I scrub my hand down my face. It’s obvious I had the vibe I felt between us all wrong.

“I’m not sure where you want me to start or what you want me to say,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never been in therapy before.”

Frannie makes a note on the tablet in front of her before her gaze returns to me. “It’s not what I want you to say. You have to begin opening up to me in order for treatment to work. The best way for that to happen is to start small. For instance, tell me about your family, and where you grew up.”

I rub my clammy hands against my jeans. That’s easy enough. “I grew up in a small town here in Kentucky. My parents are still married, but I don’t see them often, and I have a twin brother named Trip.”

She nods. “Trip is also in Black Falcon with you, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you two always been close?”

My mind wanders back to when we were kids. Every event I picture, I see Trip standing right next to me. “Yes. Since birth we’ve been inseparable.”

Her pretty pink lips twist. “Until now.”

I pick at the leather cuff on my wrist and shrug. “That’s not what this is all about.”

Frannie pulls the black-framed glasses away from her face, revealing a clear shot of the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “I don’t mean to sound as if I have already pinpointed anything. I just want to get to know you—to understand what you’re feeling.”

I stare down at the thick leather cuff again. “Even I have a hard time understanding that sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” The softness in her voice wraps around me, making me almost believe she actually cares.

“I...it’s just, I’ve never been great at telling people what’s really on my mind. Talking feelings has always been difficult for me.”

She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them in the opposite direction. “But aren’t you the predominant songwriter for your band?”

I quirk an eyebrow, and my mouth pulls up into a half smile. “You’ve been researching me?”

A simple shrug and the slight blush staining her cheeks tells me she’s definitely looked me up. “I wanted to be prepared. Songs usually convey the emotion its writer is feeling at the time. Knowing facts like you’ve written most of the songs tells me that you’ve been able to express yourself through music in the past.”

I pull my lips into a tight line as I consider what she’s saying. I guess I’ve never really thought about it, but she’s right. Thinking back on most of the songs I wrote completely alone, the lyrics have always evolved from something that was going on in my life. Maybe she’s on to something, but it still doesn’t mean I can completely open myself up to a stranger when I’m not even sure what the fuck is going on with me.

I sigh. “Maybe that’s true, but that sure doesn’t help right now. What’s all this have to do with me talking to you, anyhow?”

She levels her gaze on me. “Why not use music to express your emotion?”

I laugh. “You mean like sing to you? No way. That’s ridiculous.”

She raises her brow. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I tell her simply.

Frannie stands and walks over to her desk and grabs a black notebook from a drawer. She comes back and stands before me. “Here.”

I take the notebook from her outstretched hand. “What exactly do you want me to do with this?”

She remains standing in front of me. “Since you seem to find it difficult to express emotion through traditional channels of communication, let’s try something different. If a song comes to mind that touches you for any particular reason, write it down, and we’ll discuss it.”

I twist my lips, attempting to hide my smirk as I rise from my seat. “I’d much rather you touch me.”

“Tyke—”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, and that it won’t happen again, but I’m afraid lying to my therapist is bad karma.”

Frannie shakes her head. “Please try and write your feelings in the notebook. It’ll give us something to talk about when I see you again in five days or so.”

I tilt my head. “Five days? I thought we’d be seeing each other on a daily basis.”

A small frown crosses her beautiful face. “The last thing you’ll feel like doing for the next three days is talking to me about your feelings. Detoxing will not be pleasant, and you won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. Why does everyone and their fucking brother keep saying that? “Don’t worry, Frannie. I’m no crackhead. I’ll be the same as always for the next few days.”

I fully expect her to answer me, but she doesn’t say another word, just simply sighs again, and leads me toward the door. “I’ll see you once you’re able, Tyke.”

When I leave her office, I catch myself shaking my head. Everyone always fucking doubts me. I hate that shit. I’m about to show everyone that I’m the one in control of my life and body, not some substance.

I toss and turn in the small twin bed in my room all night; the craving that usually creeps in late at night when I have too much idle time to stress over the ultimate demise of the band coming at me in full force. Thanks to Timothy and Dr. Shepherd flushing all my benzodiazepines and oxycodones, along with everything else I brought, down the toilet right in front of me, I have zero chance of scratching that stupid itch for a high. But still, it’s not anything I can’t handle. I’m still in control.