Jesse sits beside me in the waiting room of this new therapist’s office.

With his hand on my leg like when we went to Michelle’s office together, I can feel his support, which is nice, because I feel like the others waiting with us are judging me…as if they know why I’m here and that I’m some pathetic bastard who can’t keep his shit together. Of course, there’s no way they could know what I’ve been through, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“You sure you don’t want me to go back there with you?” Jesse asks. He’s asked a few times this morning, something I haven’t minded because I’ve been considering it myself.

“I’ll be fine. I need to do this one myself,” I say.

As much as I love having Jesse here with me, and as helpful as it was that first time, I feel that this is about pushing myself to take on these sessions alone. At the very least, this time I could write down some of the details on the questionnaire I filled out, which will keep me from feeling like we’re beating around the bush.

When the therapist, Troy Slaughter, fetches me from the waiting room, he guides me through a back hallway, introducing himself and being friendly and cordial, talking about the nice weather we’re having.

I can tell he’s trying to set me at ease, which seems like a vain pursuit, considering I’m going to be totally on edge talking about this, regardless of how friendly he might be. Although, I guess it’s better than the alternative.

Eventually, we’re sitting across from one another in his office, me on a sofa and him in a chair across from me, similar to the way I talk to Michelle.

Troy reviews some of my paperwork as I shift around and the sofa pleather squeaks under my ass.

It’s weird having someone reading the details of my past on some sheet of paper with “sexual assault” listed with a check mark next to it.

“If you could give Michelle Warner my thanks for referring me, I’d appreciate it,” he says. “So you’re coming from San Diego? Are you moving to Atlanta? What’s the reason you wanted to see someone here?”

“This is where my son and my boyfriend live, and I want to spend more time here.”

I leave it at that. I’m here to talk about my uncle, not my fucked-up relationship stuff. I have Michelle for that.

“Do you want to tell me about why you’re here today?” he asks, setting my paperwork on his lap.

“I wrote it down.”

He smiles warmly. “Yes, I have read it, but if you could humor me. It’s usually better to hear it in your own words.”

I take a deep breath.

I’m quiet for a moment. Once again, I’m in the position of having to tell someone else about my past, and I know how liberating it can be, but I also know how vulnerable that place is, and I don’t want to feel that. It’s painful, and it makes me feel like the very thing I’ve been fighting my entire life—weak. I’m not weak.

“I had an experience,” I say, still dancing around the subject…which is just the way I am with this. Hell, I’ve been dancing around it for so fucking long, I’m not surprised. “When I was sixteen, I was staying with a family member, an aunt, my dad’s sister, and her husband…my uncle…” Even though I’m trying to get it out, I’m finding little ways of delaying the inevitable reveal.

He already fucking knows. It’s on that goddamn paperwork, I remind myself.

But I struggle to push forward.

“My uncle,” I repeat. I have to fight. I’m stronger than this. I can say it. “He…assaulted me…sexually.”

It’s the best I can do right now.

Troy’s quiet for a moment. “I’d like to hear a little bit more about what happened, if you’re comfortable with that. It would help me get a better sense of your experience.”

I remember spitting out those harsh words in Michelle’s office, about my uncle’s cock. It was so fucking crude, but for some reason, it was the only thing I felt like I could say at the time.

“My uncle pulled his pants down…and held me down as he took advantage of me.”

“He sexually assaulted you?” It seems so fucking effortless for Troy to say. The words slide right past his lips in a way that almost makes me feel ashamed of how difficult it is for me.

“Yes. Yes, he did,” I confess, and I feel a sort of numbness, as though my mind is drifting away from my body. Finally, I push past my lips, in what feels like it requires far too much effort, “He raped me.”

There’s that same relief again that I’ve felt whenever I’ve said it, but at the same time, there’s the vulnerability that comes with it—and that feels like fucking weakness.

The goddamn double-edged sword.

“It sounds as though you’ve been carrying this for a very long time,” Troy says. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

“My boyfriend, and my therapist in San Diego, but only recently—within the past few weeks.”

“You’ve been keeping this to yourself since you were sixteen up until the past few weeks?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long time to carry something like this around. A very long time, but it’s not unusual at all. So I want you to know that you’re not alone in this.”

“I’m not weak.”

Don’t even know why I said that. The words spit out.

“I’m not some statistic. I’m a person this happened to.”

Immediately after I say the words I wish I could suck them back into my mouth because I feel like they’ve already told too much about me, about what he’s surely looking for to be wrong with me.

“Well, I think that says something about how you feel about sexual assault. Eric, I would really like to work with you on this, if you’ll let me.”

