Critiques and Writer's Discussion

Lads 

State

In the spirit of this weekend to give thanks and since my mind won't stop racing before the work week begins. Here's the next part.  Chapter Sixty-One: The Goldhawk house settled into a humid, humming Monday, the kind of afternoon where the air felt thick enough to lean on. Outside, the oaks draped their moss like tired finery; Paul was at rehearsal, a text sent an hour ago—Blocking Mockingbird till six, love you, don’t wait for me—still glowing in the family thread. Lilly stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a wineglass from last night, watching the water sheet over clear crystal, her reflection wobbled in the curve. On the far end of the island, her laptop sat closed, the USB Harley had sent tucked under it like a splinter she couldn’t bring herself to pull out. Lilly stared at the message, jaw flexing. In the reflex of old habits, she imagined half a dozen ways she could leverage Harley—push, pull, threaten, seduce. Then she pictured Paul’s face if he ever saw that thumbnail, that caption. For once, the brand instincts lost. She typed slowly: Things are complicated here. I’ll be in touch when the time’s right. My family comes first. She hovered a second, then added: Appreciate you thinking of us. 💕 Honey before vinegar, even now. She hit send, flipped the phone face-down, and exhaled. Whatever Harley thought this was going to be, Lilly decided, she wasn’t going to let it define the next move. That would be hers. The front door clicked open. “Hola?” Martina called, her voice a familiar warm ribbon through the hall. “In here,” Lilly answered. Martina rounded the corner a second later, wearing a soft cornflower blouse and jeans, hair woven back in a practical braid. She dropped her purse on a hook, took one look at Lilly’s tight shoulders and her expression shifted. “Okay,” she said, nodding once. “We are doing that kind of visit.” Bryan came in from the den, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d needed the pretext of cleaning to keep moving. His eyes were tired, but less hollow than they’d been the night they found the diaper in Paul’s trash. “Hey, T,” he said. “Thanks for coming.” She kissed his cheek, then Lilly’s, then tapped the gym bag with two fingers. “So. We are ready to talk about todo esto?” Lilly glanced at Bryan; he nodded. They moved into the living room together, taking their now familiar positions—Bryan on the couch’s edge, forearms on his knees; Lilly on the armrest beside him, one hand on his shoulder; Martina in the swivel chair angled toward them, palms resting loosely on her thighs like a counselor who cared too much to pretend she didn’t. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Bryan cleared his throat. “We, uh… we wanted you to hear it from us. Before you notice on your own. If you haven’t already.” “I knew something,” Martina said. “I did not know how much was fear and how much was body.” She folded her hands. “Tell me the rest.” Lilly took a breath. “This past weekend with Kim,” she began. “He didn’t just… leak. He kinda, went back to a softer and simpler time. On purpose, in a way. They set up a whole nur-play space. The diapers, the toys, the… the pacifier. And he… he let go. He was happy, Really, deeply happy, for the first time in months. Maybe years.” Bryan’s voice picked up the thread. “And now we know it’s not just ‘late bloomer’ stuff,” he said. “Mindy’s tests are almost back. There’s probably… We’ll know Wednesday.” Martina nodded slowly, listening with her whole face. “We didn’t know how that would land with you,” Bryan said. “If you’d… want distance. Or if you’d see him differently. We would never ask you to—” He gestured helplessly. “To change diapers. To babysit a seventeen-year-old. To…That’s not your job.” Something sparked behind Martina’s eyes—nostalgia, affection, and something like incredulity all braided together. “Bryan,” she said, voice quiet but edged. “I changed that boy’s diapers when he and Amber needed it, when Rachel couldn’t stand from the chemo, when at five years old he still couldn’t make it through the night dry and I changed him the night he came home from the clinic before bed. He’s been my own son, since you and Rachel opened your basement apartment to us 20 years ago.” Bryan’s throat worked. “I… I know. I just—” She held up a hand. “Listen.” Her gaze swept from him to Lilly. “It is not about what you ask. It is about what we choose. And I choose to stay. If Paul needs me to cook, I cook. If he needs me to sit in the hallway while he cries, I sit. If one day he needs me to help him with… with protection,” she said the word without flinching, “we will talk about it. Together. But I will not run because he needs more care, por favor.” Lilly leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Martina, we just don’t want to… burden you,” she said. “It’s a lot.” “What is a burden,” Martina said, “is leaving him alone with this.” Her expression softened further.  