.”

At the mention of his parents, his expression goes hard, and he leans back and crosses his arms. “They won’t take my calls anymore. I called twice this week, and they wouldn’t talk to me.”

I wish I could knock some sense into Mrs. Cindy and Mr. Gene, but I know they aren’t the only ones to blame in this instance. Lucas and his parents have developed a wildly dysfunctional cycle of pushing each other’s buttons to get what they want. Sadly, it doesn’t work for anyone, but they continue to bang their heads up against the same concrete wall.

“Did you threaten them?”

When his eyes dart away from mine, I have my answer. I release a sigh and pray for patience. I don’t have the strength to fight this never-ending battle, so I choose to change the subject.

“Are you hearing voices today?”

“You know I am.”

“Do you see hallucinations?”

“You know I do.”

Lucas’s jaw tenses in frustration, and his voice is tight and irritated. He prefers to ignore the illness, pretend any type of treatment would be futile.

“Will you elaborate? Please?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why do we do this? Why does it matter?”

“Because one day, something will change. Either you or your parents will bend, and the more I know about your struggles, the better I can help you,” I explain for what feels like the hundredth time.

His shoulders visibly relax, and he stares out the window. “The voices are quieter this week. Sometimes they yell, and I can’t think … I can’t sleep … it’s more than I can stand.” He shifts forward and rests his elbows on the table and meets my eyes. “For the last few days, it’s more of a whisper over my shoulder. When they whisper, the headphones help.”

I reach out and squeeze his clasped hands. “That’s good to hear.”

“When I listen to the music and close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m at home, sitting at my desk, working through the numbers.”

I don’t miss the longing in his eyes, and I silently curse his parents for their part in all of this. I’m in no way innocent, but dammit, I’m trying to make up for my mistakes. I’d do anything to make his life easier.

“And the hallucinations?”

Lucas pulls back, breaking contact with me. He shuts his eyes and scratches his scalp. “Now, the hallucinations are a different story. Lately, the rats are the size of small cats, with pointed fangs dripping with drool. They have thick tails slithering behind them, and their greasy fur is black and patchy, like they have the mange.”

My guts rolls with every word he speaks. His description alone terrifies me, so I can’t imagine how frightening it is for him.

“They’re not always so scary. Sometimes they are tiny, rainbow-colored mice, flitting around the room. It’s not so bad then. But I always know the rats will be back … the shouting will return … it never ends.” He stops talking and chews his lip, deciding how to continue. “There’s an ebb and flow to my mind, but I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t figure out what makes one day different from the next. I rack my brain, looking for the trigger in all of this. I work harder on the numbers, spend more time with the equations, like the voices tell me to do, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

I sigh and give him a grim smile. “It’s all chemicals, Lucas. There’s nothing you can do differently. You aren’t being punished for working more or less. There are medications that can alter the chemicals in your brain, because they are the trigger.”

I wish today would be the day he relents. I imagine him looking at me and saying he’s willing to try anything. I will it to happen. But his lips turn into a familiar frown, and I know I’ve lost another battle in this fight.

“The day I allow them to pump poison in my body is the day I lose control of everything. I won’t live my life in a hazy fog, Celia, shuffling around here like a fucking zombie. That’s a sentence even worse than death.”

I wish I could write a different story for him. I wish I could take an eraser to the page and pencil in happiness … peace … contentment. But that’s more than I can hope for—at least for today.

I peek my head into Caroline’s office, my purse hanging on my shoulder, ready to head home. “Hey, I turned off all the computers and locked up the back. I’m gonna lock you in when I leave, okay?”

Caroline looks over her cat-eye glasses and watches me in silence. My cheek twitches under her scrutiny. I shuffle my feet and look off into the distance. I avoid her “shrink ray eyes” at all costs. I know better than to underestimate the power of Caroline. She sees all things.

“Where have you been lately?” she asks, tapping her pen in the direction of her guest chairs.

I’m being summoned. I trudge into the office and fall into the chair. Caroline cocks an eyebrow at my dramatic entrance. She’s a no-nonsense kind of woman. Her blonde hair is always tied up in a high bun, usually by old paintbrushes, and her clothes and skin are often covered in paint spatters. As a counselor, she practices many different types of therapy, but art therapy is where her heart is. I couldn’t ask for a better mentor.

“Oh, you know, around … busy. My patients are keeping me tied up. What, with group, individual sessions, and crisis call, I’ve been swamped.” I shoot her a nervous smile and break eye contact as quickly as possible.

“Girl, that’s not what I mean and you know it.” Caroline crosses her arms and levels me with her knowing glare.

“Hmmmm?” I meet her glare with wide, innocent eyes, and she scoffs.

“You leave me no choice, Celia. I’ve waited for you to come to me—it’s been months, child. Well, I’m done waiting, and if you don’t want to talk to me about what’s going on in your life, I’ll just have to talk at you.”

“I’m fine, Caroline,” I whisper with a shrug.

“You most certainly are not. But we’ll play this your way. Have I ever told you about my Robert?” At the mention of her late husband, her expression softens a bit.

“Only the basics. I know you have a son together, and he died of a heart attack years ago. I don’t know much else.” I curl my feet up underneath myself, and smile, welcoming the change of subject.

“He was larger than life, my Robert. Whenever he walked into a room, that’s when the party started. And he loved me the right way. He loved all the things about me that are quirky and off balance—my wild hair, my paint-encrusted fingers, my inability to cook anything even remotely edible.” She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in the air. “What can I do? I can mix paint colors and mediums and create a masterpiece. Give me some cake batter? I’ll make toxic paste.”