His breath tickles my skin, the tips of his fingers brush lightly across my arm. I can feel the warmth of his body pressing against my back. His lips ghosting across my shoulders, his nose nuzzling against my neck.

“Suno, meri khushi…“

The words are whispered against my temple.

“Meri khushi.” – “My joy.”

There are more words. A language I don’t understand but whose meaning I feel deep down inside my soul.

“Meri khushi.”

Eyelashes flutter against my cheek, like butterfly kisses. His voice envelops me like a cosy blanket. It makes me smile. His arms slide around my torso. Keeping me steady. Keeping me safe. Wrapping me in a cocoon of belonging, and for a moment there is no place I’d rather be.

Something nudges my nose gently, and my smile widens, already waiting for his kiss.

Thunk.

“Ow!”

I crack one of my eyelids open, rubbing sleepily at my nose after the second, decidedly more forceful assault. A pair of bright yellow eyes blink slowly back at me, feigning angelic innocence. Bruno tilts his head before he extends one of his paws to tap my face again.

I swipe it away before he can get the idea of adding his claws to the mix. “Jay-zuhs, Bruno,” I groan. “I’m up, alright? See, my eyes are open! “I lift an eyelid in demonstration. “I’m awake!”

Somehow my cat still manages to look doubtful, so I reach out with my right hand to scratch between his ears.

“A’right, a’right, keep your fur on. I’m gettin’ up. Breakfast’s comin’.”

Bruno decides his mission to wake up his lazy hooman was successful and hops off my bed to saunter towards his empty bowls. Half-empty bowls actually, but my spoilt cat obviously can’t eat food that has been out for some time. His water is probably the wrong temperature as well. He’s got a whole lot of opinions for somebody who licks his own butt. I run a hand down my face to rub away any remnants of sleep, decidedly ignoring the cold, empty half of my bed. Bruno lets out another impatient meow. Yeah, yeah, I’m starving my poor cat. I roll out of bed and dutifully fill up Bruno’s food bowls. While blocking his view, I mix fresh kibbles with the ones from his dinner last night. The bossy little gremlin can forget about getting a full serving of fresh ones every time he demands it.

When I put it down in front of him, he squints at me suspiciously. He sniffs his kibbles, then glares at me. He knows exactly what I’ve done, but I cross my arms over my chest and stare back at him. Just when I’m about to cave and refill his bowl, he starts picking at his food. I grumble something about him being a ‘freeloadin’ fuzzball’ and get myself a glass of water before I start the coffee maker and head to the bathroom for my morning routine. After taking a few sips of coffee, I trudge down the stairs to start my chores. I need to get a move on or I won’t make my appointment later. My stomach feels queasy thinking about it. But maybe it’s just because I haven’t eaten yet.

I try to concentrate on my tasks as best as I can – which isn’t a lot this morning – and ignore the growing unease that won’t leave me. When I’m done and ready to head upstairs again, I feel like I’m going to hurl. I take a shower, dress in a nice T-shirt and a new pair of jeans, and rub Bruno’s belly before I force myself to leave the house.

I arrive at the imposing brick building an hour before I need to be there. I still have time. I don’t need to go in yet. There’s nowhere to sit, so I sink down on the curb underneath a huge walnut tree with its enormous branches drooping across the street. Picking at a loose thread on the hem of my T-shirt, I don’t realise what I’m doing until it’s long enough to wind around my finger. So much for trying to look put-together. To give my hands something else to do, I reach into my back pocket and retrieve my emergency pack of cigarettes. It’s almost empty. I haven’t smoked in months. Apparently, this week was enough to send me slipping back into my bad habits.

I smoke the first one down to the filter in record time, alternating between glancing at the entrance door on the opposite side, fiddling with my shoe laces and checking my phone obsessively. No messages, no phone calls.

My eyes fix on the entrance to the building. It’s an ordinary door. Just painted wood with frosted glass. It’s not far. Only a few yards. Across the street, through the wrought-iron gate and the small frontyard with the neatly trimmed lawn and another large walnut tree. Only a couple of steps. It’s probably not even locked, so it’d be only a push and then I could walk through. No big deal, right?

It’s not.