Bryan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He hadn’t cried in front of many people since Rachel died. His eyes prickled now, annoyingly. “Thank you,” he said. It felt insufficient. It was all he had. Martina nodded, matter-of-fact. “So. We know going backwards last weekend helped him feel safe. We know the diapers or his other protection is not going away tomorrow.” She ticked each point off on her fingers. “What we do?” Lilly glanced toward the garage, toward the storage beyond her food prep area. The memory of soft oak and white paint flashed in her mind’s eye when Martina gazed it all those weeks ago. “Well,” she said slowly, “my vote is we listen to Mindy, for one. See what she suggests. But… there’s something else we can bring back. If you’re okay with it.” Bryan followed her gaze, puzzled for half a heartbeat. Then it hit him. The rocking chair. He saw it as if they’d just left it: Rachel in fuzzy socks, one leg tucked under her as she rocked slow and steady, a much smaller Paul against her chest, thumb in his mouth, his head sweaty and heavy against her collarbone. Thunder rolling outside. Her humming some half-remembered lullaby, out of tune and perfect anyway. He swallowed hard. Martina saw the shift in his face and smiled, soft and sure. She reached across the coffee table and took his hand, giving it the gentlest squeeze. “La mecedora de Rachel,” she said, half English, half Spanish. “Rachel’s rocking chair. I was thinking the same.” She looked between them. “We bring it up. We put it where he can see it, feel it. Where you can sit with him. Not as a baby. As a boy who is scared and needs… movement. Rhythm. You know it calms him.” Bryan let out a choked laugh. “You know us too well,” he said. Martina squeezed again. “That is the job,” she said simply. “We take what worked before the world fell apart, and we use it now.” Lilly watched the two of them, the way their hands fit together across the coffee table—old allies suddenly, almost seamlessly back in step. For a flicker, she felt outside the circle, like a guest in a family that had started before she arrived. Then Martina looked up at her and held that gaze. “You too, mija,” she said. “You are in this. Even when you are… how do you say… too much in your own head.” She tapped Lilly’s temple lightly. “He loves you. That is not nothing.” Lilly felt her throat tighten. She nodded, not trusting her voice.   Harbor & Hearth sat at the edge of the marina like it had always been there—whitewashed clapboard, tall windows, strings of Edison bulbs glowing over the dock outside. Inside, the host stand was all dark wood and quiet wealth. There were no posted prices. There didn’t need to be. It was decided that Tuesday evening for the first time in nearly three years the whole family would go out and enjoy some of the perks of being a part of Jacksonville’s elite. Paul descended the stairs in the outfit he’d worn on the worst night of his drinking—the black & white polished domino’s shoes, black slacks pressed sharp, the black button-down crisp against his shoulders, the white-backed vest fitting snug across his chest. Tonight, though, there was now a sleek white tie, knotted neatly at his throat, the silk catching the light when he moved. He’d taken time with his hair, too, coaxing the unruly waves into something rakish instead of chaotic. Adding a black fedora with an ivory brim to complete his ensemble. He looked older. Elegant. Almost dangerous. Under the clothes, a Step In and plastic pants. Insurance. They were there; they didn’t own the moment. Bryan tugged on his white dinner jacket over a matching black shirt, black vest, black tie, black trousers—his version of the same monochrome uniform, aged up and smoothed out. Lilly stepped out last — a red dress that clung like it had been made from breath and desire.  The red dress wasn’t indecent—it didn’t need to be. It clung in all the ways that mattered, scooped just enough in front, cut clean at the knee, her legs lengthened by nude heels. Her hair fell in glossy waves over one shoulder, lips a deeper shade of matching crimson. When she entered the room, both men straightened involuntarily. “You look…” Bryan began. “Like trouble,” Paul grinned. “Like I need a fire extinguisher,” Bryan finished, kissing her cheek. Lilly laughed, delighted despite everything. