“Maybe not right away. But we can work on strategies to help you manage the stress. Ways to communicate with your mom about what you need. Coping mechanisms for when the anxiety gets too loud. You don’t have to figure this all out alone.”
By the end of our hour, we have a plan and a follow-up appointment scheduled. Michael leaves with something that might be hope in his eyes.
My next appointment is with a woman in her thirties dealing with grief after losing her father. Margaret sits with perfect posture and dabs at her eyes with a tissue, apologizing every time she cries. We spend the session giving her permission to grieve, to feel angry at her father for dying, and to acknowledge that grief isn’t linear or predictable.
Then, a man struggling with anger management. Robert is court-mandated, resistant, and defensive. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t think he needs help. His ex-wife is the problem, not him. I let him talk, let him vent, and by the end of the session, he’s agreed to come back. Small victories.
Both sessions are productive, and by the time my lunch break rolls around, I’m exhausted but satisfied. This I can do. This I’m good at.
I’m eating a sandwich Ruby dropped off earlier—turkey and avocado on wheat bread, better than anything I grabbed on the road—when there’s another knock at my door.
“Come in,” I call, expecting Patricia with more paperwork.
Connor fills the doorway instead.
He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the definition of his arms.His dark hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and those blue eyes lock onto mine right away, making my breath catch.
“Do you have an appointment?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“Yeah. Three o’clock.” He holds up his phone and shows me what I assume is a confirmation.
I glance at my schedule. Sure enough, “Connor Langley” is listed for three. “Okay. Have a seat.”
He closes the door and takes a seat. The room suddenly feels smaller with him in it, like his presence takes up more space than it should. I pick up my notepad and pen, armor against whatever this is.
“So, Connor. What brings you in today?”
“Just thought I’d check it out.” He leans back in the chair, completely at ease. “See how the new therapist operates.”
“This isn’t a show. Therapy is confidential and personal—”
“Relax. I’m not here to judge your psycho bullshit.” The words are blunt but not quite cruel. More like he’s testing me, seeing how I’ll react.
I set down my pen. “If you’re not here for actual therapy, then why are you wasting both our time?”
“Maybe I wanted to make sure you were settling in okay.” His gaze drifts around the room as he adds, “Patricia said you started today.”
“I’m fine. The job is fine. Was there anything else?”
“You seemed pretty shaken up yesterday. Wanted to check on you.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I default to deflection. “I appreciate that, but I’m a therapist. I’m trained to handle stressful situations.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his head and studies me. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Running across the country, sleeping in your car, looking over your shoulder every five seconds. Doesn’t seem like you’re handling it that well.”
Anger flares in my chest, hot and defensive. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know someone’s been terrorizing you for months. You’re scared, and you’re trying to pretend you’re not.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “And I know you’re used to taking care of everyone else, so asking for help probably makes you feel weak.”
The accuracy of his observations steals my breath. I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words stick in my throat. How does he see through me so easily? I’ve spent years perfecting this professional mask, this competent exterior that hides the mess underneath.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Connor assures me. “I’m trying to help.”
I snort and ask, “By booking a fake therapy appointment?”