It’s not knowing what’s behind that door that keeps me frozen in place. I’m trying to will my feet to move, I really do, but they simply refuse.

At least I made it here this time. That has to count for something, right? Probably not. I’m running out of strikes. I pull out my phone again for what has to be the hundredth time. I’ve lost count. I swipe over the screen, opening and closing apps without really paying attention. I scroll through my contacts until my eyes fall on his name. Before I can overthink it, my thumb presses the call button. He answers after the second ring, and hearing his voice immediately makes me feel better.

“Oye, papi, cómo estás?”

How am I? Ain’t that the million dollar question… Miserable. Frightened. Confused. Lost. Take your pick. All of the above…

“Papi? Are you okay?”

Apparently, I forgot to voice my thoughts out loud.

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Of course I’m fine. I’m always fine. There’s a slight pause on the other side of the line.

“You never call me in the middle of the day. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just…” I have no idea how to finish the sentence. I don’t even know why I called Rafa. My fingers just kind of pushed the button, and I…

“Where are you?”

I sigh. “Uptown. Walnut Street.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Qué carajo…? What are you doing on Walnut?”

“Nothing… I just…” My voice breaks on the last word which suspiciously comes out like a strangled sob.

Rafa doesn’t let me finish. “Give me the address, I’ll pick you up in five.” And he hangs up. I send him a link with my location, and he texts me back that it’ll take him a little longer. Twenty minutes later, a sleek black BMW pulls up to the curb right next to rumpled old me, and Rafa steps out with a flourish, looking impeccable and hotter than his abuela’s salsa as usual. He spreads his arms and gives me a sweeping bow, his black hair falling casually across his forehead before he brushes it back with a flick of his wrist.

“Mi princesa, your carriage awaits you.”

I just roll my eyes. He’s ridiculous. And shows up, no questions asked, when even I didn’t know I needed him.

“Where are we going?” I ask and Rafa frowns, looking around as if he’s only now registering our surroundings, then he tilts his head, giving me a once-over. Apparently I don’t pass the visual test.

“You know you look like shit, right?”

I snort. “Thanks, man. I really needed to hear that.”

Rafa grins, his eyes drifting to the park. “That Audubon Park down there, right?” I nod in confirmation.

“Let’s find a quiet corner and have a jat!” ‘Jat’ in Rafa lingo is a joint and a chat.

“It’s the middle of the day, Rafa, and we’re in public!” I protest. “I’m not going to…”

“Okay, okay, okay… tranquilo, princesa.” He throws his arms up in defeat and scans the street up and down. “You’ll find us a nice little bench, and I’ll get us coffee, okay? And then we’ll just…” He waves his hands around in a gesture that makes me think he doesn’t know what we’ll be doing either, but we’ll do it anyway. Fine.

Before I can react, he scoots off into the opposite direction of the park and I’m left to do as he told me to. So I trot along the street to the park, feeling relieved and guilty at the same time that I avoided walking through that door. Again. I find an unoccupied bench underneath a large magnolia tree nearby the park’s entrance. Since it’s October, the tree has lost all its blossoms, but it is still thick with dark green leaves, shutting out the sun and curious looks. I plonk my ass down on the backrest of the bench, planting my feet on the seat. My heels stay together, but the tops of my shoes keep knocking against each other.

It doesn’t take long for Rafa to find me, balancing one paper cup of coffee in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He tosses the bottle to me, swings a leg over the back of the bench and settles onto the backrest, next to me.

“Hey, where is mine?” I complain, pointing at his paper cup.

“Papi, you’re so fidgety, you look like you’re half a second away from vibrating through that bench. You’re not getting caffeine from me.” He points at my bouncing knees. Guess he has a point. I still feel betrayed. I was promised coffee. Fucking liar.

We sit for a while; Rafa’s sipping his coffee, and I unscrew the lid of my water bottle and drink rather unenthusiastically. It’s nice and cold and actually refreshing. Still, the aroma wafting over from Rafa’s side is mouthwatering, and I’m jealous.

The park stretches out around us, all green grass and sprawling trees, soft light slipping through the leaves. People move along the paths in the distance, but it all feels strangely far away. A young girl comes into view, struggling to keep three dogs from dragging her in three different directions. I watch as one of them stops dead to sniff a tree while another nearly tangles itself in the leash. Rafa giggles next to me but doesn’t comment otherwise.

