An uneasiness settled in my gut, and I rubbed my hands together. "That could be a problem. We use pyrotechnics for our shows."
"Are they necessary?"
"They're for the fans," I said, raising an eyebrow at him. From his buttoned up appearance, it didn't seem like Dr. Feinstein had been to any concerts in awhile. He wouldn't be asking if he had. "They pay to see a rock show, we give it to them."
He inclined his head, acknowledging my reluctance. "I can see how that would be hard, then. But I think it's an important step in getting better."
I sighed and leaned back on the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Okay. I'll look into it."
Dr. Feinstein cleared his throat again. "What about your bike? Do you use it all the time?"
"Yeah, I do," I said, the uneasiness deepening in my gut. I glanced at the doctor, and his serious face just confirmed my fears. "No. My bike is off limits."
He tapped his notepad with his pen. "You're willing to give up the pyrotechnics. What's different about the bike?"
I grimaced and balled up my fists hard until my fingers hurt. "I love my bike. If I didn't have it, I'd be stuck on the bus all the time. Sometimes I just need to be alone, you know? To just blow off steam when things get bad. Get a good rush."
"But if your bike is triggering your symptoms, how will you get better if you keep it around?"
"I don't know," I said rubbing my head with frustration. "That's too much, Doc."
Feinstein gave me an understanding look. "I know it's a lot to ask you to do, but if you want to get better, then unfortunately you'll have to make some sacrifices. It's all part of the process. Remove the triggers, and come in for regular therapy sessions."
I looked at him skeptically.
"If you're committed to getting better, you probably will. I can't make any promises but I've seen many patients have success with this program. Some have had to make big sacrifices in order to get better like leaving their current home because it was the place where they experienced the trauma. But again, you have to follow the program."
A hot spike of anger swirled in my chest. No way my bike was causing all this bullshit. So what if I'd been using it that night? I rode it all the time. Maybe the Doc was right about some of the stuff he was saying, but he was wrong about this.
Dr. Feinstein shifted in his seat as if waiting for my answer.
"I'll work on the fire stuff," I said, my voice curt. "I can't promise anything about the bike yet."
He shook his head, but his face stayed neutral. "I have to warn you, until you find a way to avoid your triggers, you should expect to continue experiencing disturbing episodes. And each episode you have only adds to the trauma that we need to fight against."
I nodded slowly. What he said sounded pretty straight up, but I still didn't buy into the idea that my bike was to blame for my problems. If I had to prove it to him, I would, by cutting the pyros from our act and staying away from fire. That should make me better, and then we could drop all this getting rid of my bike shit.
"I'll see what I can do," I said, my tone flat. He could take it or leave it.
He smiled at me, apparently deciding that I'd agreed with him, then began shuffling papers around on his desk. "We all want you to get better, Jax."
His words made me think of Riley. I was doing this for her, more than I was for me. The way she'd looked so frightened, bending over me after I woke up from my nightmare—I never wanted her to look that way again. Afraid for me. Afraid of me.
She wanted me to get better, and I wanted to get better for her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me—and I wasn't going to lose her now.
***
One Day Ago
I was back on Feinstein's couch again, and I was pissed.
After twenty minutes of telling him about how I'd followed all of his advice and it still wasn't working, he narrowed his brows and asked me if there was anything else I was missing.
"What do you mean?" I asked, frustrated. "I just told you all the shit I've done and it hasn't helped at all! When is this going to start making a difference?"
Dr. Feinstein studied me from his leather chair. "It will make a difference when you find the trigger that is causing your issues. Do you think there may be anything in your life that you've missed? Think back carefully."
I felt my temper rising and did my best to suppress it. After giving up fire, I hadn't gotten better—and I'd been forced to put his last piece of advice into action. "I sold the damn bike. What else do I have to say? No, there's nothing left. Yes, I still have a nightmare every fucking night."
He scribbled on his pad but said nothing for several seconds. "Have you had any more sleepwalking episodes?"
I sighed and bit my lip hard. This treatment was going nowhere. "No. Is that the most progress I can hope for? I'm hallucinating, Doc. This isn't working."
Dr. Feinstein wrote something on his pad and then put the pad down and rubbed his eyes. "Jax, I want you to think very carefully back to that night. Think about objects and people that you associate with what happened. Can you do that?"
"Doc, we've already done this."
"Can you humor me? Just put your head back on the couch and close your eyes for a moment."
I took a deep breath and did as he asked. "Fine," I said, my eyes closed.
"Thank you. Now tell me what you see."
"Riley and I are on my bike. I'm showing her the trailer park. The biker gang is there, and they're saying shit about Riley. Then Darrel comes out and I'm fighting."
A dull pain made its way down my spine and I opened my eyes and sat up. "Doc, I told you, we've already done this. There's nothing new."
He nodded and scratched some things on his pad, saying nothing. I watched him for several seconds, waiting for an answer, but he wouldn't speak.
As I waited for him, I thought about what he could be scribbling on his notepad. A sinking feeling started in my stomach. No. It couldn't be. I continued to watch him until he stopped writing and then waited for him to speak. He wouldn't.
"What are you writing?" I asked finally, unable to contain myself.
He looked up at me, blinked, and then put his pen down and sat back, observing me.
I clenched my fists in frustration and took a deep breath. So he was playing the silent game, again. He did this every session. I needed to say the right thing to get him to talk.
"Doc," I said quietly, looking at the ground. "Is it Riley? Is she my trigger?"