A voice inside tells me not to share. To keep it all to myself and deal with it on my own, but I know better. That won’t helpme, and it certainly isn’t going to end my therapy sessions any sooner. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to be here for quite a bit of time.
I stare directly into his amber eyes, wanting to get lost in those pools of honey, but I know as soon as I dip my toe in, they’ll transform into quicksand, and I won’t be able to get out.
I’m not one hundred percent sure I’m ready for that. For that initial slipping in, for fighting against the grain once I’m stuck.
If I couldn’t survive the whipping waves of the Atlantic current, there’s no chance in hell I’ll be able to prevail against the pull of Dr. Cole when this is what he does for a living. He sees inside of people, through their tragedies. He’s the black knight who slips in while the world is shadowed and asleep and you don’t even know he’s there until the sun crests the horizon.
And if that happens, I’m not so sure I’ll be able to walk away unscathed.
Even if it’s all I could ever hope for.
In this moment and beyond.
4
EMORY
My car sits idly in the parking lot as I look at the building before me. It’s not new. I was here last week, but I’m just as afraid to walk through the front doors as I was then.
My phone buzzes from my bag, and I pull it out even though I already know who’s texting me. My screen lights up, and my eyes twinge with a noticeable ache. I haven’t been sleeping well, and when I do, it’s hard to stay in a state of REM when nightmares push in and enrapture me.
Lance:Are you at your appointment?
Me:Where else would I be, Lance?
Lance:I don’t know why you have to be so argumentative. Next time, I won’t bother texting you at all.
I stare at his messages. We’ve been getting into it more and more since I came home from the hospital. I know a large part of it has to do with the fact that I’ve been hard to handle, but it’s challenging to be anything but when I don’t feel supported by the one person who should be there for me in the way I need.
Me:I won’t be home after my appointment.
It’s a simple reminder. I already told him that I’d be at the gallery in the afternoon and evening, sorting through mycollection and printing out new pieces to put on display—a suggestion made by Robyn, the gallery owner, in order to help keep my work fresh but also give me the time to recover.
Lance:Don’t you think it’s better if you’re at home? You’re still healing.
Me:I’ll be fine. I have to go now.
I drop my phone back into my bag a second later and force myself to get out of the car. Whether I want to or not, I have to go in there and face my life experiences while Dr. Cole sits there and assesses me. I don’t enjoy it, but I am intrigued by it—by him. By the way his words seem to calm me rather than stir my emotions with that closed off yet open expression he wears.
I push that thought out of my mind as I head for the entrance. Just before my hand curls around the door handle, my heart teeters out, and I dart for the side of the building, resting my back against the rough brick as I tip my head back and close my eyes.
You can do this, Emory. You can go in there just like you did last week and overcome all the challenges that seek to defy you.
I say those words to myself, and yet, they don’t register.
They’re just letters, words, a stringy sentence that means nothing unless I give them the meaning they deserve.
“What are you doing, Emory?” I mumble to myself, even though I’m not quite sure what I mean. Maybe I’m asking myself why I’m here, why I’m allowing what happened to affect me so much, why I have yet to have a serious conversation with Lance about what’s going on with us.
My heart twinges with an annoying ache that’s been there for months at the same time shoes thud along the paved pathway to my left. My eyes dart open and my head whips to the side, shame licking at my limbs at being caught where I am.
Standing there is Dr. Cole with his brow raised in an amused question. “Looks to me like you’re standing against a brick building talking to yourself.”
“I…”
It takes me a beat to realize he’s answering the question I asked myself. I don’t know what to say as my heart beats wildly against my ribcage. I glance around, taking note of the hospital campus that surrounds us. There are paths that weave from building to building, benches placed sporadically, and beautiful landscaping with bright flowers that are in season, zinnias and marigolds alike.
He walks closer, and I steal a glance at his perfectly poised attire, the way it’s finely pressed. He’s not in browns today, but a black pair of high-end jeans and a green thermal that accentuates the muscles in his arms. They’re not bulgy like an athlete’s but subtle and well-defined.
