Introduction to Chapter Five

 Hey there, readers—Kendra Cassidy here again, bringing you the next chapter of The Promise Keeper by Taylor Anne Vigil. By now, you’ve probably noticed something about this story—it isn’t just about survival. It’s about the people who show up when you least expect them to. The ones who don’t fix everything, who don’t make the pain disappear, but who stay. Who listen. Who remind you, in the moments when you need it most, that you’re not as alone as you think.

This chapter is about one of those moments.

It’s about grief that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, about old wounds that never quite close, and about the simple, startling weight of someone saying, I see you. I’ve got you.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

So settle in. Feel this one. And if it hits a little too close to home? Just remember—you’re not alone, either.

Chapter Five: The First Therapist I Never Expected

I never expected my first therapist to be my friend.

But then again, I never expected a lot of things.

It had been months since I last heard from him. The boy I loved. The boy I thought I would spend my life with.

And yet, there I was, staring at my phone, waiting for a text I knew would never come.

The message had been clear: He didn’t want me.

I should have been used to this.

Being abandoned by my biological father at two. Losing my stepfather at seven. Saying goodbye to family and friends every time we packed up and moved, again and again and again. It had left its mark—fractures in places I couldn’t reach, the kind of wounds that never truly closed.

Even after finding a real father at nine—the man who would later adopt me—those old scars lingered. And now, they were split open all over again, raw and bleeding, because I had spent the last year fighting to hold on to someone who never wanted to stay.

I sat there, tears slipping down my face, phone gripped tight in my hands. Across the couch, TJ sat two cushions away, his eyes fixed on his phone, tapping away at a game.

Good.

I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted to sit in this grief alone, the way I always had.

But TJ knew.

Without a word, without hesitation, he moved.

I hadn’t even noticed him shift until I felt it—his arms wrapping around me, firm and certain, anchoring me in place.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, voice low, steady, “but I could tell you needed this.”

Something in me cracked.

The floodgates opened.

My phone slipped from my hands as I melted into him, gripping his wrist with one hand, his elbow with the other. The pain, the rejection, the aching weight of loss—I let it hit all at once. But then, just as quickly, something else took over.

Warmth.

Safety.

TJ rested his head against my shoulder, holding me the way I had spent the last year begging to be held. No hesitation. No expectation. Just comfort, freely given.

And after months of feeling unwanted, of chasing affection that never came, this—this—was what I had been starving for.

When my breathing steadied, TJ pulled away.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just— I knew you needed that.”

His eyes softened. “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t say it. Not out loud.

If I tried, I knew the rejection would hit all over again.

So I reached for my phone, typed out the words, and handed it to him instead.

TJ read the message, his brows drawing together. He looked up at me, and before I could brace myself, he pulled me in again.

“Even just reading that…” he murmured. “I can feel your despair.”

His arms tightened, voice softer now.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

I buried my face into his shirt, clutching at the fabric, and let myself break.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

I wasn’t crying alone.

The resurfaced trauma clung to me, its claws sinking deep, scratching at old wounds I had spent years trying to bury.

The abuse. The abandonment.

It was all creeping back, clouding my thoughts, making it harder to breathe, harder to exist.

And my stutter—God, my stutter.

The stress of it all made speaking unbearable. Every word felt like a battle I couldn’t win. I could barely get out two or three words before frustration overwhelmed me, before the urge to give up swallowed me whole.

And TJ—TJ was effortless.

I watched him talk with Derek, with the girls, the words flowing out of him with ease. His charm, his confidence, his ability to connect—it was so natural for him.

And I hated that.

Even with all his lessons, even with his reminders to text when I struggled, it wasn’t enough. I still didn’t feel good enough.

I pulled out my phone and typed, my fingers moving fast.

“I just wanna be normal. I wish I was like you. I should be able to talk like you. I should’ve just gotten over it like you did.”

TJ’s response came instantly.

“Stop. Fucking stop.”

I flinched. My head snapped up, startled by his tone. His voice was sharp—stern in a way I hadn’t heard before.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then, his shoulders eased, his expression softened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

But he hadn’t yelled.

