Addicted To You .L.S.

Thirty Four.

Now (June)

"You're quiet today," David says halfway into our second therapy session on Monday. "What are you thinking about?"

I look up from my place in the couch. I've been twirling the rings on my thumbs, tracing the grooves of the letters like they're a key to a lock I haven't found yet.

"Promises," I whisper.
"Do you keep your promises?" David asks.
"Sometimes you can't keep them."
"Do you try?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
David smiles. "In a perfect world, yes. But I think you're well acquainted with the unfairness of real life."
"I try to keep mine. I want to."
"Did Harry keep his promises?"
"Harry didn't need to. You always ended up forgiving him anyway, no matter what he did."
"You care about him a lot." He notes.
"Way to state the obvious, David."
David's eyebrow twitches, his pleasant smile dropping at my hostility before setting it back to neutral. "You forgave him a lot, too."
"Don't talk about him like you knew him," I snap. "You didn't. You won't."
"Not unless you till me."

I'm quiet for a long time, just sit there, and he doesn't force me to continue. He folds his hands together and sits back in his chair to wait for me.

"He was bossy," I say finally. "And spoiled. Annoying. But really thoughtful and smart. Smarter than everyone else. He could bullshit his way out of anything just by smiling. He was a jerk when he needed to be and he'd never apologize for it. He's the first thing I think of when I wake up, the last thing I think of when I go to bed, and the only thing I think about in between."

I stare at the framed diplomas on the wall, the award David got from some organization for homeless youth, another from an abused women's group. By the time he speaks, I've practically memorized the entire wall.

"That makes him sound like an addiction, Louis." I keep staring at the wall. I can't look at him. Not now.
"I don't want to talk anymore today."
"Okay," David says. "We'll just sit here a few minutes longer, in case you change your mind."

When I get to the car, my phone vibrates. I turned it off during my session, but now I see that Rachel's left me a message.
I call my voicemail and freeze in the act of turning my keys in the ignition, listening to the message play: "It's me. I got the drive open. You need to call me. I think I know why Harry was killed."