I notice a speck of dirt on my left shoe and try to rub it off with the other one. Rafa waits for me to speak with the patience of a saint.

“Rashid and I are over. We broke up.” I suddenly blurt out and look down on the path in front us. Rafa sucks in some air. Whatever he thought was going on, that was probably not on his bingo card.

“What?!? But isn’t he back in England???” Rafa stares at me for a moment, dumbfounded, then gasps. “Did he break up with you over the phone? Este pendejo!“

I shake my head slowly and rub both hands down my face.

“Papi?”

“I did it, Rafa. I broke up with him. Over the phone. Guess that makes me the pendejo?” I throw him a sideways glance before I look away again. I actually don’t want to see the shock on his face. Instead, I intensely study a dull amber stone that stands out among the grey pebbles on the path at our feet.

“What happened, Wendell?” It’s not often that Rafa uses my name. Only when shit gets serious. I drag in a breath.

“I… it’s… we…” I struggle to find a way to put the jumbled up mess of emotions in my head into words. Make them make sense. I huff. “I guess in the end, he just wanted more than I could give him.”

I steal another glimpse at Rafa. He’s frowning.

“It’s not his fault,” I add in a sudden urge to defend Rashid. “It just… didn’t work.” I finish lamely.

“I don’t understand,” Rafa murmurs. “You were so good together.”

I don’t have an answer for him. We were good together. Just not so good apart. And Rashid deserves better.

When I remain silent, Rafa goes on: “I knew you two were having some trouble. You mentioned something. I just… I thought it was just a wobble, papi. Something you’d straighten out.”

I shake my head. There’s something wedged in my throat that makes it impossible to form words.

“So, this is it? It’s definite?”

I nod, still unable to speak.

Rafa lets out a breath. “Jay-zuhs, papi…”

Silence settles between us again. Rafa doesn’t ask any further questions. I know he wants to say more, but it’s one of the things I like about him. He’s loud and boisterous and sometimes a bit too much, but he also knows when he needs to be quiet. Or just listen. Or change the subject.

“So… um… what’s the connection here? I mean, it sure is pretty here.” He gestures towards the fancy mansions lining the streets behind us, with their moss-covered oak trees and well-groomed front gardens in-between and the lush greenery of the Park in front of us. “But why are we Uptown to discuss the end of your relationship?

I wince. I’m grateful he’s trying to stir the conversation away from one bad topic but he unwittingly tumbled into the next sore spot. I swallow and clear my throat a couple of times before I manage to squeeze out some words.

“I have…” I reconsider. “I had an appointment.” I don’t need to check the time on my phone to know I missed it. I can feel Rafa’s gaze on me, but he waits for me to elaborate. “With a therapist.” My words are barely above a whisper, and I feel heat creeping up my face. Who wants to admit, even to their best friend, that they’re broken?

I cradle the water bottle between my hands, letting the condesation seep into my palms. Rafa still doesn’t say anything. Is he shocked? Disgusted? Disappointed? He’s not running away, so I go on.

“My life… well… ” I bury my face in my hands, trying to block the outside world, focusing on the inside, trying to find the right words. When I do my voice sounds flat and defeated. “Some really shitty things happened in my life. And it messed me up. It messed me up real bad, Rafa.”

I throw a sideway glance at him. He’s looking at me. I avoid his eyes and jolt when the water bottle in my hands pops. I didn’t even realise I was squeezing it so hard.

“I thought it’ll just go away the way it came but…. it didn’t and I can’t… I don’t know what to do and I… I’m just a fucking mess.” Rafa’s features start to blur around the edges. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling.

Rafa’s hand lands on my knee, giving it a squeeze.

“So, you went to a therapist? That’s smart… I think?” He prompts me while I fight a losing battle with the moisture leaking down my face.

“I’m trying to see a therapist… if I could only get myself to cross that damn threshold.” I desperately rub my knuckles across my eyes, but Rafa takes my hands away and pinches my chin to make me look at him. His big brown eyes are full of concern.

“Why not, papi? What’s stopping you?”

