#christopher pine

Beau was crazy but he wasn’t that crazy. He wouldn’t try to kill Chris to win the girl... to win you. There was no way.

Slowly, you moved away from Chris, clenching your jaw as he groans in pain when his head lays flat on the pillow. You leave the small area and search for the doctor, hoping to shed some insight on your wild belief.

"Doctor Valdez?" You say, finding him at the nurses station.

He greets you with a tired smile. "Did your boyfriend need anything?" He asks.

"No. He's fine, asleep." You take a deep breath. "What happen to the other driver?" The question comes out quicker than normal, you save yourself by asking another. "Are they okay?"

The doctor raises an eyebrow and looks down at your body, noticing your favoring one side more than the other. "Are you hurt?" He asks.

"Just a sprained ankle, is all." You respond, giving him a smile.

"Have you gotten it looked at?" Suddenly, he's giving you his arm and helping you over to an empty 'room' where he doesn't wait to help you sit on the bed and look at your leg. It's swollen and blue, worse than it was earlier.

"When did you do this?" He asks.

"A day ago."

He nods, gently applying pressure to spots on your ankle, awaiting a reaction. "The other driver fled the scene." He says without a second thought. "You really shouldn't be walking on this."

"They left?"

"I'm going to recommend you get a brace and keep ice on it. No strenuous activities." He smiles, pulling out his prescription pad. "I'm going to write you a prescription for some pain pills because something tells me you may not listen to my suggestions." He quickly hands you a piece of paper and smiles. "The person who was driving the vehicle seems to have fled the scene, the police were here earlier speaking to your boyfriend."

"Oh..."

"No strenuous activities." He repeats and quietly leaves, giving you a small nod and wave.

It was Beau. It had to be Beau. There was no one else in the world that had a green challenger who would have hit Chris and left the scene.

You’re therapist, whose name you’ve finally learned is Joseph, taps his pen on the cushion of his chair. Inhaling deeply he lets his eyes drift to the window every few seconds watching as the birds gathering nesting supplies. It’s your last session, session number three, court ordered session number three technically and according to Mr. Joseph; the most he's learned about you is: “You’re as uncooperative as a toddler.” Which you find insulting at the end of the day but have no argument to change his opinion.

He repeats that phrase nearly every session, once at the beginning and then at the end when the little bell chimes letting you know the session was over. Yet even with that dangling over your head, he still managed to sign off that you were 100% on your paperwork. "Therapy often works better for those who seek it versus those who are forced." He doesn't want to keep you here if that's what you don't want, even watching him sign off on the work, he told you so. "Now that this is signed, you're more than welcome to leave... If that's what you want." Of course that last statement made you refuse to leave, believing it was a trick. One foot out the door and suddenly the paperwork would have disappeared.

It’s tenth time in five minutes that Joseph has looked out the window and the seventh time his pencil has clashed with his notepad harder , “Do you want to be here?” You are the first to speak out of annoyance, your tone rude and hostile.

Joseph’s eyes meet yours with a hint of curiosity, “Do you?” 

You scoff and cross your arms over your chest. “Don’t shrink me.” 

Joseph chuckles, biting the eraser on his pencil. “Anything I say as of now, will have no bearing on your life after this session.” 

"What do you mean?"

"You're paperwork is sign, clearing you of any mental incapacity. Anything you say from now until the end of the session stays between us in a separate file for my eyes only."

“Why is that?” 

“Y/N, every time we discuss the events that occured at the hospital, you deny everything or I'm given some half-assed excuse. It wasn’t as bad as it seems, people overreacted, you were at fault; the excuses go own.” He shakes his head and lets out a deep breathe. “I can’t help you.”

“You’re giving up on me?” The drop of your voice is evident, it feels like a break up. He doesn’t respond for good reason, it’s a death trap. There is no good response or way to make any response end this conversation on civil terms. “Just like that? You’re just leaving?”

Joseph let out a deep sigh, tossing his pencil and notepad onto the coffee table between them. “Are you going back to Beau?” He asks, defeated. 

“What?” 

“Given everything that has happened, tomorrow morning when you wake up will you be alone... or with Beau?”

Your mouth quivers, the air around you fills with static, the hair on your arms standing and your body suddenly getting cold. “I-” The sentence never finishes not that there was much a sentence to finish. You didn’t know the answer anymore than he did. Your experiencing a internal conflict, how dare he ask that question. You're an adult, fully capable of making your own decisions even If they were the wrong ones.

