He must sense my dilemma, because for the first time in months, he speaks first. “Rough night?”
I shrug, shake my head. No rougher than any other night this week. This month.
“If the meds aren’t enough, we can look at increasing the—”
“They’re enough.” I want off the damn pills, not to have to choke down more of them.
“How many hours of sleep are you getting a night?”
“I get by.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Maybe not, but it’s the only answer I’m willing to give. “I’m good. Some nights are rougher than others, but I’m solid.”
“I know you are.”
It’s not the answer I was expecting and when he laughs, I know my surprise shows on my face.
“Did you expect me to say something else? You’re the only one who thinks you aren’t doing well, Garrett—”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it. I’m the one who keeps telling you that I’m fine and you’re the one who keeps pushing back against it.”
“Because fine is a ridiculous word in the context of what you’ve been through. It means nothing. Says nothing.” He shifts, then leans forward. And though I want to look anywhere but at him, my pride won’t let me. I meet his eyes and wait, because I know he’s got more to say. “Unless you take it for an acronym: fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. In which case…”
“In the old days you’d be beheaded for calling a prince fucked up.”
“Good thing we believe in speaking truth to power these days, then, isn’t it?”
“Truth, huh? You just said I’m doing well and now you’re saying I’m fucked up? Which one is it?” There’s a part of me that can’t believe how calmly we’re discussing this, as if my mental health is no more or no less consequential than the day’s weather.
“After what you went through, I’d be worried if you weren’t fucked up.”
“Nice to know I’m right on schedule. If that’s all…”
“It’s not, but nice try. You need to have a little empathy for yourself, Garrett—”
“The whole fucking world feels sorry for me. The last thing I’m going to do is feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t make me feel better, it doesn’t make me any healthier, and it sure as shit doesn’t get me closer to the throne.”
“And that’s still what you want more than anything? The throne?”
“You know that. We’ve been talking about it for months.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide how far he wants to push. The knowledge just infuriates me more—that he’s one more person pulling his punches because he doesn’t know if I’m strong enough to take it.
“Just say it, damn it.”
An eyebrow arch. “Say what?”
“Whatever it is you aren’t sure you should say. I promise I won’t have you chained up in the palace dungeon.”
“The palace doesn’t have a dungeon. I checked before I started working with you.”
“Damn it, Michael—”
“Why do you think it is that you want the throne so badly?”
“It’s not that I want it. I’m not some power-hungry egomaniac.”