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment,” she said. The three of them, matching in monochrome elegance, stepped into the night on their way to crash a premiere. Harbor & Hearth’s dining room was a study in restrained excess. Dark paneled walls. White tablecloths. Candlelight pooling in cut-glass votives. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dock glowed under strings of lights, the water beyond them black and secret. A small jazz band occupied the raised corner stage—piano, upright bass, drums, a brass player doubling trumpet and trombone. They played standards in a low, velvety loop: “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” the kind of songs that made even ice water feel like a cocktail. Their table sat near the windows, a vantage point where they could see both the band and the water. As they settled in, Paul became aware of eyes—not staring, but glancing, curious. His clothes, their cohesion, Lilly’s red slit of a dress. They looked like they belonged here. For once, he didn’t feel like an imposter. As the server poured sparkling water and recited specials, Paul’s attention snagged on a girl at the neighboring table. She sat with an older couple—parents, from the mirrored lines in their faces—wearing a simple navy dress with a low back and a delicate gold chain at her throat. Dark hair piled in a loose knot, a nose stud catching the candlelight. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, maybe a college student home for the week. She glanced up as he was looking. For half a second, their eyes snagged and held. She smiled, small but knowing. Paul, to his utter surprise, smiled back without freezing. Okay, he thought. Maybe I still know how to be a person. Dinner flowed in courses—oysters, then seared scallops, then steak so tender a fork could cut it. Conversation found its own rhythm. Bryan told stories about the Tokyo shoot—the actor who refused a stunt double until he sprained something, the director who insisted on “more rain” until the set flooded. “But the crazy part,” Bryan said, slicing his steak with practiced precision, “is Tokyo as a city just… works. Nobody bumps. Nobody pushes. It’s like they all agreed to share the space.” “You liked it,” Lilly said. He shrugged. “I liked their trains. I like my kid more.” Paul tried to make a joke, but the sentiment landed so cleanly it stuck in his ribs. At one point, Lilly excused herself to freshen her lip gloss, leaving the two men alone. Bryan took a sip of his drink, then gave Paul a side-eye. “You know she keeps looking at you, right?” he said, tipping his head toward the navy-dress girl. Paul flushed. “No she doesn’t.” “She absolutely does.” Bryan smirked. “Pro tip: if you keep pretending not to notice, she’ll either think you’re uninterested or painfully shy. You’re neither.” “How do you know?” Paul muttered. “Because I’ve seen you on a dance floor,” Bryan said.  Paul blinked. The memories came back in little flashes. He’d shelved it so thoroughly it felt like a past life. Before he could answer, the band transitioned into something bigger—horns brightening, tempo jumping, the drummer switching to brushes and ride. The leader leaned into the mic. “Alright, folks, we’re going to wake you all up a bit. A couple of swing numbers for you lovers out there. A little Mr. Brightside to brighten your work week.”   The opening bars of a big band re-tool rolled out, brassy and insistent. Across the room, navy-dress girl looked up at him again—this time with a clear, impish challenge. Now or never. Paul wiped his palms on his napkin, heart thudding, and pushed his chair back. “I’ll be right back,” he said. Lilly returned just in time to see him cross the floor, white tie a splash of light under the warm dim. She watched the approach, the way he didn’t hesitate, didn’t glance back for reassurance. “Is he—” she started. “Yup,” Bryan said, grinning. “Watch.” Paul stopped in front of the girl’s table, extended a hand with a little half-bow that flirted with camp but landed on charming. “Would you like to dance?” he asked. Her parents exchanged a glance—amused, indulgent. Navy-dress girl smiled wide, placed her hand in his, and rose. “Thought you’d never ask,” she said. For a second, Ellie just stared—then she laughed, delighted, and slipped her hand into his. Her fingers were cool and small, nails painted a deep wine red that matched the lipstick staining the rim of her glass. “You know how to actually dance to this?” she asked as he helped her up. He let a grin tilt one corner of his mouth. “You tell me in three minutes.” They stepped onto the small dance floor, the polished wood catching the warm light from the chandeliers. Behind them, Bryan and Lilly fell quiet at the table, watching. Other couples melted back to give them