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to get my ragged breathing under control to whisper, “I’m scared, Rafa. I’m so fucking scared.”

He hesitates briefly, but then he nods in understanding and pulls me into a hug. He just holds me, squeezing me tight. Like he’s trying to stop me from falling apart. It helps.

My mind flashes back to the day I called Eli’s number again, three days after he told me he doesn’t do couples therapy and I broke up with Rashid. Tahmoh’s chirping voice answered and informed me that Eli was out of office for the day and asked if he could take a message. I told him that I thought about it, and I knew now why I wanted to restart therapy. That I wanted to get better. For myself. Because there was no one else left in my life to get better for. But I didn’t say the last part.

Tahmoh hummed and mumbled: “Let me just get that…” and then I heard a soft clicking on a keyboard. “Yes… that’s perfect… so when would you like to come in for your next session?”

I blinked. Next session? Unless you counted the informal meetings I had with Eli this summer, I haven’t had a proper session with him yet, and I told Tahmoh as much. I could basically hear his frown over the phone. It’s a skill. Tahmoh’s frowns are never silent. Nothing about Tahmoh is ever silent.

“Huh… I have your last session with us down last Thursday and Eli added a note about your homework.”

I frowned. Silently. Because I wasn’t like Tahmoh. “Homework? I’m not in high school anymore.” I scoffed. Loudly. To make my irritation known.

Tahmoh laughed, clear and carefree as if I’d just made the funniest joke in the world. “Oh you precious little creature! It’s what we call when Eli gives one of our lovely lot something to think about until the next session.”

I grumbled something under my breath about being tricked and this being ridiculous, but Tahmoh blatantly ignored me. He just giggled.

“Don’t worry, sugar plum. Eli works in mysterious ways. We don’t know what he’s on about half of the time either. So how does Monday at 2:30 work for you? PM that is. Eli does nightly appointments as well, but we usually reserve those for our special night owls only.”

I had an inkling who those special night owls could be but I ignored it and confirmed the date. With more clicking on his keyboard, Tahmoh mumbled to himself: “Wonderful. That’s you all set. See you on Monday! Have a fabulous weekend, sunshine!”

I kept staring at my phone even after we’d ended the call and wondered, not for the last time, if Tahmoh was aware that he occasionally dealt with clinically depressed people, some maybe suicidal. The answer to it is yes, he is. He just never treats his ‘lovely lot’ that way. And that’s probably exactly what we need: a little bit of sparkling, bubbling brightness and the feeling of being treated like we’re normal, not broken. Crescent Counselling is not a place where patients – the ‘lovely lot’ – are seen as fragile. There’s no tip-toeing around on egg shells. Eli can be blunt at times and cryptic at others. Tahmoh is a little burst of joy, and Amina… well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say they balance each other out perfectly, and even when they irritated the fuck out of me first, I knew they were my last hope.

If I could just make myself walk across that threshold.

I missed the appointment on Monday, buried myself under my duvet after my lunch break until it was well into the afternoon. I called in the evening, apologised with a lame-ass excuse about getting the days mixed up and Tahmoh rescheduled me for Wednesday, happily humming a tune while entering the new date on his computer.

Wednesday came and went. I called in sick and didn’t make it out of bed at all. I wasn’t sick, just stared at the wall, my back to the world outside. I could faintly hear noises drifting up from the backyard. The splash of water, the swish of a broom. The clatter of bin lids, the rumble of wheels. Someone called out a greeting. The thrum of a guitar.

This time it took me until Thursday to call again. I didn’t have the energy to make up an excuse. Tahmoh didn’t need or expect one.

“Oh honey,” Tahmoh’s voice softened the moment I said my name. “I’m sorry, we don’t have an opening today.” I hadn’t even asked for one. “Why don’t you come in tomorrow? 11am? I’ll have a Quiet Morning ready for you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I guess I’ll never find out because it’s well into the afternoon and I’m sitting on a bench in Audubon Park with Rafa, who is still squeezing me tight, presumably to stop me from evaporating into dust on the spot. My ribs actually hurt, but knowing he won’t let me go keeps me from crumbling.