I knew what yelling was.

I had spent four years being raised by a violent, alcoholic stepfather. I knew what yelling was.

TJ’s voice didn’t scare me. His anger didn’t burn—it didn’t strike like a fist waiting to fall.

But I still stayed quiet.

His tone was lighter now, calmer, like the storm had already passed.

“I’m gonna tell you something my therapist told me,” he said, leaning forward. “Don’t should on yourself. And don’t musturbate. Do you know what that means?”

I blinked. Heat rushed to my face.

TJ smirked before I could say anything.

“It means,” he explained, “you shouldn’t tell yourself that you must do this or that you should do that. Everyone moves at their own pace. Just because I can do something that you can’t doesn’t mean you’re behind. You’re working on it. And that’s okay.”

I dropped my gaze to my lap. I wanted to believe him.

I did believe him.

But that didn’t stop the jealousy.

“I-I-I-I just f-f-feel like I-I sho—”

“Ah!” He pointed at me. “You’re doing it again. Don’t should on yourself!”

His voice was louder now, but there was no anger in it.

Still, for a brief, horrible second, instinct clawed at me—run, hide, disappear.

I fought it.

And then TJ laughed.

That high, soft, familiar laugh that always made me feel safe.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I just— I’m trying to snap you out of that mindset. You keep shoulding on yourself. Don’t do that. And definitely don’t musturbate either.”

I blushed again, warmth rising to my cheeks.

TJ grinned. “Here, I’ll make it easier to remember—don’t should on yourself while you musturbate.”

We both lost it.

Laughter burst out of me, and suddenly we were two idiots on the couch, faces bright red, giggling uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” he said between breaths, still laughing. “I know that was inappropriate. I just wanted to make you laugh.”

He had.

My tears were gone, the weight of my frustration lifted, replaced with something lighter.

I wiped my eyes, smiling. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Just remember for next time, yeah?”

I would.

Every time I felt myself shoulding on myself, every time I felt behind, every time I convinced myself I wasn’t enough—I’d stop. I’d breathe.

I’d remind myself that we’re all working and healing at our own pace.

And that’s okay.

"Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?" TJ asked as the credits rolled.

I was still wiping away tears.

We had just finished McFarland, and I had cried for a full thirty minutes after. The film’s message—about not giving up, about rising above impossible odds, about pushing forward even when the world tells you that you can’t—hit something inside me that I didn’t know was there.

It dug deep. Into the gash left by my past.

TJ must have seen something in my face, because he was quick to add, “I’m not judging you. I just think… maybe a therapist would be good for you. After everything you’ve been through.”

I swallowed hard. Looked down.

“I ca-n't afford one.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It was just the truth.

I was a struggling writer, barely making anything off Kindle Vella. Writing was all I had. It was the one thing I could fall back on, the one thing that made sense when nothing else did.

I couldn’t imagine my life without it.

I texted all of this to TJ, who read the message carefully. When he looked up, his expression was soft, his voice even softer.

"God, no wonder that movie hit you so hard."

I nodded, ready to cry again. But before I could, TJ suddenly deepened his voice in a dramatic attempt to mimic one of the characters.

“McFarland, Coach!”

It was ridiculous.

I laughed. We both did.

And just like that, the weight in my chest lifted—not gone, but lighter.

TJ smiled. “Look, I know finding the right therapist is hard. Hell, it took me several tries to find one that actually worked for me.”

He gestured to himself, hand over his chest.

“But if you can’t afford a therapist…” His eyes locked on mine. “I’ll be your therapist.”

I stared at him.

Did he really mean that?

Even if he did, it wouldn’t be fair. He had enough to deal with—his own struggles, his own demons. He didn’t need to carry mine, too.

"Y-you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted. "I'll be here. Whenever you need me. I promise."

I didn’t respond.

Because promises were dangerous things.

People made them so easily. People broke them even easier.

Could I really trust him to keep this one?

In the months that followed, he would show me—through his words, through his actions, through every small, unwavering moment—that he had no intention of breaking it.