Prologue
Dr. James Taggert double-checked the wall clock time against his wristwatch, a little surprised that Will was late for his appointment. He was never late. He often showed up ten minutes early for their twice-monthly sessions and then had to sit in the waiting room with Gina. Today he was three minutes past due.
His desk phone buzzed. “Your three o’clock is here,” Gina’s voice piped over the speaker.
He hit the talk button. “Thanks, Gina. Send him in.”
Will knocked gently, as was his custom. But as he strode into the office, everything else about him was markedly different. His normally shaggy brown hair had been combed and slicked back a bit, showing off more of his face. Instead of his customary loose pants and baggy sweatshirt—even in the summer, he wore that sweatshirt—he had on clean jeans that fit and a blue button-down shirt.
Dr. Taggert had probably done a poor job of hiding his surprise, because Will froze halfway to the armchair he favored for their sessions. He glanced at the clock. “Crap, I’m late.”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Taggert said. “You’re dressed differently than usual.”
“I had to. I had a job interview before this.”
“You did?” He was impressed that Will was finally being proactive about his future. “Do you want to tell me about that?”
Will shrugged as he sat, shoulders back, less guarded than even their last few sessions. He’d changed so much in a year and a half and was nothing like the terrified, mistreated boy Dr. Taggert had first met in the emergency room. Although lately a kind of anger had clung to him, indistinct, but lurking beneath the surface. “I mean, it wasn’t for like a big job or anything,” Will replied. “Kate helped. She probably feels sorry for me because I’m such a nutcase I can’t get my own interviews.”
Kate Alden was Will’s social worker. She had referred Will’s foster mother, Jennifer, to Dr. Taggert for treatment, and Will had been one of the biggest challenges of his career. He’d survived a childhood full of neglect, including two years of horrific abuse by his drug-addicted mother, been placed in emergency foster care at age sixteen, and for the last year and a half Dr. Taggert had worked with Will over simple tasks like eating three times a day. Taking care of himself. Believing in his own right to be happy.
Kate took a genuine interest in the kids she helped, too, and they were both concerned about Will with his eighteenth birthday looming in two months. He’d no longer be a ward of the state; he also had nowhere to go except a halfway house, and Dr. Taggert worried for his safety. Will was still emotionally fragile, and his recent foul moods troubled him.
“What kind of job is it?” Dr. Taggert asked.
“Part-time Food Lion stock boy.”
“Any particular department?”
“Um, produce, I think. They made me pick up a few cases of things to make sure I was strong enough.”
“I’m assuming you are?”
He shrugged. “I guess. I had a little trouble with a box of apples, but it was slippery. No handles to grab.”
“Do you think you got the job?”
“No.”
Dr. Taggert’s heart dropped. “Why not?”
Will grunted. “Because as I was leaving, I heard one of the guys who interviewed me say, ‘He’s too fucking little.’”
Hell. A stock boy job would have been perfect for Will, because it required little contact with the public. And the last thing he needed was more people giving him crap about his size. Five feet tall and ninety pounds soaking wet, Will had grown up with very poor nutrition, and two years of hell had left him with a serious aversion to food. Dr. Taggert could help him with certain things, but nothing could be done about his height. Muscle tone, maybe, but Will was terrified of gyms because they were full of strange, half-naked men.
“They haven’t officially said no,” Dr. Taggert said. “When did they tell you they’d let you know?”
“Tomorrow, but there was this big kid waiting to go in after me. I won’t get it.” Will leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, frowning. “I know you and Kate and Jennifer all worry about what will happen when I turn eighteen. Believe me, so do I. A halfway house terrifies me, but I can’t stay with Jennifer. She needs the room to save her next foster kid. But how do I pay for food and rent without a real job? And what about therapy?”
“Do you wish to keep coming to therapy?”
“Yes. I know I’m way better than I was, but once I’m out of the system... I can’t pay you with money I don’t have.”
“Don’t worry about the money. I’ve done pro bono work before, and I’ve worked with other clients on a sliding scale based on their income. I’m not going to abandon you, Will, I promise.”
Will seemed to relax a fraction. “Thank you. But I still need money. I mean, I liked the idea of piling apples and filling in bagged lettuce. It’s kind of solitary, you know? Plus I didn’t graduate high school, so the list of places that will hire me with zero work experience is, like, as long as my finger.”
He made a mental note to do some digging into work opportunities based on Will’s history. As much as he hated the idea of suggesting he apply for disability, Will’s PTSD was both well documented and extremely crippling.
“Have you talked to Jennifer about any possibilities?” Dr. Taggert asked.
“Not really. She’s got Darren to worry about right now.”
Will had mentioned Jennifer’s newest foster child during their last session. He was on the autism spectrum and required a lot of her attention. Darren also had frequent outbursts that frightened Will, especially if it woke him out of a sound sleep.
“And she’s already done so much for me,” Will added. “Especially those first eight months or so I was with her. I hated making her upset when I didn’t eat.”
