He's Come Undone by Theresa Weir Page A

you to go over this stuff again and again. Like they wanted you to break. It wasn’t just Dr. Adair. They were all the same.
    I could say that, because I’d had three of them. Two back in New Hampshire where we used to live, and Dr. Adair, someone I’d been seeing once a week since starting school at the U of M. I hoped like hell we could drop it to every other week, because I usually felt pretty good until I saw her. How did that make any sense? You went to a doctor to feel better, not worse.
    I didn’t have to go, and I’d skipped a few visits, but they always called my sister, and she always got after me. The tears. The fear. I couldn’t handle it, so I came. I let Adair poke at my scars, and then I’d leave, and then I’d start to heal, and then I’d go back for the next visit and it would start all over again.
    “I met a girl,” I told her. The words just popped out of my mouth.
    Dr. Adair sat with her back to a window that overlooked a park and jogging trail, her office located in her home. Patients entered through a side door, and I’d never seen what was beyond the room where we met.
    Next to her was a pink orchid with two green fronds and a stem so long and weak it had to be supported with a wooden stick and some twist ties. I mean, come on. I knew orchids were supposed to represent something soothing, but I would often catch myself looking at that damn flower, wondering if it represented her patients, represented me, this person who couldn’t stand on his own. Who couldn’t deal with the world without someone supporting me. She should really have some strong and sturdy plant, something with a thick stem. Maybe a jade plant or cactus or something.
    “A girl,” she said. “What’s she like?”
    “Weird. She’s weird.” She saved my life. She jumped on a drunk guy’s back and smacked him in the head. Of course she hadn’t saved my life. I wasn’t delusional.
    “In what way?”
    “In a good way.” I didn’t want to go into the brawl, because I didn’t want Dr. Adair to know I was hanging out in bars. She’d lecture me about drinking, especially drinking while on medication.
    I leaned into the couch and stretched one arm across the back. “She’s spontaneous. I guess that’s how I’d describe her. And so real. So bluntly honest. I love that.”
    She frowned and looked down at the notebook in her hand, then back at me. Dr. Adair never talked about herself, but she seemed like the kind of person who might be married to a professor. They might have two kids about my age, and two dogs, preferably yellow labs, but maybe some kind of retriever.
    “Julian, I don’t think you’re ready for a serious relationship.” This was the first time she’d ever given her opinion about anything—another annoying thing about psychiatrists.
    “It’s not serious,” I told her. Not yet. “I’m not even sure she likes me.” Especially after walking out on her at the coffee shop. I felt bad about that, but when she started talking about death I couldn’t hang around. I couldn’t even respond because I was afraid I’d fall apart in front of her. And then what would she think? So I left.
    “That’s something I haven’t heard before. A girl not liking you. Do you think that might be why you find her attractive? Because she’s not interested?”
    She could have a point. I thought about her question while I stared at the orchid. What would happen if the twist ties that held it to the stick were removed? Would the flower just flop over? I’ll bet it would.
    “You might not realize it, and you might not want to admit it, but you’re still very fragile,” she said. “And a relationship brings with it a lot of strong and unfamiliar emotions.”
    I closed my eyes and reopened them while pulling in a steadying breath. I would not get pissed. Before I could launch into an argument, she continued with her negativity.
    “As I’ve said before, along with PTSD, I suspect you’re also suffering from