I nod and smooth a palm out over my thigh. “She did but it was for the best.”
“You don’t miss her?”
I bring my other hand up and rub it over my cheek, knowing this isn’t the conversation we should be having. Then again, maybe it’s already too late. “Not her specifically.” It’s the honest truth, even if it does sound bad. I was starting to love the person I was with and had gotten used to her quirks and pet peeves, but my soul stopped lighting up when I came home after a long day. “I miss the idea of being the other half of something meaningful. Of something that has the ability to change the chemistry inside a person.”
“So, you’re saying we’re doomed?”
“I’m saying—talk to him. Rebuild the pieces you can and give him the chance to do the same. Everyone struggles in their own ways. It’s unfair to write them off without first giving them the opportunity to prove themselves. Don’t you think so?”
“Is that what you did with the person you were in a relationship with?”
A sad grin catches my lips, and I let out a long breath. “We were far past being able to talk, Emory. But that doesn’t mean you are. You’ve spent a long time with this person, I assume, yes?”
“Of course.”
“So, then try. Don’t allow what you’ve been through to force you to end up alone.”
You don’t have to end up like I did.
She’squiet for way too long, and I know the end of our appointment is nearing. Still, I don’t get up and rush her back to the office—hers are always my last of the day. We soak in the warmth of the sun, in the promise of new beginnings and possibilities. In the opportunity of communication and expressing how we feel on matters to help us get through our days.
I lock my heart in a steel trap, behind metal bars that don’t bend, for crossing the lines of my professional boundaries.
“Maybe you’re right about talking to him,” she finally says after we’ve been quiet for awhile—sometimes talking less is more helpful than a person can imagine.
My attention drifts back to her, but all I can think about is pulling her hair to one side while my other thumb skims the softskin of her neck. When a breeze sweeps through and vines her scent around me, I damn near shudder during my next exhale.
“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” It’s a joke, of course, but it gets her to look over at me as she squints. It’s enough. At least in this moment. I carry her playful expression with me while we walk back to the office.
On our way back, Emory says, “Do you think it’s weird that I can look at pictures of the ocean, but seeing it in real life causes this anxiety in me?”
I consider her question and swipe my keycard at the side entrance that’ll lead to the hallway where my office is located. “I think it’s only natural to have reservations about something that affected you so greatly. Your body is responding to the traumatic event of what happened to you, and because of it, you’re different. Specifically, your brain. Your experience rewired how you feel about the ocean and has attached fear to it. Seeing it probably incites a detection of a threat, which is why you can’t seem to get close to it. As long as your circuitry perceives it as something that could harm you, you’ll find every reason under the sun to avoid it.”
By the time I’m done explaining, we’re walking into my office. I check the time on my watch, realizing that our time is just about done.
Emory lingers at the side of my small desk as I lean against it. Her tea is still in her hand, and she swirls it around and looks down at it like she can see through the lid. A strip of her hair glimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”
I hate how she doesn’t sound sure of herself.
“Your amygdala releases chemicals that keep that fear alive. Some people might feel anxious and get sweaty or their heart might race. Others,” I draw out, wondering what exactly happened to lead her to ask me about this in particular, “mightskip that entirely and use avoidance as a preservation tactic. Everyone’s different.”
Her chin dips, and she lowers a hand to run it along the smooth top of the desk. I watch, tantalized and stricken with a curiosity that is bone deep.
“So basically, my brain is fucked.”
“No,” I say, gutted that she’d even think such a thing. “It just needs help recategorizing what is a threat and what isn’t.”
She looks up, our eyes locked in a serious game of ping pong as they flick back and forth. “How do I do that?”
My voice is gentle when I say, “You’re already doing it. Showing up here, living life. They’re all steps in the right direction.”
“But what if I don’t want to take small steps? What if I want to make one giant leap?”
“Leaps work if the ground you're landing on is solid, Em,” I say, nearly balking when I realize I’ve shortened her name. It slips out of my mouth so sneakily, but I don’t try to correct it because it feelsright. It’s a warm hug to my tongue, a sweet escape that a freshly baked piece of banana bread provides after an afternoon walking in the autumn breeze, burnt leaves skipping along the pavement.
“But…” I continue, “if the ground you’re landing on is shaky, you’ll fall, and it’ll be twice as hard to get back up.”
Her eyebrows jump in sarcasm. “Especially if no one is there to help pick you up afterward.”
