Avenging Us - Gina Whitney Page 0,49

“Enjoy,” he said and bowed, returning to his station. It smelled ridiculous. We had grilled vegetables brushed with olive oil, fried Calamari, and some tomatoes with fresh mozzarella. My stomach growled as I filled my plate.

I took my first bite of mozzarella and identified something tangible. “It’s a physical pain. My fucking heart hurt.” I savored the fresh cheese on my tongue, but found myself rubbing the familiar ache in my chest.

“You’re angry, and your faith has been shaken.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Did you pray?”

“We weren’t church-goers.”

“Doesn’t matter where you choose to worship. Now answer me. Did you pray?”

I placed a forkful of eggplant into my mouth. “I did, or maybe it was more like spiritual Tourette’s. So I mostly cursed. Does that count?” The words I refused to say tumbled through my head. You almost let her die. As quickly as the thought entered my head, I forced it out. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about, yet it was on top of the pile of unbearable thoughts.

“It’s grief, Abel. Your mind is still grieving the potential loss.” His voice was solemn as he spoke. “Give yourself permission to feel however you feel. It was a traumatic event for both of you. However, you were awake for it.” He ripped a piece of bread from the small loaf. As he buttered, he continued. “You have post-traumatic stress disorder…or PTSD.”

“Great,” I said, dismissing his last statement while the waiter plated our lunch. We had filets with sautéed hot cherry peppers, and I was beyond starved. The appetizers barely curbed my hunger. I felt like a man that hadn’t eaten in years.

“It’s triggered by experiencing or witnessing a terrifying event. It was both for you, son.” He confirmed it by looking up the symptoms on his phone. He began scrolling with his finger as I continued to cut into my steak, but listened anyway. “Okay, here we go… Symptoms include flashbacks, nightmares, and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts.” He locked the screen and placed his phone on the table.

“Bingo, that’s exactly what the fuck I got. Now I have a name for it. Does it say how to get rid of the fucker that’s hitching a ride in my brain?” I asked and continued to think about what he’d said regarding PTSD.

“My point is…you’re not alone. There’s help, and it doesn’t have to be drugs or groups. I know you’re spread thin with the band, Gia, and now Bella. I’ll make a phone call…get some more information,” he said; it wasn’t asking, but telling. My father was on it, and sitting with him here, I felt better having his support.

“Thank you for always having my back.” And for the first time in years, he smiled at me—his son. Not the tatted up rock-star with piercings. I’ve grown a thicker skin having a heavily tatted body. They’ve become a filter in a way. A way to keep me real, and when it comes down to it, it allows me to see other people for how they really are. However, there’s a big part of me that needs to overcome my own judgment of people. But hey, I’m a work in progress. Live and let live and all that shit. At the end of the day, many people won’t get why I’d chosen to decorate my skin in colors, pictures, and words. But as I get older and wiser…I care less. The bottom line is: it doesn’t define me when they judge me…it only defines them.

Fuck you, haters…suck my dick.

“You’re my son. You can always count on me.” His smile reached his eyes, but he wasn’t done. “Before Gia, your heart was closed and it was protected from all risk, but the only thing you get from that is loneliness. Now, your heart is open, and you’re in love. So now, you’ll know joy and sorrow, passion and pain—and you’ll be a better person for it. In your past, you’ve self-medicated from the stresses of life. You know first-hand how that turns out—devastating,” he said, placing his napkin on the table. A usual sign he was tabling the conversation and we’d talk about something else.

“I have some good news,” I said, finally wanting to share my excitement. “I asked Gia to marry me.”

“I know. Italy, wasn’t it?” he asked, waving over Mario.

“Yes. But, I don’t want to wait to have a formal wedding,” I said, playing with my lip ring.

“So, this is about you?” His brows pinched in question.

“It’s