Chapter 32
Nick stares at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint with his eyes, following them like they might lead him somewhere else—somewhere that isn’t here, in this too-soft chair, with this too-quiet man waiting for him to talk.
He doesn’t want to talk.
But he has to.
Because he’s ruined everything. He’s crashed and burned and now he’s just the wreckage, scattered in pieces, useless and irreparable. He hit Remy.
Him.
Nick Nelson, the guy who smiles at strangers on the street, who buys extra dog treats just to leave them out for the neighborhood strays, who gives up his seat on the train, who remembers birthdays, who loves fiercely and gently all at once.
That Nick Nelson hit a child.
And it doesn’t matter that it was an accident. It doesn’t matter that he would never, ever mean to hurt Remy. Because he did. Because he let his temper, his stress, his emotions get the better of him and he lost control for a single second, and that’s all it takes to become the thing he’s always sworn he would never be.
Like his father.
Like his brother.
Like Ben.
The thought makes his stomach churn. Makes his skin itch like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. He doesn’t belong to himself anymore. He’s just a product of everything bad, of every terrible thing he’s seen and learned, and now it’s inside him, rooted so deeply that it’s sprouted, grown, bloomed into something ugly.
He’s bad. He’s a bad man.
It’s not a thought—it’s a fact. He knows it. Feels it deep in his bones, in the way his hands shake when he thinks about it, in the way his stomach clenches, the way he hasn't been able to look at himself in the mirror since.
The silence in the room stretches, and Justin—the therapist Charlie practically begged him to see—waits.
Nick hates it. He hates being perceived, hates the expectation, hates that Justin is giving him the space to talk because it means Nick has to acknowledge it. Has to say it out loud.
So he does.
“I need help.”
The words feel foreign in his mouth, heavy and wrong, but they’re out now, sitting in the air between them.
Justin nods, slow and patient. “Okay,” he says simply. “That’s a good place to start.”
And Nick exhales, shakily, because yeah. Yeah, it is.
Nick crosses his arms, leaning back against the couch, his expression guarded. "That’s it?" he mutters. "You’re just gonna sit there and agree with everything I say?"
Justin, calm as ever, offers a small, patient smile. "Nick, this is your hour," he says evenly. "It’s your time to use however you want. You can talk about anything—whatever’s on your mind, whatever you need to work through. I’m here to listen. And if you want advice, I can give that too."
Nick scoffs, shaking his head, his jaw tightening. "You don’t know anything about me," he says bitterly. "So why act like you care?"
Justin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. His voice remains steady, warm, sincere. "Because I do care, Nick. That’s my job. But more than that, it’s what I want to do. You’re here because you said you needed help, and if that’s still true, then I’m here to make sure you don’t have to figure it all out alone."
Nick shifts uncomfortably in his seat, fingers drumming against his knee. “Great…” he mutters, but there’s a tightness in his voice, a hesitance that lingers in the air between them. He huffs, rubbing a hand over his face before mumbling, “But that feels… judgy. I don’t like being judged.”
Justin tilts his head, watching Nick carefully. There’s no sharpness in his gaze, no edge to his tone when he replies, “How can I judge when I don’t know you yet?”
Nick lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no real humor behind it. “You say that, but trust me, everyone judges. Even if they say they don’t.”
Justin remains unruffled, his voice steady. “Maybe some do. But I promise you, whatever you tell me, I’ve probably heard before. And even if I haven’t, being judgmental in my field wouldn’t get me anywhere.” He pauses, watching Nick closely before adding, “And it wouldn’t help you either.”
Nick scoffs lightly, but it lacks bite. “Yeah? Well, everyone else seems to judge me just fine.”
Justin doesn’t react, doesn’t immediately try to correct him or brush past the statement. Instead, he just leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he meets Nick’s eyes. “And why is that?”
Nick clenches his jaw, looking away. He hates that question. He hates the way it pokes at something raw inside him. But Justin just waits, patient and steady, as if he already knows that the answer is heavier than Nick is ready to admit.
Nick lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck like it might hold him together. "Well, I killed my best friend."
Justin, sitting across from him with his usual patient but firm expression, tilts his head. "No, that's not—"
"I did," Nick interrupts, voice tight, like the words physically hurt to say. "I didn’t push him, okay? But the police—they thought I did. Everyone thought I did. Until the security footage came back. But does it really matter? He still jumped. And I still killed him."
Justin watches him carefully. "Nick…"
"You get that, right?" Nick continues, voice rising, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "I killed him. Maybe not with my hands, but—I should have seen it. I should have known. He was my best friend. I should have stopped him. I should have done something." He exhales sharply, his leg bouncing, restless and overwhelmed. "But I didn't. And now he's dead. Because of me."