“I think my cousin Adri went to a therapist once.” Rafa’s voice pulls me out of my musings. “Adriana. She’s actually more like my mom’s cousin’s daughter or something.” Rafa’s eyes squint trying to work out the family tree. “Or maybe she was dating one? I think Aunt Pat said Adri was seeing a therapist, which could mean anything. Especially in this family…” He sighs before he gives me a bashful smile.

“Sorry… it’s not the same.”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. It’s nervous and unsure, but I’ve run out of tears. Stories about Rafa’s big and chaotic family that includes at least fifty cousins are also always fun, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Apparently, the nervous sound is enough to prove I’m still corporeal, because Rafa finally lets me go and takes my hands in his instead.

“What are you most afraid of?” His voice is soft and tentative. This isn’t Rafa asking just to fill the silence. He really wants to know. I just wish I could give him an answer. Everything? Scared therapy won’t work for me after all. Scared that it will? Rafa’s eyes won’t leave me, won’t let me look away and hide my shame. They’re earnest and encouraging.

“I… forgot… things. Horrible things. Things I never wanted to remember. But they came back. This summer.” I swallow. “What if… what if there’s more? More things I made myself forget?” I don’t know what other things there could be, or if they could be even worse than remembering Remy’s death but that’s the thing. I just don’t know.

Rafa hums, then rubs my hands gently. “What can I do, papi?“

I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.

“Would it help if you talked to me first?”

I manage to shrug and shake my head at the same time.

“I’m your friend, Wendell. I can’t…” He exhales and tips his head towards the sky. For heavenly guidance or the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything? I’ll never know. When he looks back at my miserable frame, his eyes are fierce and determined. “I can’t make you remember shit or whatever a therapist would do. But I’m your friend. I can listen. And this…” Rafa lets go of me and draws a circle around us with his hands. “This, papi, is a judgement-free zone. You can tell me anything. Whatever you say will not change the way I feel about you. I’ll be there for you. Whatever you need. Whatever you want to do.”

I hiccup pathetically and finally give him a small nod. And then I tell him. Haltingly, stuttering at first. Not everything, not every detail. He knows some of it already. That I was homeless. He only asked if I’d sold drugs. My denial told him enough. There’s only one other way to earn money on the streets. He still doesn’t need to know every horror story, but I confirm that I was turning tricks for four years. That I started when I was 16. He listens to me quietly most of the time but comments on this with a heartfelt “motherfucking kid fiddlers”.

I tell him a little about Dad, and maybe it sounds like he was the reason I left home. Well, he certainly didn’t help, so I let the blame rest with him. There’s only one person I ever confided in about Remy, and that was my sister Josie. I never told Rashid. I can’t tell Rafa. But I mention my mom. It turns out he already knows that she passed away years ago. Josie must have said something to Mari, who told Rafa. There are no secrets in the Bernal-Sucre family. Rafa squeezes my hands a little tighter with a sympathetic noise. I never met Rafa’s mom, but I know they’re close and Rafa loves her very much. Whenever Mari shared stories about ‘Auntie Xiomara’, she sounded like a force of nature. Tall and beautiful, with fire in her eyes. And a heart as big as the whole damn world. Everything you expected from the woman who gave birth to Rafael Sucre.

The same person who listens to me go on and on about my train-wreck of a life and never makes me feel like I’m wasting his time. Holds my hands the entire time, not caring one bit if someone might see and draw the wrong conclusions. Or right conclusions if you asked Cousin Gina the Blabbermouth. Who should stop treating life like an episode of Corazón de Fuego.

When I’m done, I actually feel a little lighter. Not like the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders, but sharing it with someone else, someone I trust, actually feels good. I give Rafa a faint smile.

“Thank you…”

“De nada, papi.” Rafa grins back at me. After a beat, he turns somber again. “Do you still want to do therapy?”

“No…” I let out a humourless laugh. “But I think I might have to.”

Rafa nods, resolve settling back into his expression. “Then let’s do this. Let’s get you a therapist!” His enthusiasm about this is actually a little scary. “That one back there? Are they good? You trust them?”

I nod, reluctantly. “Yeah, I think he’s good.”

“Okay, let’s get you a new appointment! That therapist not working for you? Fuck ’em! We’ll find someone who does. We can do this!”

