She cocked her head slightly and squinted. “You’re making sure I bounced back from Saturday.”
“I reckon so. You’ve crossed my mind a few times.”
“You’re really sweet.” She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I was fine after a while. It took me some time to fall asleep, but I ended up having a pretty basic weekend.”
People pretend. Act like they’re all good, even when they aren’t. I’ve done plenty of pretending myself to keep folks off my back and discourage questions. As I studied her guarded blue eyes, I got a gut feeling the gorgeous woman in front of me was wearing a mask. Not that she was lying necessarily. Maybe she did have a decent weekend. But I’ve seen the effects—heck, I’velivedthe effects—of trauma. No one in its path is okay afterward. I scuffed the ground with the bottom of my work boot. “Basic is good sometimes.”
We made some awkward small talk until her Uber arrived, and I was late to the job site.
TEN
Julia
Ifought to stay awake in the lobby chair. The sleeping pill I took said “sleep eight to ten hours” after consuming. Pretty sure I slept three or four. Fitful sleeping was the norm. Action and horror flicks were my late night balm. Jack thought the films were why I slept badly, but he didn’t get it. Theyhelpedme sleep. Not that I expected someone as sensible as him to understand.
I closed my eyes and let my head tip back against the white wall. My thoughts went to Pat. He was so kind and gentlemanly. When many people would’ve panicked, he was steady. Jumping out into the rain to help after a wreck and the calm way he gripped my shoulders, prying me back to reality.
I wondered how many people he had jumped to protect. Was it simply in his nature? Or maybe he had a thing for me. He did give me his number. No, it was probably just his personality. Some people are natural guardians. I put him in an uncomfortable situation, and he was exceptional.
A little boost of adrenaline shot through my veins as I remembered his warm hands on mine and the way he slipped his arm around my shoulders as he walked me to my apartment door. Okay, so maybeIwas the one who had a thing.
You aren’t ready for a relationship. Don’t even think about it.
But I was thinking about it. I had been all weekend. Guilt niggled at the corners of my consciousness. My heart was racing over a man I just met. My breath pushed against my heavy shoulders. The idea of love threatened to swallow me whole. It opened up the dark spot in my heart I worked day and night to avoid encountering.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel tired anymore. I lifted my head from the wall and frantically searched for a magazine or newspaper. Anything would do. I grabbed a Food Network Magazine and flipped through the pages without really seeing them.
A little while later, I sat in Dr. Barnham’s presence, explaining what happened Saturday night. “I guess my medication isn’t working.”
She didn’t look up from the computer as she typed. “And you’re still seeing Dr. Drovers for therapy, correct?”
I cleared my throat, ready to launch into my rehearsed speech. “Well, no I—”
“When did you stop seeing him?”
“I, uh, actually—it never really worked with my schedule.”Liar, Liar.
She stopped typing and turned to me. “You know he can write you a doctor’s note. They also have extended hours and even video conference options.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”Pants on fire.
Dr. Barnham removed her spectacles and rolled her stool closer to the exam table. “Julia, I’ve been seeing you for a long time…”
Here we go. Everyone wanted to lecture me.
“Therapy is an important part of your recovery. SSRIs can help people go through the worst parts of the grief cycle, but they don’t take the cycle away. You need to use the antidepressant and sleep aid as a tool to help you to the other side of grief.”
Grief? Why was she still talking about grief? Wasn’t that like crying and stuff? I stopped doing that forever ago. Frustration pulled at the corners of my mouth, and I worked hard not to scowl at her. “I don’t think I’m still grieving.”
“Well,” Dr. Barnham replaced her glasses on her thin nose and rolled back to her typing. “That’s why you need to see a therapist. They are going to help you sort through what you are experiencing and adjust your medication accordingly. Mental health is not my expertise as a family doctor. Do you want me to send that referral back over to NABS? I really think it’s important for you to follow through on this.”
“That’s fine.” I barely squeezed the words out. But it wasn’t fine. My shaking hands told me so. Everyone was treating me like some sort of project. I’d moved on, and I wasn’t sure why everyone else hadn’t.
ELEVEN
Patrick
Apolice car followed close behind my Tacoma.
