“She knows that, Mom. I don’t need to tell her.”
Larissa sits up straighter, and I set my glass back down on the table, my shoulders deflating in disappointment.Why didn’t he want to hold my hand?I’ve been decent since he picked meup. The entire car ride here, I asked him about work and how things have been—something I haven’t done in weeks.
I’m putting in effort. I’mtrying, so why does it feel like I want to go to the bathroom and hide there for the rest of the meal?
“It seems to me you do,” Larissa says. “Perhaps hitting her head has made her forget how important it is to carry a last name like ours. That it comes with upkeep and maintenance.”
Her comments take me by surprise, landing in a way that has me itching to get away. It’s a reminder that a person’s past defines who they are. At least to some people. But the thing that makes it worse is that my version of ‘some people’ are those physically closest to me. They’re the ones I spend most of my free time with—Lance and his parents.
The thought makes me want to upheave my food.
How is a person supposed to move forward if the people around them keep reminding them of their mistakes and misfortunes?
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and set it next to my plate. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
I’m gentle in my departure, standing slowly and softly pushing in my chair as I grab my small handbag—the one I only use when we go out with Lance’s parents—and head toward the back of the restaurant.
It’s a fairly busy evening at L'Italiano. Then again, the place is always packed, with regulars and tourists, being that it’s one of the best Italian eateries in Coralhaven. Not only do they offer exquisite Italian dishes, but they also double as a steakhouse with a bar constructed of cherry mahogany and leather seating, gorgeous glowing light fixtures hanging throughout the establishment.
I force a neutral expression as I weave my way in and out of tables before I’m finally deposited by the short hallway leadingto the ladies’ room. I forgo the main one and opt for the family restroom instead, knowing it’ll give me privacy.
The second I’m inside, I twist the lock and press my back against the door. I heave out a breath, and all too suddenly, that tightness comes back in, rushing and determined like a high tide at the turn of a new day.
“Calm down, Emory,” I whisper to myself. I sense it before I feel it—the sob that presents itself at the back of my throat. I force it away, pushing it down deep.
I will not cry in a public bathroom.
And,god, what is it with me and this particular room anyway?
When I set my handbag on the sink, my eyes settle on it in a knowing manner, and I do what I did the last time I found myself in this predicament—I dig my phone out and dial Dr. Cole.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth as I wait for him to answer. Unlike last time, his voice floats through the receiver on the third ring.
It’s deep and smooth with that rough gentleness that I never tire of.
“Hello?”
Just that one word soothes me, calming me in a way that I should find alarming. It’s hard to run from it, though, when it’s the only thing that offers me tranquility these days.
My voice is just above a whisper. “Hi.”
“Emory.” He says it like he doesn’t know it was me calling before he answered.
I don’t want to talk about the present moment, or the fact that I’m losing it in L’Italiano’s bathroom. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Would you rather walk around for the next ten years with food smeared on your face or with your head as a foot?”
I don’t know where it comes from—lies, I listened to a podcast earlier in the week where the host asked their celebrity guest the same question.
“What kind of question is that?” he asks with a laugh. That sound, that melody, is the white noise at the end of a long day, the kind that helps a person fall asleep a little easier. It’s the instrumental meditation music that fills a spa room when you’re getting the knots worked out of your neck.
“It’s the question of the day,” I say. “And the thing distracting me from the present moment.”
He doesn’t stop to mention how that doesn’t fall under the category of a crisis. I suspect he probably already knows something is off, though, if I’m calling him at all. Either way, I’m grateful he doesn’t bring attention to the fact that this is the second time I’m phoning a friend—or in my case—my therapist.
“Hmm. Okay. What would you pick?”
“I didn’t pick yet. I want to hear what you say first.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it’s supposed to go.”