space; there was something about the way Paul walked to center—relaxed, shoulders loose, like he belonged there—that made people pause. The horn section punched a bright figure; the drummer snapped from brushes to sticks, the groove tightening. Paul turned to face Ellie, their hands linked, his other hand hovering politely at her upper back. “Trust me?” he asked, voice pitched low so it didn’t need to fight the band. “Maybe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Don’t drop me and we’ll call it a start.” The chorus hit and they moved. He led with a simple rock step, testing her weight, the give in her frame. She followed like she’d been waiting for it all night. They fell into six-count swing: back-rock, triple step, triple step. The band’s horns punched, and Paul answered with a tuck turn, sending Ellie spinning out, her dark hair flaring, her dress catching the light. She laughed—bright, carefree—and landed back in his arms like they’d rehearsed. Time thinned. The room blurred to color and motion; the only sharp things were the music and the way her palm felt pressed against his shoulder. “You weren’t kidding,” she said as he sent her through a side pass, her heels clicking out the beat. “Where did you learn this?” “Madrid,” he said, breath just a little short, more from nerves than exertion. “My dad had a nanny who was a dance teacher. Forced me to class. I thought I’d hate it.” “And?” she asked, arching a brow as he caught her in a closed hold and swept her into a gentle circle, their feet whispering on the floor. “And then I didn’t,” he admitted. She laughed again, and the band hit the bridge—horns climbing, drummer riding the ride cymbal, piano scattering notes like confetti. Paul seized the moment. He loosened their frame just enough and guided her into a swing-out, sending her gliding away and then snapping her back in, her body aligning with his on the beat. There was a flash of something older in the way he did it—showman, not boy. At the table, Lilly’s fingers tightened on her champagne flute. She’d seen Paul performed, sure—monologues in living rooms, rehearsed lines in front of mirrors. This wasn’t that. This was instinct. This was her seeing the version of him she’d only ever heard hints about, he certainly didn’t dance like this at her’s & Bryan’s weeding two years ago. Just rhythm and a boy who’d finally decided he liked his own body enough to let it lead. Bryan let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Nine years old in Madrid,” he murmured to her. “His nanny was a ballroom fiend. Dragged him to every class she could. Jazz, Latin, swing. I thought he’d mutiny. Kid fell in love with the floor instead.” “And then?” Lilly asked, eyes locked on the couple in the center. “Then we came back stateside and he discovered PlayStation,” Bryan said. “Guess which one won.” Out on the floor, the song swung into its final chorus, the horns blaring a joyful last stand. Paul pushed a little harder, riding the crest. He sent Ellie through a fast underarm spin; as she came back, he stepped in, hand at her waist, giving just enough lift to pop her feet off the floor for a heartbeat—a tiny aerial, safe and controlled. She squealed, a startled sound that melted into laughter as he set her down without a wobble. “You are full of surprises,” she breathed, cheeks flushed, when they fell back into basic steps. “So are you,” he shot back. The band hit the last hits—ba-da, ba-da, bum—and he finished with a clean little dip, nothing showy, just enough to draw a small, appreciative ripple of applause from the tables around them. Ellie’s arm tightened around his shoulder as she leaned back, trusting him to hold her weight. He did, easily. For a second, they just stayed there, suspended in that post-song hush, both breathing a little fast, grinning like idiots. “Okay,” she said as he pulled her upright and the room’s normal volume rushed back in. He helped her upright, both of them laughing now, out of breath. “You’re good,” she said, cheeks flushed. “I’m Ellie, by the way.” “Paul,” he said, tugging his tie loose a fraction. “Nice to meet you.” “Gimme your phone, Paul-who-dances,” she said. He blinked, then fished it from his pocket, unlocking it and passing it over. She typed a number, thumb moving fast, then handed it back. A new contact glowed on the screen: Ellie (Maine 💋) “Maine?” he asked. “Unfortunately,” she said. “Visiting my folks. I go back Sunday. But hey—worst case, you have someone to text during boring classes.” He laughed. “Deal.” As she returned to her table, he looked back to his, heart thumping in that exhilarating, human way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with hope. Lilly lifted her glass