01 | In Which We Meet Sawyer

"Oh, yes, the past can hurt. But you can either run from it, or learn from it." ―The Lion King

"How was your day, Sawyer?"

"It was just fine, Dr. Fontana."

"Okay, well that's great," he replies with a small smile. "And you went to school today, right?"

"Yes, I went to school today," I say with a small sigh. "I'm at school every single day," I state.

"Right," Dr. Fontana chuckles before looking down at his notepad and scribbling something.

I'm not entirely sure why he laughs at that, but if I had to guess, I would say it's because my mother talked to him. Recently, she's been getting a lot of phone calls from my school, telling her whenever I miss class. I try not to miss class too habitually, but some days it's just too hard to put on a brave face.

"And I got an 'A' on my AP Lang midterm, so yay," I add, just because I know he likes it whenever I go into detail about how my days are going, rather than just giving vague answers. "Now, can I please leave?" I ask, even though I know that answer already. I'm just not really feeling this whole thing today.

Dr. Fontana is my psychologist and has been for the past year. He's a nice enough guy, I just don't like the idea of being in therapy. My mom thinks that it's going to help me cope with all the crazy stuff I've been through in the last few months, but I don't think so. Like I said, it's been a year since I've started talking to him and I've yet to see any progress. Sure, talking to someone about my feelings probably helps keep me sane, but I can talk to friends for free.

In the beginning, my mom had me seeing Dr. Fontana every other day for two hours at a time, which was complete and utter hell, to be honest. I felt so uncomfortable being alone with him — not because he was ever mean to me or anything, it's just the fact that I wasn't so good at being around people without crying at that time. So, after a few months of me begging her to cut back my sessions with him, the two of them worked out a different schedule. Now I see him on the weekdays for one hour at a time. It's not much better, but my mom is a stubborn woman. Thankfully though, it's easier talking now.

"In fifty-seven minutes, you're free to go," he assures me, looking down at his watch.

"I don't need fifty-seven minutes," I groan, folding my arms. "I have nothing to say."

Like I said, I like Dr. Fontana. He's nice and doesn't tell my mom the stuff we talk about, probably out of legal obligation. It's good though, because most of the time I just talk about wishing I was dead. Not that I'm suicidal or anything. Sometimes I just get tired of the same old stuff. Anyway, I like him most of the time. Times like this, though, when he forces me to sit here and look at him like a fish out of water with nothing to say, that's when I despise him.

"Tell me about your weekend plans," Dr. Fontana suggests. "What are you going to do?"

"Probably just cry," I shrug, twiddling my thumbs. "And eat and watch One Tree Hill."

"Why are you going to cry?" He asks and I know he wants me to look at him because "eye contact is important," but I just continue to stare at the floor.

"Is that a joke?" I murmur, finally looking across the desk at him. At this point, crying is just a thing I do. After everything last year, it's to be expected.

"No, it is not a joke, Sawyer," Dr. Fontana denies, shaking his head and folding his hands on top of his desk. "Tell me, what do you have to cry about?"

"Everything," I sigh, blinking a few times as I feel tears start to well up in my eyes. "It's just so hard."

"What's so hard?" He asks and I immediately get annoyed. He knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"Sleeping, breathing, eating, living, just everything," I sigh. "I'm just tired of it all."

"So, you don't want to be alive anymore, is that what you're saying?" He asks then.

"I don't particularly want to be alive anymore, I don't necessarily want to die, if that makes sense," I explain. "I just wanna be able to escape it all, you know. Like, just for a few days, or a few hours, even I just don't want to feel anything. And I don't want to remember anything. I just want to forget it all."

I'm not surprised by the fact that he doesn't really acknowledge the whole 'I-wanna-die' thing because like I said, it's a pretty normal thing for me to say.

"You want to forget about Flynn?" Dr. F asks me then.

"I don't wanna talk about Flynn," I say, getting angsty.

Flynn Decker. Or as I like to call him, The Devil. He's the boy that ruined my life. And when I say ruined my life, I mean literally ruined my life. He's the main reason why I'm sitting here today, in a psychologist's office, for the fifth time this week. Although, I guess to place all the blame on him would be unfair. Sure, what happened to me was his fault and what I did to cope with it was his fault, but at the end of the day, the choice was mine and mine alone.

I would say that Dr. Fontana tries to get me to open up about Flynn three out of the five days a week I'm here and every single time, I brush it off. Flynn Decker is someone I have no interest in talking about. Just the thought of him gets me angry. And not just that, but it gets me scared. I know that he's not here anymore and there's no way he can hurt me, but I still get scared. And that's the worst part. Even now, after a year, he still has that power over me.

