I saw those abs last night. All million of them, covered in sexy wolfish tattoos.
“Lou, everything okay?” His tone says he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
When I manage to drag my eyes to his face, his smirk is a full-on grin.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” I blurt out. “The therapy, I mean,” I tack on before he thinks I mean he himself is a horrible idea.
He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me over the stoop and into the front room. “It’s alright to be nervous about therapy, Lou. Our track is certainly unconventional.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter as I drop his hand and stare around in wonder. His space is one giant room with a retro turquoise and cream kitchen on the left side. The right side has a sitting area with mismatched plush chairs of all sorts and a tall brick fireplace. Windows along the back wall look out onto an enclosed porch area. I think I see the corner of a canvas, but it’s hard to be sure at first glance.
“Come to the kitchen,” he says, turning and padding into the depths of the space.
I follow him into a bright kitchen full of pale turquoise retro-style appliances. He opens the fridge door and retrieves a tray of cheese, crackers and a few spreads. When he withdraws two chilled glasses and a bottle of something pale that looks like wine, I laugh, shooting him a wry look. “Is that champagne?”
He smiles. “Therapy and drinking don’t really go hand in hand in the monster world. If they do in the human world, I’d love to know more about that. But, no, it’s not champagne. It’s a special nonalcoholic mead Ohken makes for me. It’s been proven that having a drink while at therapy can help soothe your nerves. The snacks serve the same purpose. And I’ve discovered as a therapist that sometimes the best sessions are the ones where we don’t sit awkwardly in chairs staring at each other.”
“Are you gonna take notes about me?”
Connall’s laugh echoes in the small space. Gods, it’s so deep and delightful. I could jump into that laugh and get lost. I’ve never heard a manlier laugh in my entire life.
“Yeah, but I take them between sessions so that, during our session, I can give you my full attention.”
I tug at my collar. The mental image of Connall sitting there scribbling notes about me makes me simultaneously anxious and horny. What if he wore glasses? Gods, that’s hot.
He places a piece of cheese on a cracker and hands it to me.
“I want to reiterate that we can in no way consider this real therapy, Lou. I couldn’t date a client. So let’s just eat and drink and talk about how you’re feeling. I want to help, if I can, even if I’m only able to give you coping mechanisms.”
“Agreed.” I munch on the cracker as he grabs another and tosses it into his mouth.
It’s companionable being with him like this. Easy.
“How are you feeling today?” he questions.
“About any specific topic?” I slide my eyes to his.
“Whatever’s top of mind,” he encourages. “We can talk about Leighton if you like, or about your nieces. We could even talk about last night.” His smile returns as heat flares through me.
“Not last night,” I say in a rush. “Not that it wasn’t lovely, I just think I’d feel awkward talking about it like I need therapy because of it?”
He laughs. “Noted. Then what would you like to discuss?”
“Coping mechanisms.”
He pushes his glass to the side and leans over the pale aqua countertop onto his forearms. “To cope with what?”
I hunch over the countertop, wondering if it would be weird to slide my hands across it and hold his. “Guilt,” I finally admit. “I can logically tell myself that what I did to Leighton wasn’t my fault, that I was a victim too. But Leighton’s gone, and I’m here, and I don’t know how to get my emotions in line with the logic part.”
He keeps the soft smile, even though I just brought up his dead friend. “Lou, are you familiar with the concept of moral injury?”
I shrug. “Sounds familiar, but I’m not sure I could explain it.”
“Essentially, it’s applied to any number of emotions or sensations that result from having done something that’s contradictory to your moral code, in this instance, your part in Leighton’s murder.”
Murder. Oh my gods, he thinks I’m a murderer.
“This concept is common among soldiers who’ve gone through war,” he continues. “Even if they signed up to fight, going into battle and killing is another thing entirely. The number of monsters I’ve counseled who fought in various wars is too high to count.”