Rafa is in full-on crisis-resolving mode now: Problem identified. Solution required. He is now handling this. He slaps his hands down on his legs and I realise he means to do this right now. Panic claws at my insides again and Rafa must see it in my eyes.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

I consider his offer briefly but then shake my head, although someone holding my pawsie hand throughout that whole ordeal sounds fucking comforting. “No… I think it’s something I need to do on my own.”

“You don’t have to do anything on your own.” Rafa assures me. Then he inhales a deep breath, leaps off the bench and pulls me to my feet. “Tell you what. I’ll come with you until we’re in front of the house. I’ll wait until you go through that door and get a new appointment. And if you can’t do it today, we’ll come back tomorrow. Or on Monday. We’ll come back every damn day. And afterwards, we go to that ice-cream place that you like so much and stuff our faces with ice-cream until we’re sick.”

I’m lost for words and just throw my arms around his neck. “I love you, Rafa, thank you.”

“De nada, papi. And I love you, too.” He leans closer to my ear and whispers with a chuckle. “Just don’t tell Elodie; she might get jealous.”

I snort out another laugh, wiping at my eyes, and Rafa hands me a handkerchief with a smirk to mop up the remaining tears and snot.

We stay in the park for a few more minutes until I decide avoiding the inevitable isn’t helping things, so I’m walking back to Eli’s practice, Rafa by my side. His presence helps. I know he won’t pressure me into anything but is still the kick in the pants I obviously needed. And the quiet reassurance that he’ll be there when I come back out. I have no clue how it’ll work for my actual appointment – or any future appointments after that – but we’ll see about that.

I drag my feet up the two stairs leading up to the entrance and through the heavy wooden door. Inside I’m greeted by a young man whose face lights up when he sees me. Not much older than I am. Blond hair swooping across his forehead and big baby-blue eyes beaming at me. Tahmoh. And next to him, lazily leaning against Tahmoh’s reception desk, a steaming mug of tea in his hands and ankles crossed, is… Eli. His face is serious but not unfriendly, taking me in.

Not going to lie, the sight of him makes me want to bold immediately, but I swallow – hard – and make myself take a step forward.

Wendell, it’s good to see you.” Eli’s soft baritone greets me. It sounds warm and genuine. Tahmoh looks up at him quickly and then turns back to me:

“Oh! Welcome, sweetheart. You’ve arrived at the Department of Feelings and Mild Existential Crises.” He waggles his eyebrows and his grins grows even bigger. I didn’t think that was possible and it makes me actually laugh. Or cry. My emotions are a big mixed up.

Eli throws a stern look at his young receptionist but I can see the corners of his lips twitching. “Tahmoh, behave!”

Tahmoh sits up a little straighter in his chair, and I swear a little halo lights up above his head. Then he catches his tongue between his teeth before breaking into a mischievous grin. The halo flickers and dies.

“Come on in, Wendell. Don’t be shy.” Eli waves me closer and sends me a probing look. “I’d like to show you my orchids.”

His what now? My mind temporarily wonders if ‘orchids’ is code for something… sinister. My face must look really doubtful because Eli barks out a laugh.

“Plants, they’re just plants, Wendell.” He starts walking around Tahmoh’s desk to a door at the back of the hallway.

“I’m… um… only here to make a new appointment? My friend is actually waiting…” I vaguely gesture towards the door I just came through and the street behind.

“Tahmoh can tell your friend to come in and wait here. Let’s go!”

I send Tahmoh a look that clearly begs for help, an explanation, anything, but he just winks at me. “I’ll bring you some tea in a minute.”

Left with no choice, I follow Eli in his office, which is bigger than my entire apartment with large windows overlooking a garden and the park behind it. Not what you expect from a therapist’s office at all, more like the sunroom of a large mansion – which according to Eli’s explanations it actually used to be. Moderate fees, my ass! I feel more like the esteemed guest of Lady Grantham who is served tea by a maid in a frilly little pinafore. Tahmoh explains it’s one of his own special blends called ‘Garden after Rain’ (peppermint, lemon balm, ginger and lemongrass) and assures me that Rafa is happily sipping his own cup of ‘Crescent Sunset’ (hibiscus, orange peel, cinnamon and maple) in the waiting area.