Justin nods slowly, as if considering his words before he speaks. "I get that you feel that way. But I also get that this friend of yours was struggling. That he was emotionally overwhelmed, and from what you've told me, it sounds like he didn’t feel like he had a way out. And you, as his friend, you felt responsible for fixing it. But Nick…"
Nick shakes his head violently, jaw clenching. "No. Stop. See, when you say it like that, it makes it sound like it wasn’t my fault." His voice cracks at the end, his grip tightening around the back of his neck like he’s holding in the last fragile pieces of himself.
Justin leans forward slightly. "Was it?"
"Of course it was!" Nick snaps, eyes flashing. "He’s dead, and I’m not! That’s not fair! That’s not fucking fair!" His voice breaks entirely now, the weight of his own words crushing down on him. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving as he blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to force back tears.
Justin doesn’t flinch at the outburst. He just lets the words settle between them before responding, steady and unshaken. "No, it’s not fair. And it’s not your fault either."
Nick scoffs, shaking his head. "You don’t get it."
Justin leans forward, voice steady but pointed. "Is this why you need help? Because of grief?"
Nick's chest tightens, something sharp and hot bubbling up before he can stop it. His voice cracks as he snaps, "His name is Otis." His fists clench on his knees. "He isn't just some nameless person, some forgotten face. Don't talk about him like he is."
Justin doesn’t flinch. He nods, as if he expected this. "Otis," he repeats, grounding. "Your friend. Is he why you're here? Why you need help?"
Nick lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face before gripping his hair in frustration. "I need help for everything!" His voice rises, raw, unraveling. "Because Otis is dead, and my boyfriend probably hates me now, and my boss wants to take my son away, and I'm scared and I'm lonely and it just—keeps—building! It’s anger, or sadness, or fucking self-pity, and I don’t even know which one it is until it’s too late!"
His breath is heaving. He feels like he’s going to explode, crack open from the inside out. But Justin just waits, patient and calm, like he’s heard this before. Like he understands.
After a moment, he exhales, tilts his head slightly, and says, "That’s a lot to carry, Nick. But it's okay. Everyone has high emotions. I do too."
Nick lets out another breath, shaking. His hands are still clenched. Justin notices but doesn’t comment.
Instead, he shifts gears. His voice is softer now. "Let’s start from the beginning, yeah?" A pause. Then, with care: "You said you have a son. Do you want to tell me about him?"
Nick swallows. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it eases just a little. His grip loosens.
"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, okay. “He’s... his name is Remy,” Nick finally says, voice soft, uncertain. “He’s not mine. Not really. But—God, I don’t know—he feels like he is, sometimes. He’s my boyfriend’s son. He’s four years old, and he trusts me, and he loves me, and I don’t even know why, but he sees me as someone important. And I love him too. I love him more than I ever thought I could love a kid.”
He swallows, running a hand through his hair. Justin, his therapist, just watches, patient as always.
Nick sighs. “He likes chocolate milk but only if it’s with one of those chocolate straws, otherwise he says it’s ‘too chocolatey,’ whatever that means. And dinosaurs. He loves dinosaurs. He makes little roars when he runs around and tells me all about their names, like I don’t already know them from hearing it a hundred times before. He struggles in school. Not a lot, just... enough that he needs extra help, and I try—I try so damn hard, because I’m his teacher, and I want him to do well. But I also don’t want to push him too hard. I want him to love learning, not hate it.”
Nick pauses, letting out a breath before shaking his head. “But I messed it all up. Because my boss—my new boss—is Remy’s biological father. His real father. And now he wants Remy back. And obviously, Charlie doesn’t want his ex-husband anywhere near their son. So now, somehow, the responsibility of protecting Remy has fallen on me.”
His voice cracks at the end, and Justin tilts his head slightly. “That’s a lot of pressure,” he says, gently.
Nick huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”
Justin leans forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. “And why do you think you’re unfit for that? For being a part of Remy’s life?”
Nick closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, staring down at the swirling coffee in Justin's hands. “Because I never really had a father,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, technically, I did. I do. Stéphane. But he was always distant. After my parents divorced, we stayed in the US and he moved to the UK. Or maybe it was New York first? Then California, then Paris—he’s always moving, always somewhere else. And because of that, and because of time zones, and because of whatever excuse he always had, he never made the effort. Not really.
