She glanced up at him. “Isn’t that what vets have when they come back from war?”
“That’s where we see it a lot, it’s true. But PTSD can happen to anybody who’s been through a severe trauma. Your body gets stuck reacting to what it perceives as threats, even if those threats aren’t valid. But the good news is it’s totally treatable.”
Parker sat up, putting her feet flat on the ground and turning to face him. Her head was swimming. She’d come here to placate Julie, sure that nothing—no one—could put her back together. But the way Elliot was talking, maybe he could help her. Maybe she wasn’t a lost cause.
It’d been a long time since she’d felt that way.
“Here’s the thing, Parker.” Elliot’s voice was gentle. She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “This doesn’t mean you’re damaged. It just means your mind has adapted to feelings of being unsafe. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“That sounds a lot like damage to me,” she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Great. I’m doubly damaged. Face and mind.”
He clucked his tongue. “Parker, all of us are damaged in our own ways. It’s just that most people call it ‘experience.’ And you’ve had a lot of experience. With your father. With your mother. And with Nolan.”
She nodded.
Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. It was warm and slightly calloused near the tips, as if he played an instrument in his spare time. He gave her hand a quick squeeze, and then let go.
“Parker, you have all the reasons in the world not to trust anyone,” he murmured. “No one can blame you for being cautious. But you have nothing to be afraid of. I promise you, if you give me just a little trust . . . if you can take a leap of faith . . . I will do my best to help you.”
“How?” Parker blurted, sure her cheeks were red.
“We can work through things together. The first step of any therapy is a little self-awareness. I want you to think about the ways your habits, your belief systems, your personality quirks have been developed to help you and protect you. Then ask yourself if they are truly working or if they’re hurting you. For instance, when you feel a headache coming on, focus on something in front of you. Something real, like your hand, to keep you in the moment. It sounds small, but it helps, I promise.”
She searched his face. He looked so sincere. She wanted more than anything to believe him. To believe that things didn’t always have to be so desperate, so painful. To believe she didn’t always have to be alone. To believe that maybe, just maybe, one day, everything would be okay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THAT SAME NIGHT, AFTER A few hours of practicing the material in the Juilliard audition packet, Mac parked at the curb at Blake’s house. He lived in a neighborhood of old Victorians near the Beacon Heights library; she used to come here all the time and play on his trampoline in the backyard. They’d held competitions to see who could jump the highest and who could do the best flip. Had Claire ever joined them? Mac wondered. She couldn’t remember.
She slammed the door to her car and took a deep, resolved breath. Okay. It’s just band practice. And that kiss? Never happened. And it’s never going to happen again. Besides, the whole band would be here this time. Blake wouldn’t kiss her in front of all those people.
She grabbed her cello case from the trunk and walked briskly up the front path to the door. Blake’s doorbell was the same as always, deep chimes playing the first few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The door flung open, and Blake stood in his socks, a pair of dark jeans, and a forest-green T-shirt. His smile was cagey and shy.
“Hello,” Mac said coolly.
“Hey.” Blake was just as breezy and cavalier. He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
See? Mac thought as she followed him, her cello case bumping against her knees. Blake did want to forget. This was going to go easier than she thought. And as she passed a line of pictures in the hallway, she spied one of Blake and Claire on the trip the orchestra had taken to Disneyland last year—Blake had quit orchestra by then, but he’d begged his parents to buy him a ticket anyway. He wore Mickey Mouse ears and was making a devil’s sign to the camera. Claire was kissing his cheek, her face pink.
They were supposed to be together, Mac told herself with determination. And she was just the friend.
Blake led her through the old country kitchen and opened the door to the refinished basement. As Mac tromped down the stairs after him, it occurred to her how quiet the house was. She walked into the large basement room, which smelled a little musty and had a dehumidifier chugging in the corner. Several music stands and amps were set up by the TV, but the room was empty.
“The others aren’t here yet?” she asked.
Blake hopped off the last step and turned around and faced her. “They canceled again. Stuff to do, I guess.”