“I want to get better.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You’re not alone in this experience by any means, and there is help. I’ve worked with a lot of patients who have been even more secretive and carried it much longer and who are living very healthy, meaningful lives now, beyond the trauma. I want to go ahead and encourage you and let you know that it is possible to find a way to live and manage the stress that comes along with that. It may not always be easy, and in the beginning the solutions we have to help you will be difficult, but it is manageable.

“I use what’s referred to as cognitive-processing therapy, a combination of cognitive-behavioral therapy and some exposure therapy. For the remainder of our session, I’ll explain the details of the program, and we’ll work out a plan specifically catered to how we can best serve your situation.”

He discusses the program, the details involved, and talks to me some more about my goals in all this. I tell him about my situation with Jesse, specifically my discomfort with bottoming, since that’s really what I want to find a way to work through.

I feel on edge, alert, wary. There’s a part of me that wants to run, to not have to deal with any of this. That feels like it would be better if I pretended everything was fine. I know that isn’t the solution, and I know that if I want to have any sort of a fulfilling relationship with Jesse, I have to push myself through this, and I do want that. I’ve never wanted that more in my life. The thought of what we share, what we have shared, what we could share, is what gives me hope in all this.

I want it for myself. I’ve wanted that for a long time, but Jesse has inspired my interest in caring for this aspect of myself, not just the businessman and success.

No, I want something so much more. I want to share so much with him…to be the man he deserves, yet even as I sit here talking to a shrink about something that is so incredibly painful for me, I’m not sure how that’s possible. It seems like a pipe dream, yet I wonder if I’m only telling myself that because I don’t want to deal with the consequences of having to finally face this.

“Before I let you go today, I have some homework for you. It’s not difficult.”

So not what I wanted to hear, but it’s part of this whole system that I have to accept and push through.

He retrieves a worksheet from his desk cabinet and approaches me before handing it to me.

“Very simple. Write a page of what being raped means to you.” He explains it further, and it seems like such a stupid exercise, and while all this stuff he’s discussing involves dealing with my fucked-up brain, I want to know how this will help me with Jesse.

“As far as your goals with your relationship with your partner,” he says, taking a seat in his chair once again, “you might consider a colleague of mine who has a studio not far from here. It might sound kind of strange, but if you’re open to it, it’s a mindful yoga program to help people who have experienced sexual trauma. There’s been some growing research around it, and it can really help deal with the physical aspects that present themselves in the bedroom. This work we’re doing will help there as well, but I’ve found that combining this with something like mindful sex therapy can really speed up the recovery process.”

Speeding up the process sounds nice.

“I’ll give you the number of my colleague, and if you’re interested, you can reach out to her directly. If it’s something that would make you or your partner uneasy, it’s not something you need to push, but I think you could find a lot of value from her methods.”

It sounds like work…a bunch of work that may or may not be of any value. However, at this point, I’m desperate. I’ll try anything.

When our session comes to an end, I head out of the office, and there’s Jesse in the waiting room, with his earbuds in. I imagine he’s catching up on Rocks and Hard Places. As soon as he spots me, he hops up from his seat. He’s wearing this concerned expression as though he wants to be here for me.

There’s some relief to having at least a bit of homework and a recommendation for this yoga bullshit that could help, but nothing beats knowing that I have this incredible guy here for me, who cares about me.

I schedule my next appointment, and then we head to the car.

Jesse doesn’t press or ask questions, and when we get inside, he waits a moment as he sits behind the steering wheel. I can tell he wants to ask something, but he’s hesitant. I don’t like him feeling as if he needs to walk on eggshells around me.

“How do you feel about the session?” he asks.

“It was nice talking to someone and coming up with a plan. This guy, Troy, he’s very friendly. He listened. I was expecting a little more judgment when I said certain things. I guess it’s his job to not look like he’s judging, but since he sees this so much, I think it didn’t really surprise him…what I said. If anything, it sounded like my experience was one of many he’s encountered, which was a relief too.” Jesse reaches his hand over the console between us, sets it on mine, gripping gently. “He said you could come to some sessions if you want to, and we can talk about us as a couple.”

“I would love to do that with you, Eric. We have a lot of things we have to get sorted out.”

Guilt rises in me.

“Jesse, I just… Talking to him, I realized we’re looking at something that’s maybe six months…if not longer. How could you want to sign up for this?”

That’s something that keeps confounding me, that as I try to rationalize why Jesse’s still here, I keep getting stuck.

“It destroys me,” Jesse says, “that you’re sitting here next to me and you don’t understand you’re worth fighting for. I’m here because that’s how amazing of a person you are. Although, in some ways, I get it because I remember being in that shelter…talking to Stan and Charlotte, realizing they were considering adopting me. I couldn’t understand how I could add any value to their life, but now I get that I do, and they’ve never made me feel like it’s different than that. Eric, if there’s anything I plan on doing, it’s showing you the value you bring to my life. I’m not just talking about that big dick you have, either.” It’s an obvious ploy to get me to laugh, and it works. “You’re a special guy, Eric, and I’m happy I get to be the person to help you figure that out.”