I’m sitting down on one of the pieces of furniture in the room. It looks like one of the settees at 1132 Royal Street but smaller and less comfortable. My brain is still trying to catch up – this feels like a fever dream… and not the good kind! – while Eli rambles on about his orchids. There are a lot of them, and Eli speaks as fondly of them as if they were his children.

“Do you have children, Dr Barnes?”

He looks up at me from where he is bent over a small, rather sad looking specimen.

“No, Wendell, I don’t. Do you?”

I glare at him. “I’m gay, Dr Barnes. I thought we settled that already.”

Eli shrugs, ignoring my comment. “Being gay isn’t an impediment to becoming a father, Wendell.”

I shake my head. “I leave that to my sister. Being a parent, I mean.” Suddenly I wish Josie were here. I miss her. We haven’t spoken since mom’s birthday last week. For a brief flash, I panic that something happened to her or the baby, but no, Mal would have told me if there was any change.

“See this one?” Eli’s turns my attention back to him and the puny little orchid that sits next to him on the windowsill. “Gloria, our cleaning lady, almost threw her out with the trash last week.”

“Looks rough.” I dubiously eye the little thing with its leaves drooping around the base.. I also refuse to attribute a gender to a plant.

Eli follows my gaze and squints. “She does, doesn’t she?” He lifts one of the leaves and gently nudges it upwards. It falls off, and Eli sighs. “But I’m not giving up so easily.”

With these last words, he looks back at me, and this is one of his metaphors that I get. I’m the orchid. I almost trash. But Eli is not giving up on me. I nod slowly as my eyes start stinging again.

This was my first (official?) session with Eli. Most of them never feel like therapy. Or what I imagined it would feel like. Not what you see on TV with the patient on a couch and the therapist opposite on a chair with a pen and notepad. Eli never writes down anything. When I talk, he just listens. Asks a question. Sometimes they seem random and don’t make much sense. When I’m quiet, he talks. About anything and nothing. Tahmoh’s newest tea concoction. His orchids. The weather. We sometimes go for walks in the park or sit in the garden behind his mansion because he knows I like to spend time outdoors. Especially on bad days, it helps not to be trapped by walls.

We meet twice a week and it quickly becomes part of my routine. I sometimes still have panic attacks, my mind trying to come up with the most ridiculous excuses why I can’t go, but then I do; I leave the house, get on the bus, and cross that threshold. At first I don’t feel like it’s helping, but at least it’s not making things worse. I doubt that would be possible. I become somewhat obsessed with Eulalia, the orchid that Eli hasn’t given up on, and catch myself keeping an eye on the little thing whenever I’m in Eli’s office.

I’m still cursed with my father’s temper, so during one emotionally draining session, I get frustrated and throw a cushion across the room. It hits Eulalia, and I immediately feel terrible. I rush over and find her on the floor next to her pot, soil strewn everywhere, one of her petals broken. I kneel down, desperately trying to shove the stupid plant back into her pot, sobbing and apologising to a fucking plant, cursing Eli and cursing fucking therapy that’s not doing a goddamn thing. I’m completely losing it because I hurt a fucking plant.

Eli comes over and places Eulalia back in her pot and on the windowsill. Then he takes my hands in his.

“It takes time, Wendell. Healing takes time.”

And then he gives me my diagnosis. It’s PTSD. Or a form of it. No, it’s not only veterans who suffer from it. Everyone who experiences trauma can develop it. Eli says he doesn’t like labels because the human mind is a complicated thing. There are too many variables to predict the outcome. Some children with abusive fathers become abusive adults. Some become the kindest souls. Or anything in between. There are no textbook cases. No straight line from A to B. Then he talks about butterflies in Brazil and tornadoes in Texas, and that’s when he loses me. Again.

Once we’re both seated on the couch overlooking the garden – it’s much comfier than the old settee I sat on the first day – Eli explains to me that PTSD – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – is aptly named because it happens ‘post-trauma’. After the trauma. When the person – me in this case – experiences the trauma, there’s a point when the brain decides, ‘Nope. Nuh-uh. Not having this. Can’t deal with this right now.’ So it shoves the trauma into the furthest corner of the mind and shuts the door. Only when the event is over, when the individual experiences a period of stability and – somehow – even happiness, does the brain remember and pull the trauma out of the closet in full force.

