Chapter 28: A New Crisis

                                    

                                          
Oh, no! No, no, no! What was I supposed to tell my mom? Why, oh, why Zayn? Why did you have to show her that painting?
                          
We both stood, staring in horror at my mom, wondering what the hell to say.
                          
Finally, I said, "No, Mom, don't be silly. When I found out he was from Leigh-on-Sea, I showed him some of my pictures. He said he wanted to paint a portrait of me, so he used one of those pictures as his inspiration."
                          
"I don't remember seeing that picture, River," my mom insisted.
                          
"Artistic license," you told her. "I re-created her the way I might have seen her on the beach, near my home."
                          
She nodded, but I wasn't entirely convinced she was buying it. I decided to usher her out the door before she discovered anything else.
                          
"Well, Mom, thanks for helping me settle in. I think I can take it from here." I hugged her tightly and then I whispered, "I still need you, don't forget that."
                          
Her face softened and she left.
                          
"Whew!" I breathed after I had closed the door.
                          
"I'm so sorry," you said. "I don't know what I was thinking."
                          
"How are we going to stop slipping up?" I asked, putting my arms around your waist and leaning my head on your chest.
                          
"You mean, how am I going to stop slipping up?" You asked.
                          
"It could very well be me next time," I assured you. "I've come close to saying things I shouldn't...too many times."
                          
We just stood and held each other for a while. Then we made dinner together, almost giddy about the fact that we were finally home together.
                          
You started going to therapy two times a week, while I went less frequently because I was doing better. At first, you would come home and talk about your experiences with Dr. Conyers.
                          
Dr. Conyers was finally relenting on her Stockholm Syndrome theory, gradually believing our well-rehearsed stories. She couldn't tell me any specific details about your sessions, but sometimes I asked how you were doing. She would just reply with a generic, "He's making progress," or "I think this is very good for him."
                          
You resumed your job as a handyman, and I worked as Coach Freeman's assistant swim coach. We were both happy with the hours and the flexibility so that we could work on therapy together and build our new life as well.
                          
After you had been in therapy for about a month, I noticed a change in your moods. You seemed moody, tired, even depressed. I'd seen plenty of depression in my life, so I recognized it easily.
                          
I tried to talk to you about therapy but you no longer wanted to confide in me. I started to fear the worst, something that I never imagined about you. I feared that you were starting to regret your decision to be with me.
                          
I tried laying low for a little while, giving you some space. But after a week of you barely talking to me, I couldn't stand it. I knew you needed me, but I needed you, too.
                          
One evening, after we'd eaten a quiet dinner, you went to our room and closed the door, as you'd been doing for the past several nights. I would usually crawl into bed after I was sure you were asleep.
                          
But I was finally fed up. I went into our room without even knocking. I didn't even care if you were naked – neither one of us was in the mood for anything remotely physical just then.
                          
"Zayn, can we talk?" I asked quietly.
                          
You were lying there in the dark, doing absolutely nothing as far as I could tell. But you were still awake because you quickly shot back, "About what?"