“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

I nod my head at Professor Gary. “That’s my opinion, based on what I’ve seen. But this…friend…he won’t let anyone help him.”

“Why do you think he’s so resistant to getting help?”

I shift in my chair. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking by coming in here. I obviously can’t tell Professor Gary the truth, that my boyfriend is a next-in-line mob boss who killed a guy in cold-blood and is haunted by the memory of me being abducted and held at gunpoint.

Yeah, I think I’ll reserve the full story with all the gory deets for now.

“I think he would see it as an admission of weakness, that he’s not strong enough to battle his demons on his own.”

“But you think talking to a professional would help.”

“Well,” I say, twisting my hands in my lap. “It might, if he’s open to it. If not, it’d be a big waste of time.”

“True, people get out of therapy what they put into it.”

“But, the thing is…he’s burdened with so much anger and anxiety that I’m afraid if he doesn’t get his mind in order soon, he might cause himself a lot more trouble…at his, um, job. He won’t talk to anyone, so he bottles up a lot. I’m afraid he’s going to snap one day, not thinking clearly about how his actions may impact the others he, um, works with.”

“Does the root cause of this PTSD have to do with his job?”

I nod again. “Yes.”

“And his employees, what kind of relationship do they have with your friend?”

“Uh, they’re pretty loyal, I’d say. He treats them well. Respects them.” For the most part, unless they make the stupid-ass decision to cross him.

“He’s a good manager, then?”

“Yes.” I’ve never seen a more loyal bunch of thugs.

“Is your friend’s job very high-pressure? Is he acting as a barrier, absorbing the stress from his superiors so that it doesn’t impact his subordinates?”

“You could say that.” Except in Carlo’s case.

“And is he suffering from substance abuse? Is there an immediate need to get him help against his wishes? Do you feel like he’s a threat to himself?”

“Definitely not. He rarely drinks, doesn’t use drugs. I think it’s because he’s afraid it will compromise his judgment, making him vulnerable. And since he already feels that way, he’ll avoid anything that can put him in a more, um, questionable position.”

Professor Gary leans forward into his hands. He’s quiet for a second as his eyes search my face for clues about what in the hell my friend does…or did…that could bring on PTSD since I have been more than evasive since I sank into this office chair half an hour ago. “Can I be frank right now, Shaye?”

“Please,” I whisper.

“I feel like you’re not giving me the whole story, which is fine. But if you really want to help your friend, you need to be more forthcoming about details. I don’t want to pry, but it’s a little bit hard to psychoanalyze someone who only seems to have a stressful job by your account. I suspect the traumatic situation has to do with much more than a bad day at the office, and if I’m going to recommend some different treatments for you to suggest, I need to be clear on the severity of the situation. And right now, I’m just not.”

I let out a sigh. This was a stupid idea. “I know, and I’m sorry that I can’t share more insight with you. It’s just that…” Just that my boyfriend has pretty major criminal dealings and an assortment of guns, prostitutes, a raunchy sex club that caters to the elite, and drug dealers in his back pocket. “I’d hoped that maybe there was some general advice you could give me, under these, um, delicate circumstances.”

Professor Gary rises from his chair and grabs his tweed jacket, shrugging his arms into it. “It’s very subjective, Shaye. Not every patient displays the same symptoms, and every case is unique. It takes a lot of time to properly evaluate a person’s mental and emotional health to determine the proper treatment path to take.”

I collapse against the back of my chair. “I figured you’d say that.”

He comes around and sits on the edge of his wooden desk. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure out how to help your friend.”

His knees almost touch mine…something tells me that it’s on purpose…and the realization forces me to jump out of the chair. I swallow hard and grab my jacket, looking in every direction except his. Did I come here to help Nico? Or did I come to get a taste of normalcy, to have a real…well, almost real…conversation with a man? A man who is open and transparent and self-aware, a man who is unencumbered by death threats, night terrors, and chaotic sex dens, a man who has a simple job and a simple life and simple needs.

I’d always thought communication was key to resolving issues. It’s what I’ve learned in every psych class involving relationships. It’s ingrained in me.

But somehow, communicating with Nico brings us closer together only to drive us apart afterward. It’s like I can crack into the ice, but, hard as I try, I just can’t seem to melt it. I’m not making an impact. Nothing I’ve told him has jolted him into action and that frustrates the hell out of me. If I can’t get through to him, who the hell can?

