And now I hate her. Just for a second.
She’s good.
“I can’t breathe sometimes, like there’s a weight set on my chest when I sleep, so I don’t. I rewatch the same movie because it’s his favorite. I eat cereal every night for dinner, not because I’m lazy, but because it was our thing.”
She nods, keeping quiet because it’s the most I’ve said in the past three sessions.
“My house is dark. I miss the light from all the windows. It’s loud here. The traffic, neighbors yelling, the soft, constant hiss in the walls because I’m pretty sure there’s a leak somewhere. I miss the lapping of the lake, the calming water.
“It’s not right to feel so much,thismuch for someone and not have them. And sometimes … sometimes I think it might just kill me. I’ve never wanted anything more. Never had much direction in my life, but he’s the path I’d choose each time.”
Tears roll down my cheeks, and I’m grateful I gathered my hair into a rat’s nest on top of my head. I look toward the bookshelf lined with books with names I couldn’t imagine pronouncing, then bounce to the ceramic holder full of tissues she gestures to, yet I ignore.
“So, this is about a guy?” Dr. Burgas sighs, like maybe I’m just another young, sappy girl torn up about a breakup.
But she doesn’t know.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s about the love of my life.”
I’m not sure you’re supposed to feel worse after therapy, but I do. I went back for my fifth session today, and as I shut the door to her office and descend the steps to the sidewalk, I want to vomit. Especially after I told Dr. Burgas that I finally went into my mother’s room. She wanted to know how it made mefeel. Well, Dr. Burgas … like crap.
It felt like trespassing. Like I was breaking some unspoken rule by stepping inside when I couldn’t for so long after her passing. Why courage struck me at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep is beyond me. Dr. Burgas said it wasn’t courage at all, but my nervous system finally exiting survival mode long enough to tolerate the memory of the space.
Their room was exactly the same, but everything in me knew it wasn’thersanymore. Just like I’m unsure the house is really mine.
The Chicago air is slightly cooler, so I greedily suck it in and head to my car. A black town car sits across the street, and I glance at it before it pulls away from the curb and drives off. When I reach the driver’s side door, my phone dings. I take it out and open the message from the grocery store, texting me that my pickup is ready. Thank God. I’ve been out of Frosted Flakes for three days now.
Once inside my vehicle, I turn it on, pulling up the grocery app on my new phone and clicking the button that says I’m on my way. When I click out of the app, Tristan’s response to my apology sits unopened on my phone. I don’t need to read it, but I can see it from the preview on my lock screen.It’s okay, Thea. I’m doing well. I hope you are, too.It’squiet closure I’m not sure I deserve.
An email from my college advisor pings through confirming our appointment for tomorrow. In my last therapy session, Dr. Burgas somehow talked me into two things I’d been avoiding—texting Tristan and scheduling that appointment. I refused at first, but the words my mother used to say made me think twice. “Bloom where you’re not meant to grow.”
I’ve done it before; I can do it again.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SLADE
If I were more of an asshole than I already am, I’d put a bug in the therapist’s office. Instead, I resort to camping outside each of her sessions, which I know because I hacked into her therapist’s email and downloaded her patient schedule.
Thea comes twice a week.
Dr. Meredith Burgas, forty-two, received her Bachelor of Arts in Psychology from Northwestern University then did her Master of Social Work at the University of Chicago, Crown Family School of Social Work, then finally earned her Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from Loyola University Chicago. She’s had over fifteen years’ experience specializing in trauma recovery and post-crisis intervention, so I know Thea’s in good hands, but I still wish I knew what she was saying.
I want to know how she is, truly is. Mostly because I’m miserable.
Edmond tells me daily I made a mistake, but as I watch Thea exit Dr. Burgas’s office, her head held high, and her shoulders less slumped over than last time, I don’t think I did. I hope she’s healing.
Her hair is long and in loose ringlets over a striped navy and cream T-shirt dress that shows too much of her bare legs. Shemoves with a little bounce in her slip-on sneakers, and as she moves toward her car, her gaze snags on my town car.
It’s not enough time to steep in her stare, and I tap on the door for the driver to pull away.
I told myself I was doing the right thing. That she’s better off without me, but that thought burns with a punishment I’m not ready to accept. Each time I see her, my chest hurts. I’m destroyed by a simple weed in my yard, or the damn cereal in my pantry. I catch myself glancing toward the dock to see if she’s sitting at the end of it … I should’ve done anything but watch her walk away and call it mercy.
I hate myself for being the one who made sure I can’t have her.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THEA