"Okay, we don't have to talk about Flynn," he says, obviously noticing how visibly upset I'm getting. "What about your dad, have you heard from him?"

"I don't have a dad," I reiterate, using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away my tears before they can get to overflowing. "I told you that already," I sigh.

"Tom, then," Dr. Fontana corrects himself, writing something else on his notepad. "Have you heard from Tom lately?"

"Tom doesn't like me," I state. "Beckett's his favorite, not me. So, no, I haven't heard from him, lately. Been a while."

Beckett is my older brother and Tom is our estranged father, clearly. Mom and Tom separated five years ago, when I was twelve and my brother was sixteen. For as long as I can remember, Tom has had a drinking problem, and that was the main reason my mom decided to leave him.

Then when she found out about his affair (which produced a baby) three years ago, she decided to officially end their marriage by filing for divorce. Then for the next two years, I didn't really hear from him that much, which was good because I hated him.

I hated him for what he put us (my mom, especially) through. And for the last three months or so, he's been in the county jail. He was sentenced to a year there on a misdemeanor charge, but my mother isn't saying which.

"Well, when was the last time you heard from him?" Dr. Fontana questions.

"I guess about three months ago when he went back to jail," I reply. "He wanted me to ask my mom to put our house up as collateral."

"And did you?" Dr. Fontana asks me then and I momentarily wonder why he on earth he has a tendency to ask such stupid questions.

"Of course not," I scoff, shaking my head. "I told him I wasn't going to do that, he called me a selfish bitch, I hung up, and that's the last time we spoke."

"And how did that make you feel?" Dr. Fontana asks me, looking up from his notepad and across at me. I think he's surprised, but I am not totally sure.

And there it is. The cliché psychologist question heard around the world. It's a question Dr. Fontana asks me every single time I see him, without fail. I used to ask him why he felt the need to always ask me that and he said something like "it's important to discuss your feelings because they matter." It's a dumb question to ask, if you ask me, but no one ever asked me. I try not to let it show too much in session, but it is a question that really irks my nerves.

"How did what make me feel, Dr. Fontana? The fact that my father cheated on my mom? The fact that my father didn't love my brother and me enough so he went out and found himself a new family? The fact that my father is in jail? The fact that he asked me to ask my mom to put up our house as collateral? Or the fact that he called me a selfish bitch for refusing to do that? Which is it? Because they all made me feel pretty shitty, you know," I snap.

And then it hits me and the oh-so-familiar wave of panic whirls up inside. Ever since the thing with Flynn happened last year, I've been plagued with anxiety. And every single time I find myself getting too worked up, especially over Flynn or Tom, my body goes into overdrive. My heart starts pounding in my chest, I break out in a cold sweat, tears start streaming down my face like rain pouring down on a stormy night, and I forget how to breathe properly.

✿✿✿✿✿✿

About two hours later, I pull into the driveway of my house and park my car parallel to my brother's. My session with Dr. Fontana was supposed to end 5, but it didn't end up ending until just before 7. I was having my third mental breakdown of the week for about thirty minutes in his office, so that's what really delayed the session. He tried comforting me, but it didn't work and soon enough, I ended up on the floor of his office, clenching my chest. I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack. That's just what happens whenever I think about Flynn. And the sad thing is, we were talking about Tom when it happened. So, I don't even have to be talking about Flynn to freak out about Flynn, apparently. Just one single though of Flynn sends me into a breakdown.

Once I finally managed to stop crying and Dr. Fontana got me off of the floor, he said we could end the session there. But by that time, I couldn't stop crying and I was definitely not in the right state of mind to be driving. And before I knew it, I start running my mouth about Flynn and all the stuff that happened that night. That, in turn, led to me crying even more. So, it was a pretty rough time for me. But now maybe he won't ever bring them up again.

So, with a small sigh, I reach into the center console in my car and take out my eyedrops. Then I untwist the cap and let a couple droplets fall into each eye before putting it back in its place and getting out of the car. I tend to cry a lot at my therapy sessions and my brother tends to freak out a lot whenever he thinks something's wrong with me. So, to avoid a second occurrence of the Spanish Inquisition, I always put in eyedrops so he won't know I was crying.

I make my way up to the front door and unlock it before walking inside and closing the door back behind me. As I walk down the foyer that leads to the living room, I hear my brother yelling at the TV and I have no doubt in my mind he's watching some football or something. That or playing a video game. It's a pretty normal thing around here, so I don't pay much attention to it, that is, until I hear a second voice and accidently gasp, stopping in my tracks.

"Sawyer?" Beckett calls from the living room. "Is that you?" He shouts.