Professor Gary stands up and inches toward me as I struggle with my jacket. A quick glimpse at the clock on his wall confirms that Sloane should be meeting me any second. I’ve already been in here too long, and judging from the look on the professor’s face, it’s definitely time to go.

This was a colossally huge mistake. I don’t care about transparency. Or night terrors. Or death threats. We can get through it. We have to, because the only man I want is the hot mess I have.

“I’m glad you stopped by, Shaye. I hope I was able to help,” he murmurs, moving closer still. I can smell his spicy aftershave, and that is way too damn close for comfort.

Shit! I gulp, backing away from his outstretched hand. I’m sure this is always how it happens. Dumb blonde co-eds make a bogus appointment with the professor for his insight into some bullshit problem when they really want insight into something else. My heel hits the back wall of the office, and I bang my head on a bookshelf. A sharp pain explodes across the base of my skull. “Yes, Professor, thank you. I, um, I’ll see you in class.”

I grip the doorknob and twist it left and right, unable to get the damn door open.

He slowly reaches around me and flips the lock. “It locks from the inside when it closes.”

“Oh, right. Uh, thanks again.” I push past him and his delicious musky scent. “Have a good day.” I manage a half-wave and spin around…directly into Sloane.

I cringe at the mischievous gleam in her eye as she regards Professor Gary and then me. And like most of the women on this campus, she peeks her head around me for a second to look at Professor Gary. And it’s a long look. I can’t bear to meet his gaze again, so I stare straight ahead, plaster a fake smile on my face for Sloane, and say, “Ready?”

“I think he definitely is,” she whispers, waving at the professor as I rush her out of the building.

“Holy shit, Shaye. What the hell happened back there? The temperature in that hallway was about a thousand degrees!”

“I had a meeting with him.” I cover my face with my hand. “I never should have gone. He totally got the wrong idea, and I—"

“And what, exactly, were you meeting about? I mean, I know psychology is all about the mind, but I think there was another head that wanted to get in on the action.” Sloane lets out a loud chuckle that tauntingly echoes in the open hallway of the building. Damn high ceilings.

“Just…a paper I’m writing.” I peek at Sloane out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes, the urge to sit my best friend down and spill all of my secrets is overwhelming. After all of this time, I’ve managed to keep her in the dark about most of the inner workings of my life. She’s my escape. She’s my normalcy.

Unlike Nico, who’s my chaos.

But the balance works for me. Sloane keeps me grounded, and Nico? He keeps me in the clouds.

She knows nothing of prostitution, sex clubs, drug running, or thug beat-downs.

There are plenty of times where I wish I knew nothing of those things, either.

“This paper…does it read like a dirty novel?” Her glossy lips curl into a wicked smile. “Is that what got him so hot?”

I let out a groan. “No, it’s actually about post-traumatic stress disorder, if you need to know so badly.”

She scrunches up her pert nose and jogs around to the driver’s side of her black Honda Accord. “Doesn’t sound sexy to me.”

“It’s not, trust me.” I pull open the door and sink into the leather seat.

“I don’t think Nico would be happy to know that his hot girlfriend’s hot professor wants to get inside of more than just her head.”

I smack my forehead with my hand as we fly through the West Village in the direction of the Lincoln Tunnel. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah, just bored on the guy front. I’d much rather focus on your drama than my own lack thereof.”

“Trust me, drama is way overrated.”

“It somehow finds you, though. Must be a gift.”

“More like a curse.”

“Is everything better with Nico? I remember you mentioning he’s a little stressed about work. Aren’t there enough bachelorette parties happening in the city every weekend to keep his business booming?” She laughs and speeds through a light leading us down into the tunnel.

That’s pretty much the extent of what Sloane knows of Nico’s business. She thinks he owns a dance club in lower Manhattan. Hell, I didn’t even have the full story before the other night, and it was more of an epic novel compared to what I’d conjured up in my head.

“He’s working through it. Things have been a little better.” And a little worse. It seems to depend on the hour these days.

“That’s good. I’d hate for you guys to have problems right after you give up your life in Miami to be with him up here.”

“Jesus, it was only college.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled to pieces that you’re home. But you wanted to put distance between your life here and your new college life. I get it. I know how overbearing my parents can be, and I would have been out of here in a hot second if I was…” She coughs and clears her throat. “I mean, it doesn’t really matter. We all make decisions for ourselves. Some good, some not so good. You know how it is.” She rushes to finish her sentence and bright sunlight blinds me as the Honda flies out of the tunnel and lands in New Jersey.

