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In my naivety I almost started to believe that I could have that—
love
—with Sam. That it could be enough.

But maybe it was too much.

It took no more than a few hours after we made love for the first time that Sam found himself in a physical altercation because of me—having to save me from Robin—risking injury or arrest. It took no more than a few hours after we professed our love for one another that he came to blows over me again, this time with my own father, and got dragged away in handcuffs.
Some
love
.  

What good is a love that does nothing but drag you down? That puts you at constant risk? That offers you nothing but pain and violence, and threatens to destroy your entire future? I doubt Columbia University would be overly forgiving of an assault conviction. They could rescind Sam's acceptance if Miami PD takes Robin's accusations that
Sam
attacked
him
seriously—that he wasn't saving me from anything at all, and just beat Robin out of jealousy over our history. Complete nonsense, and yet all any of us have is our word. And my word doesn't have much value, not after Robin Forbes and his entire family spent the last year trashing my credibility all over my hometown down in northern Florida.  

And that isn't even the worst case scenario. Because Sam messing up his future over me would be bad enough, but if Robin came after me again, and Sam was there… he could get hurt. Really hurt. Or worse. Like Cam. A sharp pain slices through my gut at the thought.

And thus is the new direction my nightmares have taken.

I had to tell Dr. Schall about Sam and me. At first I just told him about the dreams—how Sam is always there, always in the line of fire… always ending up hurt or killed. When Dr. Schall asked about our friendship, something we'd discussed before, I think he already surmised that something had happened between us. In the past couple of months, Sam has consistently been a central topic in my therapy sessions. Because many of my issues center around panic triggers specific to male proximity—being alone with a man, or God forbid, touched by one—my friendship with Sam, and all that came along with it, was something significant in my recovery, according to Schall.

So I'm not surprised that he's especially fixated on the romantic direction our relationship had taken in Miami. As fucked up as it is, this psychiatrist I've known for barely a few months is the closest thing to a father figure I have anymore. So his pride over my intimacy with Sam is just the weirdest freaking thing ever. He knows Sam of course, he treats his little sister, Beth—or
Bits
as her family calls her—and I suspect Sam may have seen him himself at one point too.

Schall wasn't surprised when I told him I love Sam. Or that Sam said that he loved me. Nor was he surprised that I broke things off after what happened with Robin and my father. He asks me if I think that Sam blames me for him getting into these altercations. I don't answer. The truth is, I have no idea. But it doesn't matter,
I
know it's my fault, and that's what important. That's what gave me the strength to do what I needed to.

"In fact, if you really feel like you've done him wrong, perhaps you should apologize."

I blink at him before letting out a short laugh. "Nice try. I already apologized, remember?" I know what he's trying to do. He thinks Sam will agree with him that I am innocent in all of this. But he's lamented his opinions ad nauseam, so he knows there's no use in repeating them. He thinks I was an innocent victim. He always says "was", because he insists that's no longer what I am. He doesn't want me identifying myself as a victim. Now, he insists, I am a survivor.

But a year ago, I was an innocent victim. Maybe a little naive, but that was my right at my age, or so he's said repeatedly. And now he says that I am similarly not to blame for what happened in Miami. But I'm not naive anymore, and so what excuse do I have for putting myself in such a precarious situation when I knew better? None. And he knows it.

But I know he thinks Sam will agree with him, and that I'll listen, because Dr. Schall thinks I listen to Sam more than anyone. That I trust him.

And sure, he's not wrong, I do trust Sam. But I also know he is both protective and defensive of me, and so his opinion isn't exactly unbiased. Even so, Dr. Schall won't force a conversation this way. Because I
did
apologize to Sam. And so I remind him of the note we discussed the week after I arrived back home.

But Dr. Schall shakes his head. "Doesn't count. You apologized for abruptly ending the relationship. Not for unintentionally leading him into danger and putting him at risk."

"Semantics," I argue, though I know he's right. I didn't apologize for getting Sam into trouble. Just for how I handled things—for hurting him.

But it's irrelevant, because it's not like there's a chance in hell of me going up to Sam—who most days resembles more stranger than best friend—and ask him if he blames me for something I know to be my fault.

I know I didn't intentionally put Sam at risk. But that's not the point. The simple math is, if it weren't for me, Sam wouldn't have gotten into those altercations. Wouldn't have spent his spring break getting into fights and nearly getting arrested. I don't have to be a whiz in calculus to know that he's better off without me than with.

Dr. Schall makes that "hmm" sound he always makes to let me know he's reserving his opinion. It's his way of not reserving his opinion at all, and I roll my eyes.

Schall hands me an empty journal and asks me to start writing down my dreams. He wants a detailed log of when they happen, and their content. He wants me to record if I do have any dreamless sleep, or sleep without nightmares, and tells me to particularly pay attention if there's anything out of the ordinary. He says if that happens I should try and think what was different about the day that preceded such an occasion and record that, too.   

No problem
, I tell him, since it won't actually fucking happen.

I stifle another yawn. I'm so damn tired.

Dr. Schall tries to hide his disappointment in my negative attitude, but I catch it. He tells me to let him know if I ever ask Sam about what he thinks about the whole matter. If he blames me for almost getting him hurt or arrested. I offer him a faint, sardonic smile and let the good doctor know I will keep him in the loop. He smiles then, and I feel less hurt over his disappointment.

Dr. Schall's intercom buzzes and the receptionist announces my mom's arrival. They shake hands before she joins me on the sofa, rubbing my upper arm in greeting. I'm immediately put on edge. I don't know why, either. Maybe it's the change in the doctor's demeanor, subtle as it may be. Or perhaps it's the nervous energy I feel emanating from my mother.