"He’d call, sometimes. Barely. He’d send gifts, expensive ones, but never what we actually wanted. He’d ask how school was, and I’d say ‘fine’ because what else was I supposed to say? That I hated football? That I liked boys? That I wasn’t happy? That I wanted him to actually care?
"And when I did tell him something real, when I called him that night, the worst night of my life, because I needed a dad—I needed someone—he just... He wasn't helpful. Distant. Useless. And the next time we talked, he just acted like everything was normal. Like I hadn’t just lost the most important person in my life.”
He shakes his head. “How am I supposed to be a father when I don’t even know what a father is supposed to be? When the only example I have is a man who was never there?”
Justin watches him carefully. “Do you love Remy?”
Nick’s eyes snap up, startled by the question. “Of course I do.”
“Do you show up for him?”
Nick swallows. “Yeah.”
“Do you take care of him? Protect him? Make him laugh?”
A soft, helpless chuckle escapes Nick’s lips" I fail, I failed but I try. Yeah, I try.”
Justin leans back in his chair, offering Nick a small, knowing smile. “Then it sounds to me like you’re already doing a pretty damn good job.”
Nick is unraveling. He can feel it in his bones, in the tremble of his hands as he grips his hair, in the sharpness of his breaths as they come too fast, too uneven. He’s failing. He’s failed. He hit Remy. He hit Remy. He’s a bad man. A bad man like Ben. A bad man like his father, like the teachers who turned their backs on him, like the cops who saw a queer boy covered in blood and decided he was guilty before he even opened his mouth.
"But I'm not good,” he chokes out. His voice cracks, his throat tight. “I hurt Remy.”
Justin, sitting across from him, watching him carefully, doesn’t immediately react. Doesn’t rush to comfort or deny or brush it off. He just waits, hands clasped loosely, eyes calm but focused, like he’s piecing together every single word before responding.
"On purpose?" Justin asks, voice even, measured.
Nick recoils. "Of course not!" His stomach twists violently at the implication, bile burning at the back of his throat. "I would never—Justin, I love that kid, I—"
"Then it was an accident," Justin says simply. Like it’s fact. Like it’s indisputable. He shifts slightly, tilting his head. "An accident, like Otis dying."
Nick stiffens, his body going rigid, breath catching so sharply in his throat that it hurts.
"You think Otis’ death was an accident?" His voice is thin, stretched taut over something raw and jagged.
Justin exhales slowly, like he’s treading carefully, like he’s balancing on a knife’s edge. "Most people who commit don't actually want to die," he says gently. "They just want the pain to stop. They want a way out of whatever web has trapped them, whatever thing is suffocating them, whatever weight is pressing so heavy on their chest they feel like they can’t breathe." His eyes are steady, locking onto Nick’s with a quiet intensity. "Maybe Otis wanted to die. Maybe he didn’t. But Otis was your best friend, wasn’t he? He told you things, yeah? Opened up to you?"
Nick’s hands curl into fists. His nails dig into his palms so hard it leaves crescent-shaped marks. "Yeah," he grits out. "So what? What the hell does that have to do with—"
"It seems to me," Justin continues, voice calm, unwavering, "like Otis felt trapped. Like he was drowning in something bigger than himself, like he couldn’t see a way out. And when emotions get that twisted up, when you feel so stuck that you can’t think straight, sometimes you make decisions that—" he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "can’t be undone."
Nick's breath stutters.
"Otis needed to release something," Justin says, softer now. "And maybe, in that moment, jumping felt like the only way. Maybe, for just one second, it made sense to him."
Nick's throat is tight, a lump forming so thick he can barely swallow.
"And you," Justin says, leaning forward slightly, "you needed to release something too. And in that split second, when everything twisted up inside of you, you hit instead of catching yourself. You made a mistake. And mistakes—" his voice drops, steady and firm, "don’t mean you’re a bad person, Nick. Accidents don’t mean they’re any less painful. It just means they weren’t anyone’s direct fault."
Nick shakes his head, a broken breath slipping past his lips. "But—"
"Did you mean to hurt him?" Justin asks, cutting him off, his gaze sharp and piercing.
Nick’s stomach twists. "No."
"Did you try to make it right?"
"Yes," Nick breathes.
"Are you still trying?"
Nick's chest aches. "Yes."
Justin nods. "Then you’re not a bad man, Nick. You’re a man who made a mistake. And you have the chance to fix it. But first, you have to forgive yourself."
Nick’s voice is raw, his frustration boiling over as he paces. “But how?! How do I forgive myself? Remy got hurt, Otis is dead, my boyfriend is mad at me, and my boss fucking hates me!”
