All I Ever Wanted (Available On Amazon snd KU!)

Chapter Twenty-Three(Edited)

Hey all my lovelies I hope so far you are pleased with the writing of my story, I hope that you have also grown to fall in love with theses characters like I did! It means the world to have you still reading and rooting for this thick and thin love story.

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Thanks for being you!❤

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                                                                                         WYATT

      It had been seven months since my deployment in January, three since my early return from back in April, which means three months today since meeting Doctor Simpson. Therapy is going better than I expected, especially since I willingly read my journal entries about the day of the explosion aloud. Doctor Simpson has been asking about the entries that filled the pages before that day, specifically as a child. She could tell by the color of the pages the journal was older, much older than my deployment, older than moving to Colorado. Truth be told, it was. I've carried this thick weathered journal with me before Abbie walked into my life, tucking folded loose-leaf sheets of paper and sticky notes inside as entries on the days it was left at home or momentarily misplaced. She is pretty consistent on "digging deeper" and "confronting suppressed trauma".

     Before yesterday I considered "tackling" the feelings and events in my early life that have caused me to be so reserved, at times stand offish and defensive, terms of Doctor Simpson's evaluation notes. She thinks it would be beneficial to discuss and confront my feelings of what the abuse from my father was like, how I coped with witnessing the death of my sick mother. Sure, Doc knew my "timeline" but until I truly opened up, she wouldn't be able to diagnose me with Childhood Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A disorder she was almost positive I've been carrying around, untreated for years.

But that was until I found out about my fath-, Jason.

     Today, Abbie and I thought it would be best to start my session, talking about that scum's hearing and release.

"Has he tried to reach out to you before his release? Has he tried to call you while serving his time?"

"Yea, I got two or three calls." fiddling with the wooden puzzle block resting on the end table, I look up to notice Doc's head tilted, more than likely a bit unpleased by my short answer. I push the cube away and shift up in my seat before continuing. "Right, uh. I don't answer phone numbers I don't recognize, but I got the voicemail of accepting a phone call from an inmate or whatever those automated messages say. Figured it was him."

"Wait, he called? Wha- why didn't you tell me?" Abbie reaches for my hand, her brows furrowed, pinching the bridge of her nose from concern.

"So he can push himself into our lives again? I didn't want to worry you, plus at the time I thought he was doing time for attempted murder. I thought we'd never have to think about him again."

     Turning my attention to Simpson, I start my rant. "That's why he was in there the pass nine months, for nearly killing Alivia, until the DA's office probably decide they didn't want to use tax payer's dollars to feed him and provide housing, dropping his charges to some bullshit misdemeanor." My voice was harsh and full of annoyance, part of my stand-offish mannerisms. Simpson jotted it down, before resuming the questioning.

"Do you know where Mr. Pectin is now? Have the police informed you of any updates? Where his might be stay, for your own protection?"

"Uh, yea. Liv's boyfriend, Sean works with law enforcement, he has been keeping tabs on him. Jason's been out a week, has visited Liv's place of work claiming to have "nooo idea" it was her place of employment."

"Liv said his old school entitled southern accent made her skin crawl. And we had a suspicious car circling the school, my poor students had to sit in lock down through recess."

"Wyatt, has Jason always been this way? Controlling?"

     Controlling? I run my hand down the back of my neck, reflecting on the word she uses to describe him. I've heard him called selfish, entitled, prick, and have always known of him to enjoy his power Back in the days I worked as a ranch hand, I remember him getting joy out of watching the working class suffer and relay on him for loans when his under the table pay failed the bottom feeders. But hearing the word controlling, how could I not see it?

"Actually yea! Much worse after mom passed."

"It's merely an observation, without speaking with him I wouldn't know for sure, but it seems, Jason suffers from a mental health condition. It's called, N.P.D., Narcissistic Personality Disorder, it's often associated with controlling behavior." I turn to Abbie, who is wide-eyed with interest.

"Let's make a list: Running that ranch, gave Jason a sense of power and superiority. Sadly, your father- sorry Jason couldn't keep your mother alive, Controlling the uncontrollable if you will. Probably blaming himself, leading him to seek control any place he could. You for example, beating you to "keep you in line", keeping food from you "to keep you lean and fit for labor", even forcing this marriage to produce, in Jason's eye's the "perfect male offspring" to carry on the strong Pectin name".

     We sit with Simpson using the remainder of my session listening to her analysis of Jason. I watched Abbie's attitude change from stern and hesitant to compassion, I could tell she was starting to view him like one of her students. "It was Jason's cry for help", I could hear her say to me if I were to call her out. Had she really thought his cruel actions could be covered with the excuse of a mental condition? The "oh he is sick" card wasn't going to fly with me.

"Wyatt, hurry love, the guest will be here soon." Abbie said, opening the bathroom door with a slow creek. Curls framed her face, her long waves gathered and hidden away in a low braided up-do. A beautiful yet uncommon sight for my Abbie. But I like it, it shows off her slim neck, simple pearl earrings, and added depth to her collar bones normally covered from her free-flowing hair. The dusty rose fabric clinging tight to her upper body, before flaring out along her abdomen, running down the length of her legs until pooling around her tiny feet. I've always loved her height, and how frustrated she gets never finding jeans or in this case dresses short enough.

"You're going to trip in that dress babe" pointing to the small pool of fabric gathered at her toes.

"Oh shoot, my shoes!"