Keys clack. “We’re booking intake and confirmation. First available…” More clacking. Time stretches like tape pulled wrong. “Next Thursday at ten forty-five, or Friday at four ten.”
Next Thursday is an ocean away. Friday is a year. “Nothing sooner?” Polite voice; impolite chest.
“We can put you on the cancellation list,” Blanket Voice offers, kind and useless. “Urgent care could see you today, but they’ll likely refer you back here.”
Urgent care flashes in fluorescent light—paper curtains, neighbors’ cousins, the exact team logo on my lanyard. Privacy is thin enough already.
“Put me on the list,” I say. “And Friday at four ten.” The time drops like a pin on a map. With it comes shaky relief. Having awhenmakes thewhatbearable.
“Got you,” she says, and reads back my details like a lullaby—name, phone, email, birthday—as if any of that can triangulate how scared I am. “We’ll send a packet. Bring ID and insurance. Call if anything changes.”
“Thank you,” I say, and hang up before I ask for a magic trick.
The bathroom goes small with silence. Sophie bumps my shoulder. “Friday,” she says, like we won something. “I’ll drive. I’ll sit. I’ll run interference on nosy clipboard gremlins.”
I nod, staring at the calm font blooming on my screen.New patient intake.The words press. I picture urgent care down the street, then the three phones that would buzz if someone saw me there: PR, compliance, Miles on an old emergency contact. Shame prickles up my neck—ridiculous, sneaky, selling fear as failure. I hate how fast it finds me.
“I should be braver,” I mutter, annoyed at myself for saying it.
Sophie straightens like I blasphemed. “Choosing privacy isn’t cowardice. It’s strategy.” She taps my phone. “You don’t have to audition pain in public to make it count.”
Strategy slides into the spot anxiety was hogging. It fits better. “Strategy,” I echo.
Her mouth crooks. “Says the woman who loves a laminated protocol.”
A tired, grateful laugh escapes. I add the appointment to my calendar like a jewel thief—private, no details, a gray square that means everything. I set an alarm for an hour before labeledBreathe. Ridiculous. Necessary.
Sophie squeezes my wrist—a quick pulse of solidarity. “We’ll get you through Friday,” she says. “And through the three thousand minutes before it.”
Three thousand. Numbers are rails I can run. When I look up, my shoulders are lower. The shame’s still there but has lessroom to spread. Privacy is not weakness. Fear is not a character flaw. Choosing both is a kind of strength I haven’t practiced yet.
“Okay,” I say, and this time it doesn’t wobble. “Okay.”
Sophie steals my sink to wet a paper towel and battle the mascara smudge I didn’t know I had. “You’ve got the smallest raccoon,” she says, dabbing. “Very chic.”
I huff a laugh and retreat to the bedroom for my bag. The test sits on the folded towel, pink lines holding. I slide it into the inside pocket of my tote the way you tuck a talisman close to a pulse.
On the bed, I open a thread I’ve stared at so often it feels like a hallway I could walk blind. Jason blinks at the top. The text box waits, patient as a cliff.
Draft one:I need to tell you something.Delete—too big, too vague, the kind that turns his keys when I can’t breathe yet.
Draft two:Can we talk tonight?Delete.Canisn’t the problem.
Draft three:I’m late.My thumb hovers.Latecould mean traffic or coffee or policy meetings. It’s also exactly the size of the truth right now. I watch the words until they shear from meaning. Delete. This deserves better than an ellipsis.
Career math elbows in—rude, relentless. Policy clauses scroll in league font: no personal relationships between players and staff. Morality language: protect brand integrity. PR verbs:clarify, reaffirm, regret any confusion.I picture compliance watching my face while a recorder blinks red. Nolan doing ROI on my life. A clean, mean wash runs down my spine.
Then there’s his voicemail from this morning, still in my notifications like a lighthouse I pretend not to see. I press play before I can chicken out.
“Hey. It’s me… Jason. Practice was good. You don’t owe me anything. I’m here. Come by tonight if that helps. Or I’ll come to you. Or neither. Just— Breathe. I’ll do the rest.”
He sounds older and younger at once—the part cameras never hear. The cadence rolls over the parts of me still shaking.Breathe. I’ll do the rest.Terrible promise, tender one. It lands where I’ve been hoarding lists and fear like currency.
I want to believe him. I want to be the version of me who can share weight without feeling like I dropped it. Wanting feels like treason to the woman who built a career on being immovable. I press the heel of my hand between my eyes until I see stars.
Sophie leans in the doorway, reading the room at a glance because that’s her fluency. She doesn’t saytell him, and I love her for it. “I’ll grab more tissues,” she says, and vanishes—leaving the decision where it belongs: on my tongue, not her timeline.
I type a fourth message, slower:I’m at your place. We need to talk tonight.
