In the shadows, it was hard to make out details, but Somers thought the eyes were puffy, although Hazard had obviously tried to wash away the signs of crying.

“Let go,” Hazard said again, giving another half-hearted kick.

“Maybe you’ll be my new means of transportation. I just hold on, and you drag me around.”

“John.”

“Please sit down. Just for a minute.”

For a moment, it looked like Hazard would refuse; he even gave another of those pathetic kicks. Then he slid down, his back against the bed, knees pulled to his chest. Somers crawled toward him, pulling apart Hazard’s legs, squirming between them, twisting around until he sat in the vee of Hazard’s body, his back against Hazard’s chest. He could smell the flop sweat, not particularly pleasant, but he could also smell the coconut hair product that Hazard liked, and he could smell his long, tangled dark hair. He took Hazard’s arms and wrapped them around himself, and after a moment Hazard seemed to realize what he wanted and tightened his hold, hugging Somers against him. Another moment passed, and Hazard’s head lowered, his chin brushing Somers’s shoulder, his cheek to Somers’s cheek.

“You’re a glutton for cuddles,” he grumbled.

“Now,” Somers said. “We’re all set. The lights are off. I can’t see your face. You’re holding me, so you get to feel big and macho and in charge.”

“I don’t need to feel big and macho and in charge. Chauvinism and machismo are forms of ego masturbation for insecure men who—”

“It’s getting worse, Ree.”

Hazard’s breathing accelerated. His arms tightened around Somers.

“I’ve done a lot of reading about it. PTSD—”

“Don’t. John, let’s not—”

“Nope. I put up with this nonsense for a while. But I’m not going to put up with you coming home and treating me like shit because you’re scared out of your mind.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m really sorry. I love you, and you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry about it. I need us to talk about it so you can get better. In a lot of people, if it goes untreated, the symptoms get worse. You’ve been managing the symptoms for almost a year now. It’s time to start taking care of this.” Somers found Hazard’s arm, raking his nails lightly through the scattering of dark hair. “I’m putting my foot down: you’re going to start seeing a therapist.”

“I’ve been seeing Madeleine—”

“Emery Hazard, do not lie to me.”

The silence that followed was a vacuum.

“How many times?” Somers asked.

“Twice,” Hazard said quietly. “The intake, and then once more.”

“And all the other times you left and said you were going to therapy?”

“John, you don’t understand. She . . . she was full of shit. She wanted to talk about my dad. She wanted to talk about me being gay. She wanted me to cry. She honestly told me that. She said, ‘I’ll know we’re really making progress when I see some tears.’ I mean, it’s quackery. Bullshit pseudoscience. I’m not going to . . . I’m not going to humiliate myself. It wasn’t going to help anything.”