Page 51 of Colt
“I’m going to call a therapist Betty recommended.” The words came out too fast, too defensive. “For the boys.”
He set down his beer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I twisted my hands together, hating how vulnerable I felt. “I can’t—I don’t know how to help them with the nightmares. With everything they’ve been through.”
Colt crossed the room in three strides, and suddenly his hands were on my shoulders—warm, solid, grounding. “Hey. You don’t have to do this alone.” His voice was rough, and when I looked up, his green eyes were fixed on mine in a way that made it hard to think. “We’re in this together. Remember?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His thumb traced a small circle on my shoulder, and the warmth of it spread further than it should have. I didn’t know what to do with that.
“I’m scared I’m not enough for them,” I admitted, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
“You are.” His hands tightened fractionally on my shoulders—grounding, not restraining. “You’re more than enough. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes.”
“Is that your way of calling yourself my backup?”
“If you’ll let me be.”
“You’re making it hard to say no.” I meant it as a complaint, but it came out softer than I intended.
“Good.” His thumb traced that maddening circle again, and I had to fight not to lean into him. “I’m done making it easy for you to push me away.”
“Colt—”
“I know. Too much, too fast.” But he didn’t move his hands. “Tell me to back off and I will.”
I should have. I should have told him to give me space, to slow down, to stop looking at me like that. But the warmth of his hands on my shoulders, the steadiness in his eyes, the promise that I didn’t have to carry this alone—
“Thank you,” I whispered instead.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he might pull me closer. Instead, he squeezed my shoulders gently and stepped back.
“Call her tomorrow,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “And let me know how it goes.”
?
I called the next morning.
My finger hovered over the call button for a full minute before I finally pressed it. Asking for help felt like admitting defeat—like confessing I wasn’t enough for my own children.
“Dr. Hardy, how can I help?” The voice on the other end was warm, professional.
“Hi, I’m—my name is Lilac James. Indira—” My voice came out too thin, too fragile.
“Lilac!” The warmth deepened. “Indira mentioned you might call. This is Bea. I’m so glad you reached out.”
“You know about my situation?” I gripped the phone with both hands.
“I know what Indira’s told me, which is that you’ve been through something incredibly difficult, and that you have two sons who might benefit from some support.” A brief pause. “I’d be glad to work with them—and with you, if you’d like that too. I already work with several people connected to the club. It wouldn’t be a conflict.”
“The boys are my priority right now. They’ve been having nightmares.”
“Tell me about them.”
I told her about Luca’s night terrors, about Knox’s refusal to talk about his bad dreams, about the way they both tensedup whenever strangers approached too quickly. I told her about the years I’d spent looking over my shoulder, never feeling safe, even though I had no idea what happened to me.
Bea listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
“Lilac, what you’re describing is consistent with early childhood trauma. The good news is that children are remarkably resilient, especially when they have stable, loving caregivers—which your boys clearly do. The less good news is that trauma doesn’t just disappear. It needs to be processed, and that’s something I can help with.”
