Denise opens the door, not masking her shock and delight at seeing Keanu here with me. The instant we step foot into her high-ceiling hallway, she pulls him into a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too,” he agrees, bundling her up into a big hug.
“Although it’s completely unexpected,” she adds, breaking away. “Because this little rascal didn’t mention a word.” She smiles affectionately in my direction.
“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” I grin. “I know how much you’ve been pining for him.”
She lets loose a loud laugh. “Something tells me I might not have been the only one.” She drills me with a knowing look.
“Oh, I was definitely pining for you too,” Keanu says, deliberately misinterpreting her statement, and Denise laughs again.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she tells him, opening the door to the waiting room and gesturing for him to step inside. “And make yourself at home. You’ll find nothing has changed since you were last here except we now have a new and improved coffee station, thanks to an anonymous donor.” She’s teasing, because the three of us know Keanu was the one who sent the gift to her. He did enough grumbling about the shit coffee for it not to be him.
“Can’t wait to try it out.” The laughter fades as he looks me directly in the eye. “If you need me to participate, just let me know.”
Keanu has attended a few therapy sessions with me in the past, but I know this is one conversation I need to have without him in the room. “I’m good.” On impulse, I stretch up and press my lips to his cheek. “Go test the coffee.”
Denise ushers me into her front room, quietly closing the door behind me. I settle into the comfy gray velvet armchair while she makes the peppermint tea. The scent of lavender and sage wafts through the air from the diffuser she has lit. I survey the homey room as she sings softly under her breath, glad Mom found such an awesome therapist for me from the get-go.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of attending meetings in a cold, clinical building or sitting in a crowded waiting room with a bunch of strangers. Mom inherently knew what I needed, and she interviewed tons of therapists before finding Denise.
Meeting her at her own home helps calm my nerves. That and her motherly demeanor.
She wears jeans and a soothing sea-green sweater today, with white tennis shoes. Her gray hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and her face is devoid of makeup. Coming here is like meeting a friend for tea. Except for the fact I pry my chest apart, rip my heart out, and spill my painful secrets. All in the name of healing. But I trust Denise, and she has been incredibly patient with me. Taking things in small baby steps. Helping me test my boundaries, reclaim my independence, face up to my past, live in the present, and prepare for the future.
I can’t envision a time where I will ever stop meeting with her. I think I will always need her guidance and support.
“Drink up,” she says, handing me the mug of peppermint tea. She sits down across from me, and we sip our tea in silence, like we always do. I sink back into my seat, gathering my thoughts and trying to make sense of them as I inhale the comforting scent of lavender in the air and drink the fresh, minty tea.
“Okay,” she says when we have put our cups down. “Let’s start with some meditation and deep-breathing exercises.” We go through a familiar routine, and it helps ground me. Helps to keep my anxiety at bay.
When she is satisfied I am ready, she sits up straighter in her chair. “Tell me what prompted an emergency meeting today.”
I kick off my ballet flats and tuck my legs underneath me. Clearing my throat, I tell her what happened yesterday with Clive Lawrence. My voice is clinical as I explain, but it’s the only way I can get the words out without giving in to the fear bubbling under the surface of my skin since it went down yesterday. I toy with my necklace as I talk. We discuss my options and my feelings, and she coaxes information from me through skillful questioning that is patient and supportive.
“And what are your feelings toward Keanu?” she asks during the last part of the session.
“He makes me feel safe,” I truthfully admit. “And I trust him, but I’m feeling huge guilt too.”
“Why?”
“For pushing him away. For hurting him. For showing up on his doorstep after all this time and demanding so much of him.”
“Demanding.” She taps a finger off her lips. “That’s a very strong word. Is it the right one?”
I think about it. “Not demanding. Asking.” She quirks a brow, and I answer her unspoken follow-up question. “Okay, maybe not so much asking as him offering.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Unworthy,” I blurt, because it’s the first word that springs to mind.
“Why do you feel unworthy?” she asks even though we’ve already discussed my feelings about Keanu at length.
“Because I’m not normal, and I can’t give him the things he wants.”
“The thingshewants or the things youthinkhe wants?”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
