Thorn was the fire in my gut, the grit in my spine. The drive to rise above my circumstances and refuse to be defined by them. She got me the job at the prestigious Kline and Associates Clinic. She got me here.
And she’s the reason we’re on this journey now?—
Success, still to be determined.
As the branch let out one final, tortured squeal, I glanced over at Dr. Theo Kline and forced a breezy,well-what-can-you-dokind of smile—a casual shrug-off that didn’t come naturally to me. He just shook his head. I humored him, though I wasn’t sure why. Part of me always suspected he could see straight through me.
It had been eight months since I’d danced my acceptance to his offer to be part of his team. Little did I know four months of that time was going to consist of a very humbling “training-phase” where he personally monitored my client sessions. Yep, my boss would lurk in the corner of the room while new clients poured their hearts out on my couch, judging my response to every tear. But I fought through the awkwardness because a job with Kline and Associates was exponentially better than my previous job practicing psychology at an elite private college where the frat boys’ biggest challenges included paying off their teachers and finding new Adderall dealers.
I clicked through the radio stations in an effort to break the silence and ease the nerves that were starting to creep up.
“You like country?”
Theo wrinkled his nose.
“No? That’s blasphemy in these parts, Dr. Kline.”
He didn’t laugh.
I turned to another station. “How about rock?”
Nothing.
“Pop?” I grinned and looked over at him. “A little Biebs to get the blood flowing in the morning?”
“Slow down there, Andretti.”
My heart skipped as the one-lane wooden bridge, shimmering with a layer of ice, came into view. I gently tappedthe brakes—that’s what you’re supposed to do right?—and coasted over the dilapidated bridge.
“Calm down, Rose.”
I cleared my throat, willing my pulse to slow. “My adrenaline, noradrenaline, and cortisol levels are fine, thank you very much.” Because that was a normal response for a mental health professional.
“I’m not suggesting you’re on the verge of a panic attack, I’m just saying… relax.”
“I’m fine.”
“’Round ten?” he repeated. “Is that an official calendar invite option? Because if so, my whole life just changed.”
He refocused on his inbox, scrolling through the emails I knew he’d forward to me, only to demand a full rundown during my lunch break. That was Theo—always analyzing, always working, always dissecting some angle or detail no one else would think twice about. Especially lately, post-divorce—according to the waitress at Donny’s Diner, who had all the gossip and none of the filter.
Theo was in his mid-fifties, on the shorter side, with shaggy brown hair shot through with gray and a beard he only trimmed when his ever-present sunflower seeds started getting caught in it. His wardrobe came in three options: brown, darker brown, and plaid. He had a dry sense of humor, eyes that missed nothing, and a permanent I-know-more-than-you smirk carved into his face. That morning, bundled in a brown hat, oversized wool coat, plaid scarf, and cracked leather gloves, he looked like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes—if Holmes had been raised on trail mix and passive aggression.
It wasn’t exactly the start I’d planned for the appointment I’d spent weeks arranging. He’d already tried to cancel twice—the latest excuse being the storm—but I’d sold himwith a carefully crafted speech about how unpredictable southern weather could be, sweetened with an offer to buy lunch on the way back. Sold. I would’ve thrown in breakfast the next day if that’s what it took. There was no way I was missing that appointment.
The date had been set for months. Arrangements made. Checklists completed. I’d dotted every “I,” crossed every “T,” and stress-dreamed about it for at least a week. Nothing—not rain, not sleet, not black ice, and definitely not Theo—was going to derail it.
I forced Thorn out of my thoughts and focused on the road that was getting narrower by the minute. Sprinkles had started to fall again, and if the darkening clouds were any indication, another deluge was about to hit. Finally I turned into a long driveway next to the red sign I’d pounded into the ground two days earlier.
Massey Stables
I wrinkled my nose as Thorn judged my paint job. There was a splatter of mud in the corner, and the arches on the “M” weren’t perfectly parallel but I’d deal with that later.
My nerves started to build as we drove down the long gravel driveway that cut between two wide, treeless fields, green with budding grass. Two horses grazed in the distance, red plaid blankets strapped to their backs.
I’d picked those out myself.
I inhaled slowly, silently, reminding myself—again—to relax.