I turn a curious gaze on my friend. She obviously said too much for her own liking and tried to pull it back. “If you were?”

Sloane drags a hand through her long dark hair and taps the steering wheel. “Um, if I was, you know, interested in other nursing schools.”

I nod. “Right. Or maybe if you weren’t hung up on something that happened in the past?”

The car screeches to a halt at a red light, and I grip the oh shit bar to keep me from kissing the windshield.

“Sorry,” Sloane mumbles.

“I guess I struck a nerve.”

“I guess your professor is going to whack it later while he pictures his head inside of yours.”

“Ha ha. You’re a real comedian.”

“It’s my fallback in case this nursing thing doesn’t work out.”

“It’s always good to have a Plan B.”

She smiles, but it’s a sad one, not a happy one. “Yeah, but sometimes Plan A is the only one that really fits, you know?”

“I do.” Hence, my current predicament.

Twenty minutes later, she’s pulling down my street. I need to grab some things to bring over to Nico’s later, and figure out what excuse I’m going to use to get out from my father’s watchful eye.

The car pulls up to the curb. “Your palace, madam.”

I roll my eyes and gather my things together. “Come inside. I want to show you a dress I just bought. I think I need to find a reason to wear it pretty damn soon. Maybe you can help me come up with a reason.”

She turns off the engine and hops out of the car. I don’t say anything about the fact that Max’s car is nestled in the back of the house, and she clearly missed it, too, otherwise I’m pretty sure she would have told me to text her a picture of the imaginary dress that I didn’t actually just buy.

She wants him. He wants her. They need each other. And now that Max is getting into more ‘respectable’ business dealings with the club and the real estate businesses, and not beating the shit out of goons on a daily basis, maybe things can work between them.

Unless her overbearing father puts a bullet in Max’s head first.

I stick my key into the lock and grasp the brass handle, pushing open the door. Both of us coming to a standstill at the loud voices assaulting our ears.

“What are you going to do now, Max? You’ve got nothing! How the hell am I supposed to help you when you keep fucking yourself?”

“I was doing just fine on my own, Dad! I don’t need your goddamn help! Every time you say you’re gonna help me, I end up getting fucked in the end. Don’t drag me into your big plans anymore, okay?”

“You say that now, but tell me, where are you gonna be in six months? Back to fucking square one! You had a good thing going, but you had to fuck it up as usual!”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Just like you did when you ratted out Rocco? Look how well that turned out for you. In fact, it looks like your little buddy made out better than you did in the deal.”

Oh, crap.

Sloane’s eyes are so wide, I’m afraid they may pop out of her pretty little skull at any given second.

“Maybe I should just go—”

The door to my dad’s office swings open, and Max emerges, his face red, his jaw twitching, and his eyes spitting pure fire. My father appears behind him, looking perfectly calm. He even manages a smile for us, his captive audience.

“Girls, how was school? I picked up a pizza on my way home. Are you hungry?”

Sloane is still speechless. The look on her face tells me she wants to flee, but her feet are not ready to go just yet.

Maybe it’s because my brother is busy drinking her in like a dog at his water bowl on a hot summer’s day.

“Um, thanks, Dad.” I glance at Max, who can’t seem to peel his eyes off of Sloane. “Max, want to join us?”

He blinks fast, his head twisting in my direction like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “No. I have to get home. There are some things I need to take care of.”

“Like your resume,” my father mutters under his breath, brushing past us. God, he can be a real tool sometimes. I know he’s my dad, but really? Did he have to cut Max down in front of Sloane like that?

“Everything okay?” I murmur to Max, placing a hand on his arm.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and forces a smile. “You know, same shit, different day.” His gaze flickers back to Sloane and his lips curl into a wistful smile. “Still okay with the blood and guts? You must see plenty with your internship.”

Sloane’s mouth falls open, and mine follows suit. He’s actually…engaging. Wow, what kind of a wake-up call did he get today?

“It’s, um, been more blood than guts so far, but there’s always next semester.” Her cheeks turn pink and she giggles. It’s a nervous one. One that shows she has no idea how to navigate this path. One that confirms she is still very much into Max.

And judging by his return smile, I finally feel like there may be a story there after all.

Why shouldn’t everyone get a happily ever after?

Events of the past few months have proven that life is just too damn short to waste lusting after something you want.

Take it, enjoy it, and then pray for a whole lot of tomorrows.

Ones without mobsters, baseball bats, and guns.