“It’s not that bad.” Ari shrugged, contemplating her lie.
“You’re having a photo shoot,” I reminded her with a small laugh.
She let out a huff when she couldn’t come up with an argument. “Fine. But, enough about my mental health. I’ve got my mediation space set up for later. What about yours? Didn’t you have an appointment the other day?”
I ducked my head down, avoiding her gaze. It was easier to hide from a topic when you spoke to someone through a screen. “Yeah, I had the appointment.”
“And did you go?” Ari asked in a patient voice. I heard her moving around. She learned rather quickly that if she busied her hands while I talked, then I felt less like I was under a microscope. We’d known each other long enough to dance near the anxiety and sadness with grace, but never avoidance.
“I went,” I confirmed with a sigh. When I chewed on my hangnail, Ari clicked her tongue. Our signal to freeze and talk. “Honestly, I don’t think I’m going back.”
“You said the crying spells were getting more frequent.” She was still moving around. I looked up to see her stacking books on her messy bed. A pang of guilt squeezed in my throat.
“I’ll handle them,” I promised. “I have before.”
“I know you have. This is your second semester as a transfer though,” Ari said. “It’s hard. And lonely, right? You spend your weekends with me. Not that I’m complaining because I’m never doing crap on weekends. But you should go out. You’re surrounded by people our age. Embrace it.”
“I haven’t found anyone I click with,” I confessed. For some reason, my thoughts wandered to Weston. His welcoming grin and teasing voice. I scoffed at the image of him on his knees in the library and quickly pushed the memory away. That wasn’t clicking. That was lust. My body was just having a hard time telling the difference.
“Are you open to therapy? Be honest, Covee.” Ari stopped her busy work and stared into the camera. Not at the screen where she could see herself, but straight into the lens as though she was in the same room with me.
I released a breath, an involuntary sob followed right after. Ari was quiet and the shuffling stopped. I bit on my bottom lip hard, trying to stop myself from opening the teary flood gate. Tears weren’t necessary right now. I needed words. I needed communication.
“I’m open, but I don’t think it’s enough,” I finally said in a semi-steady voice. “I didn’t click with the therapist. She had a lot of worksheets and went on about setting goals and plans.”
“Goal setting could be beneficial,” Ari reminded me in a soft voice. “Help you focus on what’s important and good for your life.”
“It didn’t feel right,” I said and brushed a single rogue tear off my cheek. I felt pathetic crying again in such a small span of time.
“That’s fine.” Ari nodded and leaned in closer so I could make out the row of freckles on her amber-brown skin. “We’ll figure it out. Check in with me every day, okay? And, look for another therapist on campus. One with a different approach.”
I clenched and unclenched my hand. A small dot of blood appeared on where I picked my hangnail. “You’re right. And I’ll try.”
“Try going out more too?” Ari asked with a small smile. “Because, girl, I adore watching Austen films with you, but I would prefer we gush about someone other than Wentworth.”
I let out a laugh. “Yeah. I’ll add ‘get a social life’ to the list.”
She held up her index finger and thumb. “Just a little social life. Baby steps.”
“Baby steps,” I repeated and nodded earnestly. “I can do that.”
“Of course, you can,” Ari said with a wide grin. “You’re going to kick depression’s ass, Covee. I promise.”
Chapter 9
Friday nights werefor hair washing. And because I hated the long process that was detangling, shampooing, and conditioning my curls, I barred social interaction for the day. Not that I was in high demand in that department. Still, I wasn’t comfortable with anyone seeing my conditioner-soaked twists shoved underneath a plastic Target bag.
A little zen, I thought as I lit my contraband candle. The smell of amber and vanilla filled the room. I tried to take a few deep breaths. Apparently, making hair wash days more slow-paced could change my mindset about the entire ordeal. At least, that was what Ari recommended.
I picked up my phone to text her a photo of my self-care set-up, proof that I did occasionally listened to her sage advice. Right as I unlocked the screen, a text message notification popped up.
Meet me in 2 hrs?
I frowned as I read the contact name ‘Maybe: Weston B.’
For?I texted back.
His reply was instant.