Justin watches him for a moment, letting the words settle, then asks, calmly, “Do you hate yourself?”
Nick falters. His fists clench at his sides, his breath shaky. “I…” He stops, searching himself, really searching. Does he? He hates things he's done, moments where he's failed, where he's hurt people, but does he truly hate himself?
“I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “I don’t think I hate my heart. Or my life. I just… sometimes I don’t think my skin belongs to me anymore. Like it died with Otis.”
Justin hums, nodding. “If you don’t hate yourself, then why do you let other people, or the things that have happened to you, decide they get to hate you?”
Nick blinks at him, thrown by the question.
“This boss of yours,” Justin continues, “it sounds like they dislike you because they see your relationship with Remy. Maybe they’re jealous of that. And Charlie—Charlie, he’s not mad at you. He’s mad at what happened. There’s a difference. And Remy, well… Remy got hurt. Maybe by your hand, but if you weren’t in control of your hand, if your emotions were… can you really blame yourself?”
Nick exhales sharply. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Justin nods, shifting slightly in his seat. “Okay, let’s look at it this way. When you’re sad, what happens?”
“I cry.”
“Exactly. It’s your body’s natural response to sadness. You don’t control it, right? The tears just fall. And after, you feel a little lighter, don’t you?”
Nick hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
“And when you’re anxious?”
Nick rubs his hands over his face. “I shake.”
“Right,” Justin says. “It’s your body responding to nerves or fear. You don’t tell it to shake—it just happens. It’s wired into you. And when you feel strong emotions—anger, excitement, grief—you use your hands a lot when you talk, yeah?”
Nick nods slowly. “Yeah.”
Justin leans forward slightly. “So in that moment, you weren’t just feeling one thing. You were feeling anger, sadness, grief—maybe all of them mixed together. And your body didn’t know whether to cry, to shake, to run, to yell—so it did what it knew. It moved. Your hands moved. An accident happened. You didn’t mean to hit him, right?”
Nick’s chest aches. “Of course not.”
“And yet it happened,” Justin says gently. “Because that’s how your body reacted.”
Nick sits heavily, head in his hands. His whole life, he’s carried his mistakes like they were etched into his skin, like every failure was another wound, another scar. But maybe… maybe not every mistake was something to punish himself over.
Maybe some were just human.
Justin leans back slightly in his chair, tapping his pen against his notepad as he watches Nick carefully. “Alright, our session’s almost over, Nick. But before we wrap up, I want you to answer something for me. Why are you here?”
Nick blinks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “What do you mean?” he asks, even though he knows exactly what Justin means. “I’ve already told you why I’m here. Because I’m a fuck-up. Because I’m a mess.”
Justin doesn’t even flinch. “No,” he says evenly. “That’s not why you’re here.”
Nick scoffs. “Really? Feels like it.”
“No, it doesn’t. You told me earlier that you don’t hate yourself. So why are you talking like you do?” Justin tilts his head slightly, studying him. “You are not here because you’re a fuck-up or a mess. You’re here for something deeper than that. So tell me—why are you really here?”
Nick rubs a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “I told you,” he mutters. “Because I need help.”
Justin nods, still watching him carefully. “We all need help, Nick. I need help. I’m a terrible fucking cook, which my fiancé reminds me of daily. But I’m not sitting in therapy because I need help cooking. No, I’d be taking a cooking class. And I have a strong feeling you’re not here because you’re struggling with a recipe.” He leans forward slightly. “So tell me—what do you need help with?”
Nick hesitates, staring at a spot on the floor. He doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to pull it out from the depths of his chest, where he’s kept it buried for so long. But he came here for a reason. And Justin isn’t going to let him run from it.
“I guess...” He swallows hard, voice quieter now. “I need help because... as much as I love Otis, I haven’t really accepted his death. Or the grief that comes with it. And I know that wound is always going to be there, but I’d like for it to shrink. Just a little. I don’t want to forget him. I just want to let go of the way it still consumes me.”
Justin doesn’t interrupt. He just nods, letting Nick speak.
“And I need help,” Nick continues, “because I want to be better for Charlie. I want to be a good boyfriend to him. And I need to get better because I don’t want Remy to fear me. I don’t want to become something that scares him, even for a second. I don’t want to—” His voice wavers, and he clears his throat. “I don’t want to hate my job. I love my job. I love working with kids. But now, with everything happening, with—” He stops himself, inhales sharply. “With my new boss, it feels uncertain. Scary.”
