He nodded at that. “Yeah. But not every day. It’s not as bad as it used to be.”
“It sounds traumatic. If you don’t want to tell me any more, that’s fine.”
“It was traumatic. I was devastated, angry, shaking my fist at the universe . . . and I had survivor’s guilt for years. PTSD lingers, crops up once in a while. Something like that is hard to shake.” He reached for his water and took a few gulps, draining the glass. “Back then, the devastation, the deaths of people I’d come to know and care about . . . I took it personally. So many things I believed in, I just . . . I lost faith in the system, because it failed us. And how was I supposed to do social work in a system that was clearly broken? I didn’t want to. I couldn’t cope, and I spiraled.”
He let his eyes drift away, then made himself look at Tess directly. “Within a few weeks, I started drinking to numb the pain. I drank every night . . . then it started during the day too. Then, after a few months, I stopped going to work. Rachel kept trying to help me, but at that point, I couldn’t be helped, because I didn’t care about anything anymore. I trashed my life, basically. Threw it all away.”
“You were drowning in grief and guilt,” Tess said softly. “You needed help.”
“I didn’t ask for any. Too proud. Too broken at that point. I was lost.” He rubbed the back of his neck. This was his history, the truth. He wasn’t uncomfortable telling the story, but had to admit he didn’t want this beautiful, smart, totally together woman to think less of him. He hoped she wouldn’t, but if she did, there wasn’t much he could do about it. At least he was being honest. “By six months after Katrina, I was unemployed and in an alcoholic stupor. And my wife gave up and left. Rock bottom.”
Tess didn’t say anything. She just willed him to keep talking by the absorbed, intent look on her face, the kindness in her eyes that shone without pity or judgment.
So he did. “I hated her for that. I felt so betrayed. So much for those vows, huh? For better or worse, in sickness and in health . . . For a psychologist who wanted to help people, she felt I was beyond help. But the thing is, she wasn’t totally wrong. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves.”
“But you were her husband,” Tess said. “I . . . I wasn’t there. I don’t know what went on. But she should’ve stayed.”
“Thanks. But. In the short run, she saved herself, and in the long run, she did me a favor.” Logan put down the fork and shoved back a bit from the table. He leaned his forearms on it and looked Tess right in the eye. “Because that’s what it took for me to look around and see how bad things had gotten. That I’d lost everything that mattered to me. My career, my wife . . . myself.” He cleared his throat.
“So. My mother flew down to New Orleans and kicked my ass into gear. Said she refused to stand by anymore and let me kill myself. She’d hoped Rachel would pull me out of it, but she didn’t. So my mom literally threw me into the shower, smacked me sober. And said she’d pay for rehab if I’d go, and really work at it, not half-ass it. If I didn’t do that, I would’ve probably ended up dead, and I knew it. So that’s what I did.”
“How old were you then?”
“Got out of rehab a week before I turned twenty-seven.”
“Thank God,” Tess said on an exhale. “You still had your whole life ahead of you. I’m glad you got the help you needed.”
“Me too.”
“I hate to think of what kind of pain you were in,” she said gently. “That you went down that road, and that far.”
“Thanks. I’m okay now. Really.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “So what you said before, about a past life, a past you? Same here. Yes, once in a while something reminds me of it all, and things crop up in my head. But I’ve got a handle on it, it doesn’t handle me. I’m a different person now. With a different life.” He offered a contented grin. “It’s quiet and pretty simple. I do honest work, and no one’s welfare depends on me or my help. No drama. That works for me.”