Joseph rises to his feet, adjusting his sweater. "That's why I can't help you. No answer is worse than one." He returns to his desk, turning off the bell and begins focusing on his computer. "You're more than welcome to see yourself out." He adds in a distant tone.

That's it. He's kicking you out, stabbing the knife even further into your back and leaving you to bleed out on the floor. Maybe it's the feeling of dread in the room or the urge to not end a conversation like this but you speak.

"I can't be... without him."

"Impossible." The typing stops and he looks up to meet you, his brown eyes starring uncomfortably into your eyes. "A man like that, what he's done, it is more than possible, necessary even that don't need him."

"You don't know-"

"Him? What he is? You're scared out of your mind to speak about him, any mention of him and you turn into a small mouse who defends him. That man locked you in your hospital room where you were admitted because of him only to threaten you more." The volume of his voice grows louder with each word, his anger bubbling up inside of him at your refusal to see the bigger picture. "He's going to kill you. You're lucky he hasn't already."

You're fist collides with Beau’s solid wooden door, loud and hard. Using every fiber of your being to slam into the door as hard as you can. As expected, the door opens quickly revealing a bruised Beau with the trademark cigarette behind his ear and a slight smile on his face.

"Hi." He says like he's innocent as if he hadn’t been expecting you to show up.

"What the hell is wrong with you! You asshole!" You shout slamming your fists into his chest and forcing him to stumble. You enter his apartment, continuing your assault on him, barely doing any damage aside from garnering the surprised look on his face. “You could have killed him!” It’s a miracle there is enough strength and will power in your body to do this, prior to the accident you would have chickened out. You wouldn't have even made it to his apartment.

You explosion doesn’t last long, all it takes is one heavy hand on your wrist and you’re frozen, fear courses through your body. Finding yourself stuck in the abundance of past memories all ending badly.  “That’s not a way to say hi ta’ someone.” He whispers, sending chills down your spine but it’s not threatening; oddly enough. 

“Y--you’re one to talk.” You’ve lost your strength. 

“I always kissed you when I came home.” 

You scoff, “Yeah, you're right. It was always nice to kiss your after you were done kissing someone else.” 

Ignoring your comment, he redirects the conversation. "What happened to us?" His tone is troublesome, his voice falters. It reminds you of the boy you met years ago, the sweet loving guy that stole your heart not the monster he became.

You had to fight the urge to drop your guard, to give into his charade. It’s a slippery slope one that at any given moment you could find yourself in his arms, telling yourself that he’s changed.  "Beau..." You intend to say with anger but it falls from your lips softly. 

“You and me together, we were good, yeah? Gonna get married, put a few kids in ya.” 

“And how did you expect to do that? Conjugal visits?” You remark in a low voice, the sarcasm fails to come through. 

“For you, I would’ve stopped.” The amount of sincerity in his voice is almost believable. "You can't go back ta' him." He whispers, dropping his eyes. "I'll change for you. I miss ya'. I never should've fucked up. Never should've hurt you." He caresses your cheek, trying to be as lovingly as possible.

"Beau." You say sternly, pushing at his shoulders to gain more distances between you two. "You crashed into Chris's car. You could have killed him."

"I didn't.."

You shake your head. "Where's your car then? How'd you get all these cuts on you?" You find the strength in both your voice and body, managing to push him away. This could work, you can do this. You try to stand taller, trying to hold your ground as much as possible. 

"Deal gone wrong."

“Right.” You mock, letting out a little laugh. “And let me guess someone stole your car. Right?” He nods. "You just told me you were sorry that you were changing and now you're doing deals? God you're pathetic."

You shouldn't have said that. You really shouldn't have said that. Panic runs through you at the sudden change of his behavior, he straightens, swallowing hard and there is a dark cloud that appears in his eyes.

Apologize. Just come out with it. Say you're sorry and leave. Go back to the hospital. Go anywhere. Your mind shouts at yourself, desperate to protect you from whatever consequences you may suffer because of your lack of brains.

In a split second, his hand grabs your wrist again, threateningly now and tugs you inside, forcing you against the nearby wall as he slams the door closed. "I'm pathetic?" Beau asks, grinding his teeth. "Pathetic?" His face is inches from yours, teeth gnawing at his lower lip and breathe heavy of nicotine.

"I..." Your voice is caught in your throat. The simple letter word barely sounds like one, it resembles more of a gasp than anything.

"If I'm so pathetic, ya' really think everything that happened just did?" He asks, cocking his head.

"Wha--?" Another failed word.

"Running inta his ex? Place being robbed? Boy toy getting cut? Gifts at ya' door when he's in ya bed?" He asks with a wicked smile. "Getting inta a wreck?"