Just My Luck (The Kings)

Ben’s pep talk was exactly what I needed. That kid was stronger than he realized, and if he believed in me, then maybe I could too. I let myself sink into that feeling on the drive to my appointment.

When I got there, the office was unlike that of any therapist I’d imagined. Instead of a sterile office building, Dr. Alexander Bennet opted to see his patients from the comfort of his own home. When I pulled up the driveway just before my appointment time, he was waiting for me on the porch in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

“Mr. King.” He stood with a smile, reaching out his hand to shake mine. “It’s nice to finally meet in person. I’m Alex.”This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

I gritted my teeth and nodded. “Abel.”

Dr. Bennet laughed and turned, opening the door to his modern home. Through a set of glass double doors, he led me to his office. It was decorated with sleek, no-nonsense furniture. The desk in the center was simple, black, and free of clutter. A pair of wingback chairs were tucked into the corner. I eyeballed the small sofa on the opposite end.

Dr. Bennet laughed and gestured toward the chairs. “How about we sit here?”

Without a word, I folded myself into the chair and clamped my hands together and looked around the office.

Maybe coming here was another mistake.

“Coffee? Tea? Whiskey?” he asked.

An eyebrow shot up at his offer of booze. What the hell kind of therapist is this? “I’m good.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He settled into the chair beside me and exhaled.

I waited, hoping he’d have some way to break the ice. When the silence stretched on, I cleared my throat. “Dr. Bennet, aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

“You can call me Alex.” He shrugged. “I thought we might get to know each other a bit first, but if that’s what you want to talk about, we can dive right in.”

Frustrated and feeling foolish, I braced my hands on my knees and began to stand. “Look, I think this was a mistake.”

Alex stood with me, unfazed by my abrupt demeanor. He held out a hand. “It took balls to come here in the first place.” He nodded when I shook his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Abel.”

I frowned, looking him over.

Was this some sort of therapist Jedi mind trick?

My boots stomped across the rug in his office, and I turned, pacing back toward him. “Look. I don’t know what I’m doing here. All I know is there’s a lot of shit going on up here”—I gestured toward my head—“and I need to figure it out.”

A grin spread across his face. “We can do that.”

I exhaled, relieved that the weight of my statement wasn’t enough to scare him off just yet.

There was a lot to unpack, so I figured I could start with something tangible. “I’ve been having these nightmares . . . they’re like a replay of a memory, only they’re different. Worse.”

I recounted the accident, my sentencing, and a brief overview of life after prison, including my relationship with Sloane. Dr. Bennet nodded and listened without offering judgment or his opinion. I shared how recently the dreams had shifted to the accident involving Sloane and the twins.

When I looked at him expectantly, hoping he’d offer some suggestions for making the dreams stop, he only sat back. “What do you think the dream means?”

I blew out a stream of breath. “Getting behind the wheel that night is my greatest regret. It haunts me. The only thing worse is if something were to happen to Sloane and the kids.”

“Something by your own hand.” Dr. Bennet confirmed my darkest fear.

“Exactly. I wouldn’t survive that.” My jaw ached from grinding my teeth.

“We’ve only just met, but I get the sense that you’re a protector. Maybe you fear losing control because you’ve had firsthand experience with that, and now the stakes are even higher. Right now it seems as though you’re carrying your shame like a badge of honor instead of allowing yourself to feel forgiveness.”

I scoffed. “I don’t need forgiveness. The mother already claimed to forgive me, though I don’t understand how that would be possible.”

His eyebrows raised. “Have you asked her?”

“What?” I stared at my feet.

He gestured toward me. “Have you asked the mother why she forgave you?”

I mulled over his words. “Not exactly.”

“Perhaps if you understood how she could find forgiveness, you may begin to forgive yourself.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Just a thought, my ass.

After an hour, Dr. Bennet shifted topics to end our time together, but I couldn’t let go of what he said. Sure, the mother claimed to forgive me, but I had always assumed that was bullshit. It was incomprehensible that she could ever truly feel anything other than hatred toward me.

Still, instead of turning toward home, I headed east and out of town.

The small two-story home was painted white, and each window was decorated with a planter box full of flowers. The neighborhood was bigger and more active than Outtatowner, but still maintained a bit of small-town charm. The hour drive gave me plenty of time to think, and rethink, how to even begin the conversation.

