“I’m not.”
“Youare.” Her heated gaze cuts into me, her fingers stilling on her lap. A flare of fire zips through the hazel green, matching the reddish tint in her hair when it hits the light.
“I’m simply giving you the logic behind their thoughts. You can choose to let their judgements swallow you. You can allow them to make you waver. You can relinquish your control. Or, you can take it back and find meaning in all that’s happened to you and come to terms that what they project outwardly might have a lot to do with what’s going on with them internally.”
“It’s not that easy. It’s not a simple thing to just pay no mind to what the people around me are saying.”
“I know it isn’t,” I tell her, my voice softening. “That’s why you’re here. So we can find a way to figure this out and cope with it in a manner that isn’t affecting your well-being. Do you feel like you’re ready for that?”
“That question doesn’t truly matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.”
“We always have a choice. They’re all around us each and every day. You can choose to walk out of here right now and never look back if it’s what you want.”
When her gaze drops to her lap, I observe her, enjoying the fact that I’m the one who gets to sit here and watch those gears rotate in her mind. She might not like this arrangement, but deep down, she knows that this is what’s best for her. That realization is written across her face when she finally looks up at me, my heart galloping in my chest when she doesn’t stand up and head for the door.
Her words are a whisper on her lips when she says, “I’m not going to leave.”
“I’m not sure that my opinion matters very much, but I think you’re making the right call.”
“Are you saying that from experience or because you’re required to as part of your job?”
My heart warms at her inquisition, like a long-awaited spring day following a treacherous winter. I’ve never had someone sit across from me in this setting and question me.
“Trauma doesn’t care about what a person’s title is, Miss Prescott.” I pause for a beat, thinking and hesitating on if I should say more. For some idiotic reason, I don’t listen to logic. Instead, I’m more concerned about connecting with this woman on a level that matters. “I could have sat back and allowed my mind to trick me into staying in a state of depression after what happened to me. I could have let my assailant win. I couldhave handed over everything I had worked relentlessly hard to achieve.”
“But you didn’t.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t deserve to go down like that. And neither do you.”
7
EMORY
My muscles go tight with anticipation when I hear Lance’s footsteps in the hallway earlier than normal. A second later, he pokes his head into the bedroom where I’m propped up, my knees hiked up and back pressed against the headboard.
Robyn emailed me yesterday morning, letting me know that another of my pieces sold and that I may want to consider reworking an old favorite to replace it. I’ve been looking through folders of photographs ever since. Normally, I’d just go out and snap more pictures, but every time I think about getting close to the ocean, my heart hiccups and my ego informs me how bad the idea is, telling me it’s the equivalent of walking into oncoming traffic. The thought of simply dipping my toes in the sand sends me into a tizzy I don’t want to give extra attention to.
“Have you been in here all day?” I don’t miss the way his eyes dart to the windows and the closed curtains. The light was hurting my eyes, but also, I didn’t want to see the blues of the distant ocean every time I walked through the room.
I offer a half shrug and keep my focus settled on my computer screen. It’s odd how I can handle looking at snapshots of the coast and ocean life, but I can’t see it in real time. It’ssomething I know I’m going to have to work through since coastal living is such a large part of who I am and what I do.
“I’m working.”
His brows lift, and he crosses his arms across his chest as he leans against the door frame. “You’re working?”
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s as sunny as can be outside, and you’re in this dark room. What’s wrong?”
My eyes flick to his, my heart reaching at the thought of him caring. How I wish things could be like they were. That I could walk up to him, press my face into his chest, and let the world around me fall away. But it’s not as simple as that. Not when his words lack patience and devotion.
“I wanted to be comfortable while I worked,” I tell him, keeping my attention on photographs of seawater and horizons.
“And acting as if you’re a vampire brings you comfort?”
