I lean back against the rail and cross my arms. Then look down. “One of the first steps in therapy, actually, is accepting that you’ll never be able to erase what happened. Even if you get your revenge, or escape what you couldn’t the first time, or whatever it is you’re after...the trauma will still be there. It’s just a temporary fix.

“Because all those little pieces in your head that you’ve been trying to find and fit back together? They’re still there. It’s just that the shapes have changed. They don’t fit like they used to. That picture you had before is gone, and there’s no getting it back.”

A gust of wind blows through, billowing my shirt, and tossing up some of my hair. Goosebumps spread along my arms, and I fight a shiver. Somewhere, a crow caws.

“It’s okay, you know?” I say, before I look up through my lashes to find Waylon watching me intently with an expression I can’t place. I clear my throat. “Starting from scratch. Building something new. Despite what our brains are conditioned to believe, what’s broken doesn’t have to stay broken. We can change. We can be whole again.”

Waylon flits his unreadable gaze to some far-off place beyond me. It’s another moment before he speaks, “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”

I chuckle dryly. “Yeah, well, three and a half years of school and three months of intensive therapy will do that.” I pause, then confess, “I was diagnosed with PTSD a month after his death.”

He straightens in his seat, eyes refocusing on mine. A frown pulls at his face.

I shrug. “It’s gotten better, but there are still some triggers I apparently have to work on.” I jerk my chin in the direction of the house. “I’m sorry I walked out like that.”

“Don’t be. Shit, man, I—” he cuts off abruptly, eyes widening with some kind of realization. He tenses. “Hold up. Is that what you meant before? When you said I remind you of him?”

“I guess?” I say warily. “Although, you’re a lot more...destructive...” I trail off, narrowing my gaze.

Why does he suddenly look like he’s about to lose his shit?

I rub a self-conscious hand over the back of my neck. “I kind of geeked out there for a minute, but yeah, I guess that’s where I was going with it.”

Waylon twists his mouth into a scowl. “So that’s what this is.”

I frown. “What?”

“I’m just some second chance to you.”

I try to open my mouth and explain, but it’s no use. He cuts me off before I can even get a word in edgewise.

“I’m just a fucking project to you, aren’t I?” he spits out.