in a tiny salute as he slid back into his seat. “So,” she said, eyes dancing. He rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. “Relax, Lilly. She lives in Maine.” “Long distance,” Bryan mused. “Less risk of pregnancy. I approve.” “Bryan,” Lilly hissed, swatting his arm. For a few precious hours, they were just three people at a fancy dockside supper club—eating too much, laughing too hard, letting the music rinse out some of the regret. The band soon slid from swing into something slower without anyone quite noticing when it happened. One minute the floor was full of twirling couples; the next, the drummer had softened to brushes and the trumpet had traded brightness for a low, smoky line. Lilly was watching as Paul had gone back to Ellie at her table, laughter still lingering at the edge of her mouth, when Bryan pushed his chair back. “C’mere,” he said softly. She tilted her head. “Where?” He held out a hand, palm open, the white cuff of his dinner jacket glowing in the candlelight. “Where else? I didn’t put this jacket on just to watch other people dance.” Her laugh was smaller now, private. She let him take her hand. The floor had thinned, leaving patches of polished wood between the swaying pairs. The band eased into something familiar and tender—“The Nearness of You,” or something close enough that it didn’t matter. Warm horns, lazy piano, the bass a steady heartbeat underneath. Bryan slid one arm around her waist, the other still holding her hand. It felt surprisingly natural, like picking up choreography they’d abandoned mid-routine years ago. “You remember how to do this?” she teased, looking up at him through her lashes. “Muscle memory,” he said. “Old stunt guys just move slower, not worse.” She snorted, but then he turned them in a slow circle and the snort melted into a breath. The dress clung to her; the heat of his palm at the small of her back burned through the fabric in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in a long while. Not as armor. Just as… contact. For a few bars, they didn’t talk. They just moved—side, together, turn. Outside the windows, the masts on the dock rocked gently against the night sky. Inside, the room was all low murmur and soft clink of glass. “You look happy,” Bryan said eventually, voice pitched low, for her and the bass player only. She huffed. “That’s the wine and the oysters,” she said. “And possibly watching your son out-charm a room.” He smiled. “That helps, but he’s yours too” he allowed. His fingers flexed at her back. “But I meant you. You look… lighter. Haven’t seen that in a while.” “Don’t get used to it,” she said, reflexive. He didn’t laugh this time. “I’d like to,” he said simply. Something in her chest stuttered. Here under slow horns and a borrowed chandelier, it felt… easy. No script. No campaign. Just the faint scrape of his shoes, the slide of her heels, his thumb tracing idle circles where her spine dipped. “You know,” he said, looking over her shoulder at nothing in particular, “I keep waiting for you to… crack. To decide this is all too much. Me, the kid, the ghosts, the… circus…now featuring diapers. I wouldn’t blame you.” She pulled back just enough to see his face properly. “Are you trying to talk me out of this on a dance floor?” she asked. “I’m trying to be honest,” he said. A beat. “And maybe give you an out before the universe does.” It landed like a joke-shaped stone between them. The band played on. Lilly studied him. The jacket softened the lines of his shoulders, but it couldn’t hide the weight he carried—regret in the set of his jaw, exhaustion in the faint crescents under his eyes, that constant, wary readiness to flinch for the next blow. “You really think I’m that fragile?” she said, quieter now. He closed his eyes briefly. “No,” he said. “I think you’re the least fragile person I’ve ever met. Which is exactly why it scares me how much I lean on you.” The confession was so bare it took her a second to answer. “Good,” she said. He blinked. “Good?” “Yes, good.” Her hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, short and softer than it looked. She tugged him just close enough that her lips brushed his ear when she spoke. “Because I lean on you, too, you idiot.” He laughed on an exhale, a little stunned. She kept going, the words spilling now that she’d started. “Who do you think holds me steady when I’m about to sell my soul for a brand deal? Who makes me remember there’s a person attached to every deck I pitch? Who looks at me like I’m not just… calculations and lipstick?” The last bit came out sharper than she meant it to. Old resentment at being seen as veneer only. His eyes softened. “For the record,” he murmured, “you could pitch