“You want to help me? Then bring him back,” I snapped. “You rewind time and go to that godforsaken valley in Afghanistan and you tell him that his life is worth the same as Jagger’s—not less. You keep him from being the martyr.” My stomach twisted with something hot and ugly as my nails dug into the upholstery. “Then you go into a grocery store in Alabama and stop my phone from ringing, and you catch that jar of raspberry jam before I drop it all over the floor and it shatters.” I shoved the memory away with the chair, and it screeched across the hardwood floor. “You sew my heart back together, and you give us the chance we didn’t get!” A razor-tipped fist of emotion forced its way up my chest, prickling my eyes with pain, and I had to shout to be heard around it. “Everyone else got their shot! Josh and Ember, Paisley and Jagger, Sam and Grayson, hell, even Paisley and Will got their shot, but the minute he decides that it’s finally time for us to get our chance to be happy together, he dies saving my best friend’s husband.” I rubbed viciously at my chest, right where my set of aviation wings should have hung—would have hung if he’d lived. “I don’t want to move forward. I want Will! I want our shot!” I swiped angrily at my face, batting away the tears that had escaped during my tirade.

God, how long had it been since I’d lost it like that?

“I can’t bring him back,” Dr. Circe said gently. “I’m so very sorry for the loss you’ve suffered. But I know I can help you if you’ll let me. It’s four months of some pretty intense therapy, but I know we can lessen some of the pain you’re in.”

“You know?” I snapped. Nothing lessened the pain. Nothing but sleep took it away, and even then, I eventually had to wake up.

“I honestly think we have a good chance of not only lessening your pain but helping you truly move forward. This program has a seventy percent success rate.”

“And what happens when I’m one of the thirty?”

“I don’t think you are. This isn’t something you have to decide today, Morgan. I’ll call in your prescription to the local pharmacy. We definitely want to keep the anxiety attacks under control, but I’d also like to treat the underlying cause, not just the symptoms.” She rose to her feet.

“No amount of therapy will make me miss him any less.”

She walked me to her door. “Give me four months. Just think about it. You meet with me once a week. You do the homework. You’ll feel the results. But you would need someone to help support you through it.”

“I’m all alone.” I shrugged, shutting the door on the possibility.

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Well, like I said, just give it some thought. And while you’re over there telling yourself that therapy isn’t going to help you, I want you to think about the fact that you just told me what happened to Will without having an anxiety attack.”