Then again, her nerves aren't exactly unwarranted—these family sessions haven't exactly gone smoothly, historically speaking. I think of our first session after Miami, and how I was talking about my confusion over how Robin knew I'd be there. How he said my father had mentioned it, and how I couldn't understand how
he
even knew. I hadn't spoken to my father in nearly a year, and I'd been under the impression the same went for my mother.

I remember my growing awareness of the tension in the room, and how it's source—my nervous, suspiciously guilty-looking mother—sat beside me bouncing her knee in what I've recognized since childhood as a sign of her own anxiety.

I knew before she even spoke that she was my father's information source. I listened as patiently as I could to her explanation that
of course
she still speaks to my father when necessary, and
where did I
think
she obtained the extra money to pay for the trip
?

The truth was I
hadn't
thought about it. I knew money was tight, but when she agreed that I could go, I was more concerned with the logistics of handling the trip itself, and if I'm honest, looking forward to spending the time with my friends and Sam, than trying to figure out how she funded the trip.

But learning she was in sporadic contact with my father took me by surprise. More surprising? The fact that he agreed to give her the money, knowing it was for me. But then again, maybe he'd been plotting to set me up to be cornered by Robin from the get-go. He probably believed Robin would do nothing more than beg me to dissolve the restraining order and take him back. Again. After all, my father still believes that I'm a crazy liar who fabricated Robin's abuse for attention, or vengeance, or whatever excuse he's adopting today. He never believed Robin would hurt me. He never will.

I wasn't exactly angry with my mother; however, it was clear she was more than angry with herself. Despite my father's previous betrayals, she never thought he would tell the Forbeses where I'd be, or maybe neither of them thought Robin would blatantly disregard the restraining order. But he has a history of getting away with violent crimes, so why would he believe that the words on that worthless piece of paper actually applied to him?

Then again, neither of them know him like I do. No one does really, and I hope to God that no other girl ever has to.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake the memory of that revelation. I peek over at my mother, sitting stiffly, formally, her legs crossed at the ankles as she watches Dr. Schall as if awaiting something.

"Thank you for joining us, Amy," he says.

"Of course," she replies, and I sit there, unable to shake the feeling like the other shoe is about to drop.

"We don't have a lot of time, so I won't beat around the bush. There are a couple of things we'd like to discuss," Dr. Schall says matter of factly.

This isn't surprising, of course. That's why she's here. But for the first time I get the distinct feeling that I don't want her here. That she's intruding on some private matter. It's ridiculous, I know, but there are things I discuss with my therapist that I could never, would never, discuss with my mother. And now I wonder if they plan to talk about something I'd rather them not bring up.

I feel my pulse race, and though I try to ignore the fine sheen of sweat on my brow and focus on taking even breaths, I know they both have noticed my anxiousness. Of course, they're both tuned into it, conscious of my every reaction, and so I try even harder to suppress them.

Because I'm eighteen, Dr. Schall can't bring up things we've discussed in therapy without my express prior consent, so it's always on my mom to ask questions she wants to ask, and she's usually reluctant to pry. But today, there's a determination mixed with her nervous energy, and I wonder at it.

"Honey, I wanted to talk about school. I know it's almost over, but I saw that C in Government, and—"

"Why don't we first talk about
why
you think Rory's having trouble in school," Dr. Schall interjects.

I deflate. I literally sag into the sofa like a petulant child. This isn't a conversation I want to have, but at the same time it's kind of a relief. Because I was imagining it would be something worse.

"Well, she—"

"Talk
to
Rory, not about her," Dr. Schall interrupts again.

My mother nods. "Right. Of course. Rory, you aren't sleeping more than a few hours a night. I'm not blaming you, I just think maybe we should reconsider-"

It's me who interrupts this time. "No fucking way."

My mother startles at my language, but I don't care. I'm not taking those goddamned sleeping pills. I shudder at the mere thought of it.

"But maybe there's another kind we could try," my mom suggests. We both look to Dr. Schall—my mother for hope of a solution, and me for confirmation that none exists.

"There are certainly other sleeping aids we could try," he says cautiously.

I shake my head. "They don't work, Mom. I can't… I can't do it." It's not a very articulate argument, I admit. But she knows what I mean. The sleeping pills do help me sleep. But they don't stop my nightmares, and so instead of waking up screaming, I find myself trapped in terror, too drugged to awaken, my dreams more vivid than ever. My fingers start to tremble as I remember the nights I took those pills. Buried by my own medication inside horrors I can't escape, in which I can't tell the difference between dream and reality, or past and present. It's how I would imagine my own, personal hell.

My mother's arm slides around my shoulders as she mutters apologies, withdrawing her suggestion. I placate her, telling her it's okay, and force my mask back in place. Everything is okay.
I
am okay. Or so my mask implies.

"Okay, then," my mother continues, glancing over at Dr. Schall for what appears to be encouragement. I swallow anxiously. "Well, maybe if we talk about things. Maybe that will help."

I sigh in frustration. "Mom, why do you think I come here twice a freaking week? What do you think we do? Play Scrabble for an hour?"

Dr. Schall's moustached top lip quirks up as it often does at my snark. But my mother's next words knock the jest right out of me.

"Have you talked about Cam?"

She asks this like it's the most normal question in the world. Something we talk about all the time. From her tone, you would never know that the only time I've so much as referenced the best friend I lost in the most tragic way possible was when I'd told her I'd talked about him to Sam. No details. Nothing more than one sentence on the plane home from Miami saying I'd told Sam about him.