I want to reply, but I've lost my voice. I didn't recognize the other voice in the living room and that's what's got me so shaken up right now. As bad as it sounds, I don't really like meeting new people and I definitely don't like meeting them in my house. Especially boys. And that voice was definitely a boy.

"Hey," Beckett says, suddenly standing right in front of me with a very concerned look on his face. "Hey, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Who is that?" I ask Beckett, finally finding my voice. "I heard a voice and it was definitely not mom's voice, so who is it?" I ask as my heart starts pounding.

"Dude, come on, I can't hold off all the damn zombies by myself," the same voice says, suddenly right there in the foyer with us before Beckett can reply.

And like the little child the whole Flynn incident has reverted me into, I cower behind my big brother, who has at least a foot or so on me in height. And I know it's so pathetic and so ridiculous given the situation and the fact that he'd never let someone in our house who would hurt me, but still. Last year, that night with Flynn, I couldn't hide. I couldn't protect myself from him and I couldn't get myself out of the situation. So, now my first instinct is to hide.

"I'll be back in there in a second," Beckett assures his friend. "Just go back in there, I have to make sure my sister is okay," he adds and it's just so awkward.

"Um, okay," the boy replies, sounding confused for a second before turning and stalking back off into the living room.

"Sorry about that, Sawyer," Beckett sighs, turning around and looking down at me with an apologetic look on his face.

"It's okay," I mumble, shaking my head. Then I take a few deep breaths in like Dr. Fontana suggests I do whenever I feel like I'm starting to lose control.

"Okay," Beckett says, sounding a little unsure. He has a tendency to worry about me, but that's only fair. I've given him a lot to worry about this past year.

"Really," I add, just to make him feel better. "I'm good. I'm great, actually. Go, kill all those zombies with your friend. I promise I'm totally alright," I say.

He looks at me for a second, like he's trying to see whether or not I'm being truthful (which I'm not, obviously). Then after a second, I guess he decides to believe it. So, he nods and smiles and then turns and makes his way back into the living room. Shortly thereafter, I hear the video game start up again.

So, I take another deep breath and then quietly whisper my little mantra. It's kind of dumb, I know, but it kind of helps keep me sane when I get anxious.

It's okay.

You're strong.

You can handle this.

And after that, I immediately feel better. I don't know what's so special about it, but it really does help calm me down. And with that, I continue on down the foyer and into the living room. I force myself not to look at the boy on the couch with Beckett because I think he's probably looking at me and that'll probably send me back on the brink of an anxiety attack. So, I practically take off running across the living room, headed towards the stairs to my room.

"What's wrong with your sister, dude?" I hear the boy ask Beckett in a hushed tone as I make my way up the stairs.

"What do you mean, what's wrong with her?" Beckett asks and I can tell he's annoyed. "Nothing's wrong with her."

"She just seems a little off," the other says. "She is pretty hot, though, you know, in a weird kinda way."

"Don't call my sister hot, Brett; she's literally a kid. And she's not 'a little off' she's just been through it."

By this time, I've reached the top of the stairs, but I'm just standing here at the top listening to my brother and this random guy (Brett, apparently) talk.

"Oh, what, does it have to do with that Flynn guy?" Brett asks Beckett.

"Yeah," Beckett sighs. "It's really not something we talk about, though."

That's Beckett's way of telling his friend to shut up about it. He doesn't like to talk about the Flynn situation (and neither do I, obviously) because he blames himself for everything that happened. Beckett and Flynn are the same age and up until this time last year, they were best friends. I mean, they did everything together, for just as long as I can remember. But after what happened, that all changed. And since they were friends, Beckett feels really guilty.

I decide to stop listening at that point, because if Brett eggs Beckett on, he'll get pissed off and I don't want to see it. So, instead I walk down to my room.

In my room, I get out of my school clothes and into a pair of Lululemon yoga pants and a big t-shirt before pulling my hair back into a low ponytail. It's Friday and since I'm a procrastinator, I'm not doing homework tonight. So, I grab my laptop and get in my bed, starting up an episode of Criminal Minds.

For the next hour and a half or so, it's nice and peaceful. And scary. You know, because of Criminal Minds. And then there's Aspen, here to just bug me.

Aspen and I have been best friends since we were about ten, so to say that we're close is the understatement of the century. She's trying to get me to go to Chace's party tonight, but there's no way I'm going to do that. I haven't had the greatest track record with parties (or boys) so now I just try to avoid them.

Chace is Dr. Fontana's son, so it's a little bit awkward, but I don't think he knows about my sessions. Anyway, he and Aspen have had an on-again-off-again type thing going on for the last few months. It's so incredibly obvious that they have feelings for each other, but they refuse to commit to each other.

Just as I finish texting Aspen, my door opens and I immediately get annoyed. Beckett knows that I hate it when he just waltzes on into my room like that.

