Gabi looks away and seems to need all of her willpower to press her lips together at that—almost like she’s making a mental note for later—and then looks back again with a piercing glare.
“Yeah, so…” Gabi threads carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “You were into her, which is what made Riley agree to make out. Then you told her she was beneath you and proceeded to make out with your ex-boyfriend in front of her.”
Oh.
“God, I’m such a dick.”
From that night on, Charlotte’s dreams don’t consist of Riley pursuing her anymore. Instead, they make Charlotte herself the villain now; she keeps running into Riley, who looks terrified to see her. In the dream, Charlotte wants to talk to her, so she chases her and chases her, but Riley always gets away before she wakes up.
With Riley’s horrified expression still fresh in mind, she remembers the premonition that had washed over her when Riley told her about her job. That helpless, melancholic feeling she’d gotten when she imagined Riley alone in the dark, like she’d wanted to protect her.
She knows these dreams are telling her something. She knows she should reach out, say something, apologizeeven. It takes her weeks however—much to Gabi’s dismay—to figure out how and why, and what she’s going to say. Tomorrow, she keeps telling herself.Tomorrow, I’ll text her.
It’s Friday morning and for the first time since she’d been sick, she’ll have the afternoon off. It’s taken her a while to catch up with her clients, but putting in extra hours has paid off and now she’s right back on schedule.
She double checks her calendar to confirm her last client for the day: Ms. Amezcua. She doesn’t recognize the name—must be someone new, booked in through the website.
At 11:00 AM sharp, there’s a knock on the door of her office. Charlotte leaves her desk as she slides her reading glasses all the way up into her hair. She opens the door with a smile, but when her eyes land on no one other than Riley, the wind is knocked right out of her. Out of sheer terror and confusion, she just blows a three second raspberry.
“Uhm, hi,” Riley says, dramatically wiping fake droplets off her cheeks. Her playful smirk turns into a shy, lopsided smile, and she places a hand on the strap of her shoulder bag. The leather jacket she wears is very much in contrast with her awkward demeanor and it does things to Charlotte’s brain.I should’ve texted her,she scolds herself. Riley just showing up like this is setting her entire system on fire. She doesn’t like it.
“Ms. Amezcua, I presume,” Charlotte sighs, trying her best to sound unimpressed. “What’s Death doing on Life’s doorstep?”
Riley shifts her weight from one leg to the other, trying to peek over Charlotte’s shoulder.
“Do you start all of your sessions in the doorway? Or do you have like, chairs in there?”
Charlotte crosses her arms defensively. “I have chairs, Riley. Pillows, yoga mats, a sofa even. But I don’t takeacquaintancesas clients. You of all people should find that ethically debatable.”
“Hmm. They just say you’re the best in town.”
“Who says that?”
“...you, probably.”
And damn Riley for worming her way into Charlotte’s weak spot again. Stepping aside to let her in, her mind goes over the millions and millions of things she’s wanted to say to Riley these past few weeks.
Riley leaves her bag by the door and takes in the spacious office. Charlotte watches her admire the impressionist art on the walls, the protruding bookcases, the Bird of Paradise by the window that almost touches the ceiling, and finally the many colorful pillows and blankets on the sofa and floor. As she sits down on the sofa, her hand glides over one of the velvet pillows and a faint smile appears around her lips.
“This is probably 700% cozier than my office,” Riley says. “I like it.”
Charlotte tries to hide the sense of pride that the compliment gives her. This office—her converted garage, attached to the house—has been her life’s work. She’d invested most of her time, creativity, money and knowledge into creating a space that would be able to accommodate a wide range of people and make them feel at ease. She knows how important it is to feel safe when talking to a stranger about one’s deepest passions and desires, and so she has made sure to provide a large variety of furniture, textures and items to make the room multifunctional.
Charlotte closes the door, but doesn’t walk back to her desk. “Why are you here, Riley?”
Riley looks up at her, clearly trying to gauge whether Charlotte will take her seriously or not. She pulls one of the pillows onto her lap for support, and takes a breath.
“I have an issue with someone. Or rather: someone has an issue with me. We’re kind of bound to be in each other’s life though. And the situation as it is now is hurting both of us.”
Charlotte’s jaw tightens, she isn’t sure she’s ready for this game. “And?”
“And… I don’t know how to talk to her. We have a little bit of history and neither of us are particularly well known for our ability to keep our temper. She seems pretty defensive around me.”
“Why would that be?” Charlotte says through gritted teeth. It’s not a question, but Riley answers anyway.
“I think she might be a Taurus, to be completely honest with—”
“I’m failing to see how this is something to discuss with a life coach,” Charlotte interrupts her pointedly.
