Sometimes I can’t understand how they’re so involved in their own lives but not their child’s. No matter how far away I am, it doesn’t take much effort to pick up a phone.
When I don’t respond, Lance continues. “My parents pulled strings to make this happen for you. No one wants to see you like this or for you to be in a dark place.”
A mirthless laugh comes from me. “The only reason theypulled stringsis because it would reflect poorly on you to have your fiancé cast away in some mental ward.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is true.”
Larissa, Lance’s mother, cares about two things; her son and the Bronson image. It’s the one thing I can say about her, after all these years and be absolutely certain of. I’m not allowed to taint that, which is probably why Dr. Miso set up the discharge plan he did—after being paid off by them, of course.
We pull up to the small outpatient building, large windows lined from left to right with an entrance door in the center. “You should be thanking them,” Lance bites out a little more harshly than expected. The truth is that we were already struggling before the accident. Now…the threads that held us together are just that much more frayed.
“Of course I should be,” I say, gathering my messenger bag from next to my feet as he pulls up to the curb. “Maybe I should start bowing down to them whenever I’m in their presence.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath, disregarding my sarcastic comment. “I’ll let you out here and be in when I find a parking spot.”
I loop my bag over my shoulder and let out a clipped, “Don’t bother.”
“Emory.”
My name on his lips almost pulls me back, almost has me wanting to climb over the console and wrap my arms around his neck. It’s so familiar, soneeded, but I hesitate.
I can’t.
Not when I’m unsure of so many things, and my body and mind are still healing from the whirlwind of my situation. From his distance and betrayals. From my accident. From him picking sides.
I almost want to ask why we’re getting married when it’s beyond obvious that neither of us are happy. It’s almost wild that this is my life at twenty-eight.
Instead, I say, “No.” My voice is serious, much like it has been for days now. It’s either anger or my words come out in trails of sad, depressing undertones that linger long after I speak. “I don’t want you coming in with me.”
That bitterness that shoves its way to center stage becomes more pronounced. I can’t help but wonder if he feels it, too, and if that’s why the car suddenly charges with a toxicity as potent as a vat of boiling green liquid.
This isn’t the man you’re meant to marry.
“Fine,” he breathes out. “I’ll be out here waiting. Maybe try not to be this difficult with your therapist.”
I open the door without saying another word and slam it shut. It does nothing to let out the frustration I feel as I walk inside, check in with the receptionist, and wait to be called back.
I cross the room,recognizing the faint scent of coffee beans in the air and a hint of something darker and more masculine. The room is small, no real reason for it to be larger than it is. One wall is lined with bookshelves, some of them filled while others remain empty. I notice the two cardboard boxes on the floor to my right, a red stamp on them indicating that they’re heavier than one might realize.
There must be books inside or some kind of office supplies. My gaze swings to the couch on the other side of the room. It’s green and a little too bold for my taste. It reminds me of a field of grass shadowed by a dusky sky, nightfall slowly slipping over it. Sienna brown pillows accent the piece of furniture. Above it isan abstract painting with similar hues. Near the edge, the colors slowly morph into a blue-gray, and I inhale a little too sharply at it.
It reminds me of rolling waves on the surf.
Of that day.
Terror slinks down my spine, collecting and resting just above my tailbone, though that’s not the only place I feel it in my body. It’s everywhere, like a million tiny fire ants marching on my skin, a trail of peril left in their wake.
I’d rather live through the discomfort of a thousand papercuts. That, I think I could endure. Whereas now, I’m barely surviving.
I force my eyes away and rest my hand on the cool wood of the shelf, letting it bring me back from the intensity of my thoughts and emotions. When that isn’t enough, I rest my forehead against it, hating the way my body warms when that foreign, but familiar, sensation of anxiety sweeps over my skin and embeds itself.
Now is not the time, Emory.
Just breathe.
A knock sounds a minute later, indicating that my session is about to start and I’ll be reintroduced to Dr. Cole. I don’t swing around right away, instead giving him the time to enter and get settled in the brown leather chair that’s directly across from where I’ll be expected to sit. Although at least this room has more of a personal touch. It’s not so…foreboding. Not like my hospital room was.
