“Yeah, thanks.” I get out of the car and look at the house, something else I hate. With almost impossible deft, I’m able to make my way through the front door and to my bedroom, not wanting to wake up my teammates or be asked a million questions. The purple journal on my nightstand glares at me, and I pick it up and write in it, just like I do every day.
My handwriting is shit, but I get out what I need to say before I go to sleep and start the vicious cycle again.
Chapter thirty
Iactuallyhaveareason to get dressed today—so that’s something. I stare at myself in the mirror, noting that my face is fuller, and my eyes aren’t as sunken in as they used to be. While I may look relatively healthy again, I still feel like the shell of the person I used to be. I don’t enjoy things like I used to, not that I do much of anything. Avoidance has seemed like the best way to handle everything. If I don’t think about it, it won’t hurt me. But in the end, I’m no longer who I was.
Piper’s taken care of me in so many ways that I feel like a burden. I live here in Connecticut with her. We’re right outside of the campus, so luckily, everything is walkable. She pays the rent, buys most of the food, makes sure I see the sun now and then. But I can’t keep using her like this. If I’m going to be staying here, I need to contribute. I’ve thought about selling my mom’s house, but I just can’t bring myself to do it, not yet.
If I don’t find work soon though, I’ll be forced to. I still need to pay the property tax on the house. I turned everything else off utility-wise for now, but I pay the neighbor to come and check on the place once a week. Mom stopped paying her life insurance apparently. When I looked at the timestamp, it was back in December—when I metthem.
I shake my head and look back at myself in the mirror. With a steady hand, I apply some mascara, and I sigh, not allowing myself to go there. To think aboutthem. I’ve gone as far as having Piper block their information from my search bars and social media. Any reminder would be too painful, a reminder of what I lost, what I ran from.
Before I can meet John, my possible new boss, I have therapy. I scoff, but pull on my jacket and put my purse over my shoulder. The jangle of Hank’s collar alerts me he’s awake. I feel a little judged by my dog as he looks at me in confusion.
“Yes, Hank. I’m leaving the house.”
I lean over and kiss his head. Hank and Piper are the only two I can count on, and Hank isn’t even a person. I scratch behind his ears as I walk the eight blocks to my therapist’s office.
I low-key hate Janet. Every time she pushes the tissue box close to me in our sessions, I want to smack her hand away. She makes me feel judged and that I’m not grieving in a healthy way—her words, not mine. But, if I want to stay on my suppressants—which I absolutely fucking do—then I have to meet with Janet every week. The suppressants make me feel numb and subdued, but I like the feeling. It’s better than the alternative, that’s for fucking sure.
I haven’t cried since that last day at my mom’s house with Piper. I’ve done my best to not think about the accident, about my mom, or aboutthem. Janet thinks I’m dissociating and that the suppressants are making my depression worse.
Well, Janet, wouldn’t you be fucking depressed too if you were the reason your mom’s dead, and you left your scent matches in the same week? Janet is a Beta, and I know it’s not fair to use it against her, but she really just doesn’t fucking get it. I swear to god, if she tries to make me talk aboutthemagain, I’m going to walk out. Surely my insurance will cover a new therapist for me.
The bell to the door dings as I walk into Healing Hands—what a stupid fucking name. Gabi is the receptionist, and we have an unspoken agreement that I just walk in and sit down, and she checks me in. She doesn’t ask me about my day or the weather; she just does her job, and I sit down in the lobby like I’m supposed to.
The back door opens, and Janet isn’t smiling as widely as she usually does. I’m not sure if I like this version more or less. Part of the reason I don’t like Janet is because of how happy-go-lucky she is. But something feels off about the way her back is ramrod straight and how her smile seems forced.
“Charlotte, how are you today?” she asks.
“Fine.” The standard answer of people who are not fucking fine.
“Take a seat.” She holds her arm out to the tan loveseat and I sit down as she takes her office chair across from me. She folds her legs and taps a pen on the clipboard and paper in front of her.
“What is it, Janet?” I ask, tired of waiting for her to spit out whatever it is she wants to talk about.
“Your current dosage is no longer covered by your new insurance.”
My mom’s lapsed, and I had to go on state insurance two weeks ago. “What do you mean it’s not covered?”
“You’ve been on Klidya for too long anyway. I think we can see this as a blessing in disguise.”
I scoff and glare at her. “I need them. How much is it out of pocket?”
She shakes her head and pushes the box of tissues closer to me. “It was going to be both mine and your primary’s recommendation to wean you off anyway. It’s not healthy to be on this high of a dose, let alone with your current SSRI. I think you will start feeling a lot better moving over to this new dosage.”
She scribbles on the pad next to her and hands it to me. “I know that this isn’t what you wanted to hear today, Charlotte. But you knew this was going to come eventually. Do you want to talk about how you’re feeling or discuss what this means for the future?”
“Does it mean I’m going to go into heat?”
“This new prescription we’re putting you on should still help keep your heat at bay, but your hormones will want more from you. Your perfume will go back to its full strength. I would expect some mood swings changing from the dosage and brand. You will stay on the Zoloft to help with the depression. But eventually, the goal is no suppressants.”
I’ve really pushed that reality so far back into my mind. Hearing her say it makes me shudder and clinch my thighs with my fingers.
“I think we should talk about your scent matches,” Janet says. My fear of getting off suppressants is stalled by the thought of talking about them.
“I don’t want to.”