laundry detergent and I’d still think you’re the bravest person in the room.” She searched his face, looking for spin. She didn’t find any. “Lilly Anne Goldhawk,” he said, full name like a vow. “I love you. For the record. For the future judge at our eventual insanity trial. I love the way your brain works and the way you call me on my crap and the way you… walk into a room like you belong there and then drag the rest of us in behind you.” His thumb brushed her spine, one, two, three times. “And I’m… I’m thankful you didn’t run when this got weird.” She sniffed, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Smooth, Bryan,” she muttered. “Make me cry in a red dress, why don’t you.” “Occupational hazard,” he said. “I make things dramatic for a living.” They swayed through the last chorus, wrapped in their own small orbit. For the length of a song, they were a single thought the love for one another. As the final note lingered and the room applauded politely, he dipped his head and kissed her—slow, sure, not showy. A seal, not a performance. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his for a second, eyes closed, breathing him in—cologne and bourbon and something uniquely Bryan, like sawdust and sea air. “Whatever happens next,” she murmured, “don’t you dare do it alone.” “Deal,” he said. “Same goes for you.” They stepped off the floor hand in hand, not like teenagers sneaking back to a booth, but like partners walking back to a war they’d chosen to fight, win and live happily together after in. Whatever came next, this was a memory worth banking for everybody.     Wednesday came with a crisp blue sky and a knot in everybody’s stomach. At breakfast, Lilly watched Paul pick at toast and not much else, his phone face up on the table. No new notifications. No word from Mindy yet. His leg bounced under his chair, rapid. “Hey,” she said, making her voice as casual as she could. “How about you drive the convertible today?” His head snapped up. “What?” “You heard me,” she said. “Top down, sun out. Be the main character on the way to school.” Bryan slid the keys across the table. “You’re licensed. You’re insured.” he said. “You got rehearsal?” “Just a read-through, it will an hour before the appointment.” Paul said slowly. “You’re serious? You’re not… messing with me?” “Dead serious,” Bryan said. “We’ll meet you at Mindy’s at three. Park in the garage, third floor. We’ll come up together.” Something in Paul’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. The day loomed, but at least part of it would feel like a movie instead of a medical drama. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Cool.” An hour later, the convertible roared to life in the driveway, top folded back, music pulsing low from the speakers. Paul slid behind the wheel, the leather warm against his palms. As he pulled away from the curb, sunlight splashing across the hood, he let himself pretend—for just a moment—that the only thing on his calendar was school, rehearsal, maybe a text from a girl in Maine. Behind him, in the kitchen doorway, Lilly and Bryan watched the taillights shrink. “You sure about letting him drive when we might be dropping heavy news on him later?” Bryan asked. “He needs to feel in control of something today,” Lilly said. “Might as well be the gas pedal. Plus if it’s hard for him one of us can drive us all back. But since the car  is set to pick us up isn’t for a few more hours, well how about we release some pent up…..” Lilly didn’t have to finish the innuendo, Bryan could read a room too. Grinning like the cat that ate the canary he scoped Lilly up and shut the back door with his foot.   Mindy’s office on the third floor didn’t look like a place where people heard sentences about the rest of their lives. It looked like a therapist’s Pinterest board—muted blue walls, soft yellow lamp light, plants that had somehow not died, framed prints of abstract swirls that could be sunsets or oceans depending how hard you needed them to be. Paul sat in the middle of the soft gray couch, elbows on his knees, fingers locked so tight his knuckles blanched. Bryan sat to his right; Lilly to his left. Mindy took the armchair across from them, a tablet in her lap, dark curls pinned off her face, expression open and serious. “Okay,” she said gently. “Deep breath first, all three of you.” They did. It helped, a little. “I got your full panel back last night,” Mindy said. “I’ve reviewed it with neurology and urology. There’s good news and hard news. Which would you like first?” Paul’s voice sounded like it belonged to somebody else when he answered. “Good,” he croaked. “Please.” “The good news is: we have an answer,” Mindy said. “You are not ‘crazy.’ You are not ‘lazy.’ You are not ‘broken.’ What you’re experiencing has a name and a pattern.” She tapped the tablet. “It’s called Somatic Neuromuscular Disregulation. SND.” She laid it out in terms that respected his brain without drowning him in jargon. Stress-amplified nerve signaling. Autonomic misfires. An overreactive fight-or-flight system that hijacked his bladder and occasionally other muscles and functions. A likely genetic sensitivity triggered by acute trauma—your mom’s passing as the oldest moment and more recently your stress about what happens after high school and probably a million things in between. Basically, your body is doing and dealing with too much with too little information. “The incontinence isn’t a character flaw,” she said. “It’s a symptom. Like a cough. Like a tremor. We can’t erase it completely. But we can manage it. Shrink it eventually where it’s not your entire world.” “And the hard news?” Bryan asked quietly. Mindy’s eyes softened. “The hard news is: this is chronic,” she said. “There’s no magic pill. No surgery that flips it off. We’re talking long-term management. Lifestyle changes. Physical therapy. Regular follow-ups. And yes—continued use of protection, especially during high-stress periods or public events.” Paul’s ears started to ring. “You’re saying…” His tongue felt thick. “You’re saying… I’m stuck like this. Forever.” “I’m saying your body is going to need different support than some other people’s, indefinitely,” Mindy said. “But ‘stuck’ is not the word I’d choose. You’re not static. You have tools. We’ll build more.” She outlined the plan—slowly, gently, like placing blocks where he could see them. Stress-management training: breathing, biofeedback, physical therapy to strengthen pelvic and core muscles, retrain nerve pathways where possible. Diet tweaks—more water, less caffeine. Scheduled bathroom breaks. Logging. Apps. Ongoing communication. “And,” she added, looking briefly to Lilly and Bryan, “what happened at Kim’s? That deep regression weekend? That wasn’t crazy. For some patients, controlled regressive states—safe, contained—can be a way to reset the nervous system. It’s not for everyone. But in your case, Paul, it clearly did something important and you showed improvment. We’ll talk more about how and when to integrate that, if you want it.” Paul wasn’t hearing most of it now. His focus tunneled, shrinking to the words chronic and protection and indefinitely like they were the only ones in English. Chronic. Diapers. Forever. Somewhere far away, he heard his own voice. “So I’m… what? I’m just gonna… wear diapers for the rest of my life? Be the freak who leaks because he can’t handle a midterm?” “Hey,” Mindy said softly, leaning forward. “Watch the way you talk about yourself.” He didn’t hear her. Heat climbed his neck, flushed his face, pounded behind his eyes. The room blurred at the edges, colors turning too bright and too dim in turns. “This is—” He gulped air that didn’t seem to land. “This is insane. I’m seventeen, I’m going to be eighteen soon. I’m not a toddler. I can’t—I can’t date, I can’t go to college, I can’t be on stage—what if I leak on stage? What if it shows? What if everyone finds out? What if—” His breathing hitched, sped. The words tangled, choked. “Paul,” Bryan said, hand reaching but not quite landing. “Hey. Buddy. Look at me.” He didn’t. Couldn’t. His vision tunneled further, sound fuzzing to static. His hands shook. His chest felt like there was a belt cinched around it. Somewhere, Mindy’s voice threaded through, calm but distant. “Paul. That’s a panic response. I want you to put your feet flat on the floor. Can you feel the ground? Count five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear…” Her words bounced off a wall. “I can’t do this,” he gasped. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” Mindy’s eyes flicked to Lilly and Bryan. They said he needs a tether as clearly as any sentence. Lilly’s hand had been in her purse the whole time, fingers closing around something she almost hadn’t brought. An instinct in the doorway this morning—take it—had overridden her pride. Now she pulled the pacifier out. The same one that he used at Kims, the one Bryan placed on the countertop. “Bryan,” she said, voice tight but steady. She held it out to him. He stared at it for a beat, comprehension and something like fear warring in his eyes. “Lil…” he began. “You saw the footage,” she said softly. “It helped him there. Just… try.” There was a beat where the father and the man wrestled. Pride. Terror. Love. Love won. He slid forward on the couch, moving into Paul’s collapsing field of vision, one hand coming up to cup the back of his son’s neck. “Hey,” he