I wouldn’t call my state of mind ‘stable’ when that happened to me, but apparently it was enough to jump-start the memory of Remy’s death. I’m not convinced, and Eli suggests that in my case it is also possible that something – or let’s say someone – helped trigger what happened on 30 July. Someone who’s a master in mind manipulation, has a morbidly curious soul and shared a similar traumatic youth, only 500-odd years before I was born. It never occurred to me, but then my strangely vivid dreams and headaches started when I agreed to work with Daniel Molloy and appeared on Armand’s radar. There’s no way of knowing for sure, and Armand would probably never admit it if it were true. In the end it doesn’t really matter.

I ask Eli if what he says about PTSD means that I can never be happy again or that every time I am happy, I’ll be faced with the multiple traumas in my life. Yes, multiple. For most people one traumatic event is enough, but me being the overachiever that I am, I accumulated several. Go me. Go. Fucking. Me.

Eli furrows his brow and says, “Nooo…”, dragging the word out and almost adding a question mark at the end. Then he barks out a laugh: “That would be absolutely terrible, wouldn’t it?” He actually goes into a laughing fit, slapping his knee and wiping his eyes. “I mean, can you imagine?”

When he sees my face, glowering at him, he sobers up a little. “No, you can absolutely be happy. And you will be. You just have to open that door that leads to your trauma wide and step through it. Locking away your problems is a great coping mechanism for the time being, but it only works short-term. Sooner or later, your problems will come back and bite you in the ass.”

Then he leans forward, taking my hands back into his. “It’ll take time. It’ll be painful. But I will stay beside you on that road for as long as you need me.”

“What if I never learn to… walk this road alone?”

“Oh, you won’t,” Eli declares matter-of-factly.

My therapist. Always the optimist. And so reassuring.

“None of us are, Wendell,” Eli continues, unfazed by my reaction. “The road is life, and we all need people to walk beside us.”

I sit there quite stunned because I think this is the first time Eli explains one of his weird metaphors. Usually he leaves me to figure out his riddles on my own.

“The more, the merrier,” he adds with a pat on my knee.

The following week, Eli introduces me to Dr Amina Khoury. With her bubblegum-pink hair and sparkling green eyes, she looks more like a college student in freshman year than the seasoned psychologist and trauma specialist Eli tells me she is. He explains that Amina will become part of what he calls ‘Team Wendell’ and that she’ll be working with me using EMDR.

I roll my eyes. Apparently, I have a team now. And whatever EMDR is.

From that day on, my appointments are split evenly between Eli and Amina. I like her instantly. She’s kind and a patient. Always has a bowl of sweets on her desk and insists I take one at the end of each session. At first I huff and puff because I’m not a child! But who says no to sweets? Especially when they’re vegan. Tahmoh is a fellow vegan, but the militant kind. He banned anything anything containing animal products from Eli’s practice. Apparently, even the biscuits need to be ideologically pure.

I learn that EMDR stands for ‘Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing’. Basically, you focus on a difficult memory while following a moving light or something similar with your eyes, which is supposed to help your brain process the memory differently instead of reacting to it like the danger is still happening. Or something. The human mind is really a wondrous thing.

As you can imagine, my doubtful ass is very sceptical about this new ‘hocus pocus’ actually working. Therapy is gruelling and often has me feeling wrung out, especially once we start hitting the really tough spots. EMDR is exhausting. Sometimes it leaves me shaky and raw, but Amina always makes sure I’m grounded again before I leave. By the time I step back outside, I’m tired, but I’m okay.

There are moments – a lot of them – when I just want to quit and give up. But Rafa keeps checking up on me and encouraging me to keep going. He’s also the first to point out the positive changes, even if he’s the only one seeing them.

Then New Year’s Eve comes around, and evidently it’s a date I should just skip in future years. After the Freddie disaster last year, I didn’t think I could possibly make a bigger mistake.

Apparently, the universe took that as a challenge, and I fucking accepted it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Between my first session with Eli in October and New Year’s Eve, a few other things happen, among them the arrival of my much-awaited baby nephew Brady and a reunion of sorts with someone from my illustrious hustling career.