She takes the card, though hesitantly, and looks at it. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face when she looks back up at me and says, “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” I tell her, though I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.
9
EMORY
My chest constricts, tightening in that way that makes my breaths come out a little faster, a little harder. I breathe in through my nose, hoping it’ll fill my lungs and lessen the anxiousness that rests just beyond my breastbone.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t calm my body or my brain.
If anything, it just gets worse.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clutching my phone in my hands and press my back against the bathroom wall. It’s not the one in our bedroom—I was too afraid of waking Lance again.
My hands turn sweaty, and eventually, I drop my phone, watching as it clatters to the tiled floor.
“Oh my god, Emory,” I mutter to myself, my breaths shallow. “Get it together.”
I tell myself this, but it’s not as simple as words leaving my mouth. It’s so much more than that. Getting a hold of myself feels like the hardest thing in the world.
So, I do the one thing I probably shouldn’t.
I pick up my phone and scroll my contacts until I find Dr. Cole’s number—I added it to my phone after I left my lastappointment, afraid I’d lose the little piece of paper. I liked to think I’d never need it, but, well, we can’t be right about everything all the time.
There’s this fine line that exists between us—doctor and patient—but, I… I need someone. I can’t do this alone. I’m tired of the loneliness that encompasses my heart every single day.
I hit the call button before I can convince myself how bad of an idea this is. It’s one thing seeing him once a week during my appointments. It’s another thing entirely having him on speed dial.
The phone rings and rings and rings.
My eyes catch on the time in the corner when I double-check that the call doesn’t disconnect—2:12 a.m. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’mthinking.
The ringing continues until, eventually, it stops entirely, indicating that no one picks up. My god, what did Iexpect? I let out a sad laugh, one that turns into a raw sob. It’s the middle of the night. I shouldn’t be calling anyone, let alone mytherapist.
Nope, nope, nope.
I set my phone in my lap at the same time it vibrates, the screen lighting up with his name.DAWSON (DR. COLE)stretches across the electronic device, and my heart hiccups, hope jumping up and down inside of me like a little kid excited over getting exactly what they wanted for their birthday.
I lift it, hit the answer button, and press the phone to my ear as I rub circles into my chest with my other hand. I struggle to pull in a deep breath, thanks to my impending anxiety. “H-hello?”
“Emory?” Dawson’s voice is gravelly, and my heart stumbles over that fact. He sounds deliriously sexy—something I shouldn’t even be thinking at a moment like this.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice grows an octave louder, and I imagine him sitting up in bed and running his hand through those tight curls, messy from hours of sleep that I can’t seem to get myself. “It’s late.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I suck in another breath, keeping my eyes closed as I focus solely on his voice. “I just… I couldn’t sleep, and I?—”
“Another nightmare?”
“Y-yes.” The one word is wobbly as it comes out. And quiet. Like I’m ashamed. And maybe I am, because I should be stronger than this. I should be able to handle a nightmare, not react like a six-year-old when their tablet grows legs in their dreams and says scary, mean things.
He clears his throat, that sleepiness that was present a second ago a little less noticeable. “Where are you?”
“On the floor.”