said, voice low, that tone you use for spooked animals and toddlers at three a.m. “Look at me, bud.” Against all odds, Paul’s gaze snagged on his for a split second. Enough. “I got you,” Bryan said. “Open your mouth for me a sec.” He lifted the pacifier, hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat, then gently pressed it to Paul’s lips. Muscle memory—Kim’s nursery, the SUV, something older and more primal—took over. Paul’s mouth parted; the silicone slipped past his teeth. For a beat, nothing changed. Then, slowly, everything did. The sensation—smooth, firm, familiar in a way that bypassed age—gave his panicked brain a single, simple task: suck. Breathe. Repeat. His jaw worked once. Twice. The rhythm caught. The sound of his breathing shifted—still shaky, but no longer ragged. His shoulders, which had climbed toward his ears, eased down a fraction. He was mortified. Burning shame flooded his cheeks, his ears, his chest. I’m seventeen, I’m sucking a pacifier in front of my doctor, kill me, kill me now looped in his mind like a cruel ticker. But under the shame… something else. A slow, heavy calm, trickling in like warm water poured over ice. His fingers unclenched, then curled—this time around Bryan’s sleeve instead of into themselves. Mindy’s voice softened to a murmur. “There you go,” she said. “That’s it. Breathing’s already better. Can you feel your feet?”, she asked, and for the first time since she’d started, the question actually registered. Paul blinked. The ringing in his ears dialed down. The room’s edges came back into focus. Lilly’s hand was on his knee, thumb drawing unconscious circles. Bryan’s arm had slid around his back, anchoring him. He nodded, just barely. “Good,” Mindy said. “We can work with this. This is a tool. Not a prison.” They didn’t speak for a while. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t cheapen the moment. Eventually, Bryan eased the pacifier out, thumb brushing Paul’s chin in a gesture so automatic and tender it made Lilly’s eyes sting. “I’m sorry,” Paul whispered hoarsely. “I—” “Don’t you dare apologize,” Bryan said. “You were overwhelmed. We found something that helps. That’s a win, not a failure.” Lilly swallowed past the lump in her throat. “We’re going to figure this out with you,” she said. “Not to you. That’s the deal.” Mindy nodded. “The regression doesn’t make you less of an adult,” she said. “It just means part of your nervous system responds better to certain kinds of soothing. We’ll build you a plan that respects all your ages.” Paul let out a breath that trembled, then steadied. His eyes were still wet, but the wildness had drained out of them, replaced by something rawer and more honest. “I hate this,” he said quietly. “I know,” Mindy said. “You’re allowed to.” “Is it gonna be like this forever?” he asked. “Every appointment, every bad day, meltdown, pacifier… rinse, repeat?” Mindy shook her head. “No,” she said. “We’re at the beginning. This is clumsy. Messy. Over time, the tools get sharper. The flare-ups get shorter. You build skills, muscle memory, confidence. There will still be bad days. But there will be fewer surprises. Less feeling like the floor vanished.” She let that sit. “Right now,” she went on, “I’m more interested in the fact that you came today. You heard hard things. You didn’t run. That’s the part I’m writing in your chart in big letters.” Under his humiliation, something flickered in Paul’s chest—a small, stubborn spark of pride. He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and let his head tip briefly against Bryan’s shoulder. Just for a second. Long enough. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So… what’s step one?” Just like that, the future rearranged itself—not as a cliff, but as a staircase. Steep. Long. But not impassable. Down in the parking garage, the convertible waited. At home, the rocking chair sat in the hallway, a little scuffed from getting out of storage but it was ready to be claimed again. The family walked out of Mindy’s office in a new configuration—Paul in the middle, parents bracketing him, not as shields, but as shoulders he could lean on when the weight got too much. They didn’t have answers for everything. But for the first time, they had a name, a plan, and the beginnings of a language for the strange, tender place they were all learning to stand in together.

"oh okay that's fair the only little in my house growing up was my mom so..." He said as he trailed off a bit. He was curious as to why she probably felt awkward right now maybe that was the reason. "I can say just because imma little now doesn't make me a full-on baby a toddler maybe but I'm not completely helpless..."

Any luck with the messing?