Justin lets a beat of silence pass before he speaks again. “So,” he says, “you’re here because you want to be sure you’re good enough for Charlie. You want to know that you’re not going to repeat the same cycle your father did with you, that you’re not going to let fear or pain dictate how you love Remy. You’re here because you love your work, but you don’t want the personal relationships tied to it to ruin that love. And you’re here because you want to grieve without it swallowing you whole.”
Nick clenches his jaw, looking down. But he nods.
“That is why you’re here,” Justin says, voice calm, steady. “And since you’ve acknowledged that—since you’ve said it out loud—I want to challenge you to take the next step. To reach for something, especially now, with everything that’s happening. Are you willing to do that?”
Nick lets out a breath, shaky but real.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Justin leans forward slightly, his expression calm but firm. “Okay, Nick. I want to see you twice a week, at least for the first couple of weeks, until I know you're okay. With everything that’s happened recently, it makes sense that things feel overwhelming right now. And I do care about you. From the little I know so far, and from everything you’ve shared, I care. And I understand.”
Nick swallows, nodding, unsure of what to say to that.
“So,” Justin continues, “if you’re willing, I’d like to see you again in two days. No pressure, no expectations—just a check-in. And I’m not going to give you any homework. Not on the first meeting. But I am going to ask you to do something for yourself.” He pauses, watching Nick carefully. “I don’t want you glued to your phone, waiting for Charlie to text back. I don’t want you drowning in guilt over the things you wish you’d done differently, wondering if you’ll ever make things right. I don’t want you running yourself into the ground worrying about work and what your boss might do.
"What I do want is for you to do something for yourself. Something that makes you happy. You look like someone who works out—maybe that’s an outlet for you. If so, lean into that. Or maybe there’s something creative you’ve been meaning to try but keep putting off. Do it. Maybe there are people in your life—friends, family, people who have always been there but feel distant lately because you’ve been so wrapped up in Charlie and Remy. Maybe reach out. Reconnect. Whatever it is, just do something that’s for you. Not for work, not for Charlie, not to fix things—just for you.”
Nick exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. He wants to argue, to say he doesn’t have time, that his life is too chaotic right now for self-care. But Justin isn’t done.
“There are two days until we meet again,” Justin says gently. “Can you promise me that, in those two days, you’ll do something for yourself? And when we meet again, I want you to tell me about it. Tell me what you did and how it made you feel. And then, we’ll talk about where to go from here. Because Nick, I don’t believe people are broken. I think sometimes we just get lost. And that’s okay. Everyone loses their way at some point.
"My job isn’t to rebuild a path for you, to lay down bricks and tell you exactly where to walk. You already had a path—you just lost sight of it for a little while. I’m here to help you find your way back. Does that make sense?”
Nick takes a deep breath. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, something in his chest loosens just a little. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, it does.”
Justin smiles. “Good. It’s really nice to meet you, Nick.”
Nick exhales, nodding. “Yeah. I think… I think this will be good.”
Nick stands up, shakes Justin’s hand, and steps out of his first therapy session in years.
Well, his first real one. The first one that actually felt like something.
And, God, he actually liked it.
He liked Justin—the calmness in his voice, the way he didn’t pry too much but still managed to make Nick feel like he was being heard. He liked the office too, the way it felt lived-in and warm rather than clinical and cold. There were soft pillows and blankets, a couch and a chair that actually seemed inviting instead of stiff and unyielding. A little coffee stand, a small café corner stocked with different snacks.
And on the wall? A pride flag. A transgender flag. A sign that said, You Are Safe Here.
It mattered. It mattered that, even though he didn’t know Justin yet, even though they were practically strangers, Nick could already tell—this was a place where he wouldn’t have to hide. A place where he could finally stop pretending that everything was fine.
And he needs that.
It took a long time to get here. Too long.
Charlie had gently nudged. His mother had outright insisted. Even fucking Harry had said something.
And maybe old Nick, stubborn Nick, lost Nick, would have shrugged them all off. Would have said, I’m fine. I’m handling it. Would have let the weight on his chest grow heavier and heavier until it crushed him entirely.
But this Nick?
This Nick is trying.
Because he’s sick of the ghosts, the weight, the guilt. He’s tired of feeling like he’s always one step away from slipping, from failing, from falling. He’s exhausted from living in the past while the future inches further and further away from him.
So he’s here. He’s getting help.
And one day, when he’s lighter, when he’s steadier, when he’s more than just a walking wound trying to keep from splitting open—he’s going to be the best damn father to Remy. The best damn boyfriend to Charlie.
And, maybe most importantly, the best damn version of himself.
For himself.