“She understands why that was going on, and she isn’t keeping a scorecard. None of us are. We want to help you, and that’s why we do. We care about what happens to you.”
Will held his gaze for several long seconds before blinking. “You do, don’t you? I guess I’m still not used to that. Adults giving a shit.”
“You had a lot of adults in your life who failed you. Who hurt you instead of protecting you. And I can’t promise you that no one will ever hurt you in the future, but you’ve already survived the worst kind of hell, and you’re still in one piece.”
“They can’t hurt me if I don’t let them.”
Dr. Taggert tilted his head. “Do you mean by protecting yourself physically?” He’d suggested Will take self-defense classes in the past, to help him feel less anxious in public spaces, but Will hated the idea of having to touch the instructor—and the instructor touching him in return.
“Kind of. More like up here.” He tapped the side of his head.
“Shutting out the possibility of relationships seems good in the short term, but what about a few years down the road?”
“Can’t think about a few years. I can barely think about a few months from now.”
He understood Will trying to protect himself, but closing off from other people was rarely the best way to go about it. “Will, no one can truly take power from you unless you give it to them.”
Will’s expression hardened. “Those men took power from me.”
“No, those men took from you physically and emotionally, and you are healing from that one day at a time. But the only way they can take power from you now? Is by letting what they did continue to control your actions.”
“So I’m supposed to grow up and magically forget that I was fucked six ways to Sunday for two years?”
Dr. Taggert took a breath, choosing his words more carefully. “I am absolutely not asking you to forget that. It’s impossible to forget that kind of pain. But allowing your pain to dictate your actions gives those men power all over again. I’m not telling you to jump on social media and start chatting with every person you stumble across. But please don’t cut yourself off from forming actual, real-life friendships. Especially with people your own age.”
Will shrugged. “No one wants to be friends with a wreck like me.”
“You aren’t a wreck. And I think if you gave it a chance, you might surprise yourself.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll prove myself right.”
They still had some work to do on Will’s self-esteem. “Why do you think no one wants to be your friend?”
“I’m a mess, Dr. Taggert. I have panic attacks, I don’t like to be touched, I hate being near older men I don’t know, my mother is in prison, I never met my father, I didn’t finish school, I don’t even have a GED yet, and oh yeah, I’ve had more dicks up my ass than Johnny Rapid.”
Will’s volume had risen with each item rattled off his list of supposed flaws, and he’d ended with a sharp snap. Will often got upset and frustrated during their sessions, but this cold anger was new and startling.
Also kind of startling was the fact that Will knew the name of a gay porn star.
“None of those things makes you unlovable,” Dr. Taggert said. “Especially not your abuse, and anyone who treats you poorly because of it isn’t worth your time or energy. Not everyone could have survived the hell you went through, but you did. You are alive and you are making great progress. You have people in your life who care about you, including me. Give yourself a chance to live, Will.”
Instead of soothing his anger, Will only looked more obstinate.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Dr. Taggert said.
“Punching you in the face.”
He tensed, more concerned for Will than his own safety. In all of their sessions, Will had never once become physically violent with him or needed to be restrained against hurting himself. “Why do you want to punch me?”
“So you stop being so nice. So you see me how I see me.”
“How do you see yourself?”
Will cast around the room before his attention settled on the glass coffee table. Dr. Taggert had left a notepad and pen out. Will ripped a sheet of paper off the notepad and crumpled it in his hands. Then he tried to smooth it out flat. “Like that. Doesn’t matter what you do to it, but the wrinkles and dents are never gonna go away. It’ll always be ruined.”
“It’s hardly ruined.” Dr. Taggert leaned forward and snatched the pen. He flattened the paper a little bit more. “You’re right, the wrinkles will always be there, but it can still do its job.”
He wrote something down, then pushed the paper toward Will. You have value, Will. Never doubt that.
Will picked up the paper. He stared at the words, his expression blank.
Dr. Taggert held his breath, hoping like hell he’d gotten through.
He held out a hand, and Dr. Taggert gave him the pen. Will scribbled something on the paper, crumpled it up, then tossed the wad across the room. He stood without a word.
“Will?”
“I’m done,” Will snapped, then left the office.
Concerned by the abrupt departure, he briefly considered following Will to clarify what exactly he was done with. Instead, he crossed to where the paper had landed near his desk and opened the wad far enough to read what Will had written under his own handwriting. Believe me, I learned my value in that bedroom.
The awful words disappeared in his closed fist. He ached for Will, and for all of the progress he thought they’d made. He debated calling Jennifer, giving her a heads-up. He couldn’t tell her about the note or anything they’d discussed, but he could warn her to watch Will’s mood tonight, especially if she was likely to be focused on Darren.
Will’s final spoken words concerned him more than the words on the paper. He hadn’t specified what he was done with, exactly—their session today, any future therapy, or life in general? Even though Will had never shared suicidal thoughts with him, it was the kind of thing that set off alarms.
He picked up the phone and called Jennifer.