But when I pause my Netflix and glance over at the door, about ready to tell Beckett for the umpteenth time not to do that, I stop when I see it's not him.

"Hi," Brett says with a small smile. "I'm Brett."

"Okay," I reply, willing myself not to freak out.

Apparently this guy already thinks that I'm "a little off" so I don't want to give him any other reason to continue to believe that. I'm not off. I'm totally on.

"I was looking for the bathroom," Brett says to me.

It's so obvious that he wasn't looking for the bathroom, because if he was, he would have hit it before he got to my room. Better yet, he wouldn't have even come upstairs looking for it. There are two whole bathrooms downstairs and I'm sure Beckett told him that. So, clearly, Brett's just straight up lying.

"Well, you didn't find it," I say, stating the obvious.

"No, I did," he replies. "But then I just came here."

"Why?" I ask, getting kind of annoyed at the back and forth going on here.

"I wanted to ask you if you're gonna be busy tomorrow night," Brett states.

"Tomorrow night?" I echo, raising my eyebrows. "Um, yeah, I'm gonna be really busy."

I'm not going to be busy, but I just feel like that's the safest thing to say whenever someone asks you if you're going to be busy. I assume he's going to ask if I want to go to a party or hang out or something, but I don't. If I didn't want to go to a party with Aspen, I definitely don't want to go with this random.

"We're having a party tomorrow at SigEp," he continues, as if I didn't just tell him that I'm going to be busy. "The theme is the 80s. It sounds fun, yeah?"

"I guess," I mutter. "But like I said, I'm gonna be busy." Even if I wanted to go, which I don't, there is no way on earth Beckett would be okay with that.

"What's up with you?" Brett wonders, leaning against my wall with his hands shoved down in his pockets. "You look so scared right now," he chuckles.

Well, of course I'm scared. There's a boy in my room who I don't even know. Not just that, but he reminds me so much of Flynn. He's got the same kind of dumb haircut and the same kind of annoying preppy clothes on. And just like Flynn, he's being all weirdly friendly and it's making me uncomfortable.

"What are you doing?" Beckett sighs, bursting into my room all of a sudden, looking at Brett.

"I'm just talking to your sister, dude," Brett tells Beckett. "What, am I not allowed to do that?"

"No, actually, you're not," Beckett replies. "Don't talk to her, don't look at her, don't even think about her. We're cool, but seriously, leave my sister alone."

"Whatever, dude," Brett replies with a chuckle. "Nice talking to you, Sawyer," he says to me with a small grin. "Think about what I said about tomorrow."

"She doesn't have to think about it," Beckett jumps in, shaking his head. "Whatever the question was, the answer is no. Talk to girls your own age, Brett."

And with that, Brett just shakes his head at Beckett and chuckles again before walking out of my room, probably going downstairs. Hopefully he's leaving.

"You alright?" Beckett asks then, turning to look at me, again wearing his concerned expression.

"I'm alright," I nod, just thankful for the fact that Beckett got him to leave. I was getting anxious.

Beckett nods then and walks out of my room, closing the door behind him. Shortly thereafter, I hear the video game downstairs start again and let out a long sigh. So, I guess Brett's staying the night. The thought really freaks me out, especially since he seems to have no problem just walking into my room and starting up a conversation. With that unsettling thought in mind, I get up from my bed and walk across the room, locking my door, you know, in case.

It's not even that I have anything against Brett, because I don't. I don't even know the boy. It's just that ever since last year, it's been so hard for me to be around anyone, especially boys that I don't know. The last boy I talked to who wasn't Beckett or Dr. Fontana broke me into a million little pieces. And a year later, here I am, stilling trying to glue myself back together.

I suffer from really bad anxiety, if that hasn't become clear, so knowing that there's a barrier between me and that boy is probably the only thing that's going to stop me from going into full-on panic mode tonight. Granted, I have nightmares pretty much every single night now, though, so I'm probably going to go into full-on panic mode tonight anyway.

So, before I give myself the opportunity to think too much about it, or anything else, I turn my light off and go back over to my bed, resuming my Netflix.

A U T H O R ' S   N O T E

and there it is, the first chapter of the rewrite! how do you guys feel about it? i think this one will be a lot shorter than the original (in terms of chapter word length) because i'm trying to weed it down. anyways i didn't change a ton of stuff, but a couple of things, so feel free to tell me what you're thinking in the comments.

to my finding sawyer readers: i swear i'm almost done with the chapter. it'll be up as soon as i can get it finished. i'm hoping that'll be sometime this weekend (9/22/17) but no promises because i really want it to be good.

here's my social media if you wanna follow: snapchat, twitter, and insta: millie_wattpad