He leans into me but stops short of my lips, as though he’s waiting to make sure I’m comfortable with that right now, that this is what I want. “You can kiss me, if that’s what you’re wanting to do,” I tell him.

“Well, I want to do a lot more than that right now, but I guess this will have to do.”

His lips are on mine in no time, bringing me that familiar relief, that fire, that passion that has a way of distracting me from all the bullshit. I grab the back of his head and pull him closer till he’s crawling toward me. Close. I can tell it can’t be a comfortable position he’s in, but he doesn’t seem to let that stop him.

“We need to get home now,” I tell him as I pull away from his lips.

My cock’s throbbing, full, and I want to be inside him, coming, filling him up, letting him know how absolutely beautiful and incredible I think he is. Giving him as much pleasure as I am physically able to.

He pries away from me and puts his seat belt on.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Clearly he’s just as fixated on the end goal as I am as he backs up in the parking lot, offering me a quick glance—that reassuring glance that reminds me once again that I’m so fucking lucky, and simultaneously scared as shit that it’ll all be ripped away from me somehow.

* * *

The week drags on, and on Friday, I get a text from Ty.

It’s the first time he’s reached out to me since our chat. He wants to get together for dinner this weekend. It’s a relief, and I’m excited when Saturday night arrives and I’m sitting in a booth in a restaurant near his condo—somewhere we’ve met up several times before.

There are so many thoughts racing through my head, but my biggest worry is that anything that comes out is going to be me continually telling him, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When he arrives, I stand up to greet him, but he slides into the other side of the booth. He’s clearly trying to keep his distance, and I understand that.

I slide back into my seat. “How’ve you been?”

He nods repeatedly, refusing to make eye contact with me as he tells me about his week, not in any great details. Just glossing over it. He mentions his work in Chicago and this promotion he’s up for.

“And how do you feel about that, in terms of getting your CPA certification?” I ask.

“I want to go for it. Mom’s not going to be thrilled, but I really want this, and I’ve been thinking about what we talked about before.”

I blurt out, “You have?” I’m shocked he gave a damn about anything I said.

“Yeah, I think I can do it.” Though the way he says it, I can sense his doubt.

“You can do it,” I tell him.

His gaze meets mine. This is the first time he’s looked at me directly since he arrived.

He sizes me up. It’s not the sort of thing I would have said to him before, in many ways because I’ve always felt like I don’t have a right to say anything about his life.

He doesn’t make a big deal about it, though. Just changes the subject and we move on to more mundane topics before he asks, “Do you really think I can do this, get my CPA certification?”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to? It’s hard work, studying.”

“Yeah, but I will have to either get time off work, or find a way to navigate with classes. I might have to be without my job for a while. I mean, I can make do with the money I’ve made, but it’s scary stuff.”

“It’s a great opportunity if you’re willing to take the risk. Sometimes you have to take risks.”

Like I did with telling Jesse about my experience. Like I’ve done my entire life to get everything I have.

“No, you’re right,” he says. “I haven’t taken a lot of risks in my life. I know that, but I really think I’m at a point where I actually know what I want. I think you know I really haven’t ever figured that out.”

“I’m impressed you realize you want this. It’s amazing, Ty.”

This reminds me of that conversation we had when I told him I was proud of him. Feels like we’re actually starting to talk to each other.

“So, doesn’t someone have a birthday coming up?” he asks with a smirk.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Big four-three.”

“If you wanted to get together next weekend, that’d be cool.”

The way he says it, it sounds as if it’s not a big deal, but his expression suggests otherwise and makes me feel guilty about the plans I have.

“I have some plans with Jesse. We were going to go camping and rock climbing.”

His gaze shoots to the table.

“You should come…if you want to,” I blurt out, without even thinking about it. But as soon as I speak the words, I realize how nice that would be and how that’s likely the last thing in the world he would want right now, especially after everything that’s happened.

He’s quiet…so fucking quiet that it’s unnerving.

“I don’t have anything going on that weekend,” he says. “I would actually really like to go, if you guys wouldn’t mind.” Once again, Ty’s stunned me. “But only if you guys really want me there. I’ll grab my tent from Mom’s.”

“I have a tent that’s big enough—”

“Eric, that’s weird.”

I chuckle. “Okay, yeah. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Baby steps,” he says, his expression stern, as though he’s reminding me that he still has every right to be upset with me.

Baby steps doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, and I’m appreciative as hell that he’s even offered, though terrified that if I get too excited, he might bail.

“It sounds like a fun birthday weekend,” he says, forcing a smirk.

But that’s enough to keep this hope within me alive.