Before I could back out, my fist landed with a hard knock on the sunny, yellow front door. Seconds later, a woman pulled it open and stared up at me.

It was her. She was several years older, but I could never forget her face.

I sucked in a deep breath. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m⁠—”

“Abel King.” The woman stared up at me. “I know who you are.”

I nodded like the fool I was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

I had taken one step in retreat when she walked onto the small porch and closed the door behind her. “Wait. Please.”

I turned to see her offering a soft smile. “I’m glad you came.” She gestured toward her home. “Would you please come in?”

My tongue was thick and motionless. I nodded and followed the woman into her home. It was homey, and windows allowed bright light to stream in and make the space feel open and airy.

She gestured toward the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I shook my head, and she sat in a chair next to me. With my hands clasped in front of me, I stared at the floor. “Ma’am, I came here to say . . . I needed to—” Adequate words escaped me. Emotion rose in my chest and stung the bridge of my nose.

“Please, call me Rebecca.” Her gentle hand rested on my forearm. “May I go first?”

I glanced up to see her soft blue eyes staring at me. I nodded.

“I want you to know that I do not hate you, Abel King.”

My frown deepened. I couldn’t understand. “How could you not hate me for what I did? What I took from you?”

Rebecca sighed and looked at me with pity. “I hate what happened. I hate that we lost Chase and that nothing will ever be the same. I hate that you went to prison for something that was so clearly an accident. I hate that I chose the highway instead of the back roads because I assumed it was safer. I hate knowing I was partly responsible, but let you take all of the blame.”

I shook my head as my mind swirled. “I don’t understand.”

Fresh tears swam in her eyes. “I told them. When the police came to the hospital and asked me what happened, I told them what I knew . . . Chase and I were in the car, driving home. It was late. And dark. Something on the side of the road caught my eye—a deer, I think. It darted in front of us, and I swerved.”

Her eyes went glassy, and she shook her head as if she were reliving that night in her mind. “I think I overcorrected. Got too close to the center line when I crossed it. It was at that moment you must have dozed off, and it just . . . happened. It was horrible, perfect, devastating timing.”

My breath was ragged. I could barely comprehend what I was hearing.

My car never crossed the center line? It was why, after the crash, her car ended up in my lane instead of the other way around.

As I stared, she continued: “I was mourning my son. I was hurt and angry and in a really bad place. Later, my lawyer told me that if I mentioned the deer again, I could get into trouble myself, so I didn’t.”

Understanding washed over me, and my eyes lifted to meet hers. “It was removed from the police report.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I don’t know how or why, but yes.”

My father.

He may not have had enough pull to sway a judge, but he certainly had enough power to convince an officer to leave out a few details in the investigation, ensuring a harsher sentencing for me . . . to teach me a lesson.

“I realized too late that it was an accident,” she said. “The only way I knew to help was to speak at your trial.”

I felt sick. Everything I’d carried, every night I’d lie awake wishing it was me instead of Chase came flooding back. “It was still my fault. I was overly tired. My reaction time was delayed.”

Her hand was gentle on my arm. “You don’t carry the weight of this alone. There are so many things that I hate about that night, but you are not one of them. I only ask that you forgive me for not being strong enough to do more.”

Forgive her?

She had told the truth, and my father manipulated the situation to suit his needs. I spent five years in prison because he wanted to teach me a lesson and allowed a mother to feel guilt and shame for not doing more.

I hated him.

My jaw clenched. “You were grieving. You had just lost a child. I⁠—”

“Abel . . . you held his hand when I couldn’t. I never thanked you for that.”

My eyes flew to hers. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes, and my anger melted away. Neither of us could change the past.

Her words were true and stung the deepest parts of my soul.

After the accident, she was too injured to move, and when I found the boy, I had held his hand and talked to him until help arrived. It was only later that I learned that he’d gone into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and died from his injuries.

The memories that flooded back broke me. “I’m—I’m so sorry.” I crumpled in on myself, openly sobbing in her living room.

Her grip on my forearm tightened and, together, we cried for Chase, for the tiny micro-decisions that led us both to that quiet stretch of highway, for fate that brought us together in such a tragic way.

We cried until we were both wrung out.

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