104

All those years Mike had spent sitting meditation, going to retreats, reading books by Jack Kornfield and Pema Chodron and the Dalai Lama, all the time he’d invested in breathing techniques and the miles pounded out on his feet, in skis, swimming and biking in triathlons to maintain a sense of inner centeredness was a waste.

A complete, fucking waste. Because the rage that rose up in him, like a megamonster coming up from the sea in some cheesy B film, was very real, rapidly growing, and so quick to activate that he wondered how he had fooled himself all these years into thinking he had tamed it.

Control? Hah. Control was an illusion. Awareness? Fuck that.

The ache that grew its own voice and began keening within him was what hurt most. Why had he listened to Dylan? Why hadn’t he blurted out the truth to Laura when he’d been ready? Trusting Dylan had been such an enormous mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berated himself as he drove the quick hop from La