It’s another lie, but it’s the quickest way to get him back to sleep.
As suspected, he rolls over a second later, his back to me. He adjusts his pillow, and in less than a minute, those snores act as a quiet lullaby as I lie back and stare at the ceiling. I try to fall asleep, but all I can imagine are golden eyes the exact same shade as my therapist’s.
6
DR. DAWSON COLE
Emory’s late.
I glance down at my watch, noting that it’s almost ten minutes past our normal start time. She didn’t call in and say she wasn’t coming. Is it possible that she finally decided she’s no longer willing to be vulnerable with me?
My mind darts back to the sensation of her hand on my arm as I told her about my past. I shouldn’t have gone there, shouldn’t have crossed that line, but I saw the hope in her eyes afterward.
My goddamn heart grew two sizes in that moment.
I focus back on my computer screen and the program where I write my notes for each patient. I review the information I typed in after our appointment last week. She couldn’t get through the rest of the narrative portion of her visit, which isn’t surprising. She’s still struggling with what happened to her and the anxiety it causes. Most people have a hard time during the first try.
Trauma is a fickle thing and usually has to be handled with more care than the victim realizes. It guts me knowing that Emory is stuck in that place. That once upon a time, she waslikely much livelier than when she’s sitting on my couch across from me.
There’s this intense need inside of me that wants to see a genuine smile cross her berry-stained lips. Somehow, I just know it’d be one hell of a reward.
You’re her counselor, dick. Keep your head on straight.
I click out of the program and glance at the time on the screen, wondering how long I’ll have. I open a browser and type her name into it—Emory Prescott—in hopes that there might be something there I can learn about her. Probably unlikely. Still, I try.
I scroll until I find a website that links back to her. My eyes narrow on the link, and I click it. It takes me to a photo gallery located right here in Coralhaven. I go through the Artists page until I land on a photo of someone that looks like a happier version of the Emory I know, her eyes so much damn clearer than they are now. There’s a short paragraph about her, and pictures of her pieces are listed below, a few of them priced close to a thousand dollars.
Damn.
There’s one similarity they all share. They’re all pictures of the ocean, the beach, and the like. My attention settles on a specific picture that shows the peak of a small wave, water droplet splatters hovering above it with the sunset painting the horizon in yellows and golds. The photo looks edited, like more contrast and filtering was added in to make the details of the image pop. It’s…fucking breathtaking. No wonder they’re priced so high.
I click back to the search engine and do another quick scan, finding a newspaper listing for an engagement announcement. I read over it three times, my stomach lurching at the name of the man—Lance Bronson.
She hasn’t mentioned him yet. But I’m not necessarily expecting her to since we’re solely focused on her accident and the potential of suicidal ideation.
Which makes me realize all the fuck over again that I am a thirty-three-year-old man and should not be doing this—stalking my patient on the internet and wishing, for unknown reasons, there wasn’t a man for her to go home to at the end of the day.
I’m lonely, and this is nothing more than me recognizing a beautiful woman when I see one.A beautiful woman who has the ability to understand what you’ve been through, what you’ve felt, and that you’re desperate for a connection that runs deeper than the price of a coffee pod.
The door rushes open a second later, and I snap my laptop screen shut as a thrill races through me at almost getting caught. There’s no way she can know I was just fucking Googling her.
She’s breathless as she hurries in. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” I tell her, distracted by thoughts that shouldn’t even be on my mind. “Why don’t you get settled, and we’ll get started?”
She responds by removing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her arm free from the bandage I’ve seen her wear the last two weeks. Instead of a cottony substance covering her arm, I’m gifted with her pale flesh, an angry pinkish scar along it.
My eyes catch on a glimpse of—is that blood?
“Emory.”
“Yes,” she breathes out quickly, “I’m ready to talk about whatever it is you want to start with, even though I’d really rath?—”
“No.” I shake my head, reaching back to set my laptop on my desk. “Your arm,” I point to it, “is bleeding.”
“It is?” She’s quick to look down at it, hissing out a muttered curse.
The scarlet liquid trails down her skin like a crack in cement, jagged and uneven. I grab a tissue out of the box on my desk and reach over to hand it to her. “Press that to it. I think I have Band-Aids in my desk.”
