Page 118 of Legally Ours

"You liked it," Kieran said smugly.

"I was furious," Pushpa reiterated. "And the only reason I agreed to meet her for dinner the next day was to tell her. Except I enjoyed dinner so much, I decided to wait until the next one. And the next one." She shrugged and reached up to brush a nonexistent hair from Kieran's face. "I don't know, my love. Maybe one day I'll get around to telling you how inappropriate that was and that I never want to see you again. But there never seems to be a good time." She looked back at Brandon and me and grinned. "Thirteen years later, I'm starting to think I'll never get around to it. I'll have to wait until Brandon lands himself in the hospital again."

The return of the conversation to Brandon's brawling brought another cloud over the table. After all, we had all been there two weeks ago when Pushpa had brought the Valium prescription to the apartment herself and examined his knuckles. Nothing had required stitches, but she had still taken one look at him and written down three different referrals for therapists, all of whom specialized in PTSD and child abuse trauma.

"So is that what this was for?" Brandon asked as he set his napkin on the table. "Some sort of bullshit intervention?"

And just like that, all of the levity was gone. Kieran and Pushpa both looked directly at him. Even though I'd invited them here, I had the urge to block their gazes. I hated cornering him like this, but it had to be done. Even though I'd learned the trick of using Springsteen at two a.m. to soothe Brandon's nightmares, they still came like clockwork, along with other signs of stress. More and more often, I'd noticed cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes when he came home after campaign events. Not to mention the damage he was doing to his trainer.

"Have you gotten some help yet?" Kieran asked.

Brandon exhaled heavily through his nose. "I don't need to talk to some shrink I can think circles around in the first place."

"Wrong," Kieran interrupted. "And you're not going to exploit Pushpa's access to prescription drugs so we can enable your denial. Skylar's going to catechism classes just to appease the make-believe problems of your would-be constituents. The least you can do is see a fucking therapist to fix the real problems you actually have."

"I don't need to be fixed!" Brandon exploded, pushing his chair back from the table. He stomped to the kitchen while we watched, suddenly overcome with a need to do dishes.

Cautiously, I followed and set a hand at his waist. "Come on. Please listen to them. I'm worried about you."

Brandon turned the sink off, but stood over the sudsy water while I leaned against his back. The front of his shirt had bubbles sticking to it, which might have been funny if he hadn't been gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

"They're all quacks," he said once he finally turned around. He looked at me, then at Kieran and Pushpa, who had brought the rest of the dishes into the kitchen and were now sitting at the bar. "I've tried. Red, you know I've been trying––I've seen all three of those shrinks in the last two weeks."

I nodded and patted his shoulder. It was true––he had been trying to find someone to help. Unfortunately, he also hadn't seen any of the therapists Pushpa recommended more than once. Meanwhile, the stress of the campaign, press coverage, and the Messina trial continued to mount.

"And what did they say?" Kieran asked pointedly.

Brandon sighed, frustrated. "Nothing I haven't heard my entire life. PTSD. Childhood trauma. Triggers. Fucking anxiety disorder. All of it."

"Prognosis?"

"Also a lot of the same," Brandon snapped. "Exercise. Get more sleep. Talk it out in session. Avoid stress and triggers." He snorted. "Brilliant, four-hundred-dollars-per-hour answers. Fucking everything in my life is a trigger."

"Brandon," Pushpa started gently as she folded her graceful hands on the countertop. "There are medications you can try too. I'm sure if you broached the topic, a psychiatrist would give you plenty of options that might work well for your situation."

"I don't want to be drugged up," Brandon said bitterly. "You sound just like Miranda, shoving pills down her throat for every little thing. Not to mention literally every social worker I ever had."

I cringed, partly at the mention of his ex-wife, but mostly at the references to medications he was forced to take as a ward of the state. A silence settled over the kitchen. Brandon stared at the floor while the rest of us watched him. Finally, Kieran spoke up again.

"Something needs to change, B," she said matter-of-factly. "You can't go on like you have been. Panic attacks. Night terrors. Fights."

The atmosphere in the room felt heavy. Burdensome. There were no easy answers for the situation we found ourselves in. And I could tell by the stubborn look on Brandon's face that he wasn't about to admit any connection between his regressions and the biggest stressor in his life: his political campaign.

"I'll keep trying," he muttered finally before turning to wash the rest of the dishes.

The plates clattered while Brandon put them in the sink. Pushpa, Kieran, and I all watched wordlessly while he struggled to rinse and load them into the dishwasher. It was a solid five minutes before Brandon finally whirled around, spraying me and half the kitchen with the nozzle as he did so.

"Can you all stop staring at me like I'm a goddamn zoo animal?" he demanded.

Pushpa stifled a giggle, while Kieran just smirked.

"Jesus Christ," Kieran said. "What are you, five? You can't do dishes without making a mess?"

Brandon just reached into the sink and splashed water at her. "I might be messy, but now I'm done, no thanks to you jokers." He wiped the soapy water from his hands and draped the dishtowel over the sink. "Now, didn't you guys bring Parcheesi or some stupid game like that? If you're going to teach Skylar and me how to be a lame married couple, we might as well get started. Fair warning: Red and I are going to kick your asses."

And with that, any more mention of Brandon's struggles disappeared. But every so often, my glance would trail back to the kitchen, where the small orange bottle of Valium, with its two or three remaining pills, sat on the table. I couldn't help but wonder when they would be needed again, and what would happen when they were gone.

~