“I know what it’s like, Johnny,” Gibsie barked. “I’ve been there, so I can tell you to stop. I have the right and the experience to tell you to get a fucking grip. You did what you could and you did a damn good job. Now enough. Stop torturing yourself. Dwelling won’t change what happened to her. All it’s going to change is what happens to you—present and future tenses.” I stared across the tree house at him for a long moment before a reluctant smile pulled at my lips. “You’d be a fucking terrible counselor, Gibs.” “You’re smiling, aren’t ya?” he shot back, giving me a lopsided grin.
