“What about you?”
“I promise, I got exactly what I wanted. Plus, I plan to do this forever. No need to overdo a perfect moment.”
She’s silent for several moments, and I begin to worry I’ve scared her with my mentions of forever.
“I’m perfect, huh?” She winks at me, and my racing heart stutters.
I kiss her again, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Absolutely, and I’m never letting you go.”
FORTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA
December 3rd, 2025
I stare at the clock,willing the hand to move. I’m pretty sure it’s broken—that would be the ultimate karmic payback.
The woman across from me licks her lips, the sound loud in the silent room, and I reluctantly look at her. Thin, tall, dark hair greying at the roots, a simple white blouse tucked into grey pants, glasses, wrinkles around her eyes—she’s the most basic therapist I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’ve seen very many.Or any, for that matter.
“So, what? I just tell you my problems and you take notes on which institution would suit me best?”
She doesn’t smile or frown or even fucking blink. With a calm voice that simply makes me want to rage, she says, “If that’s where you’d like to start, go ahead and tell me your problems.”
She doesn’t deny the institution, and we both note it.
I lean back into the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the plush cushions threaten to swallow me, so I sit forward again. “I should make you a list of the things good in my life. That would take less time.”
She nods. “Okay, start there.”
I stare at her. She stares right back.
Finally, I relent, looking down at my nails, picking at the cuticles as I try to figure out what to say. When nothing comes to mind, Susan—that’s my therapist's name,Susan—sets down her notebook, laying her hands flat in her lap.
It’s probably some kind of shrink technique to look less threatening. It doesn’t fucking work.
“Can you at least tell me why you don’t want to tell me anything?”
I chew on my lip. I could, but— “What if I say something wrong?”
Her brows relax, and she nods, as if thinking about the question with great attention. “Do you think there’s a wrong answer?”
“Isn’t there always?”
She shrugs again, and it grates on my nerves so intensely, my jaw begins to ache. “So what if you say something wrong? You don’t know me. Plus, you pay me to listen.”
I open my mouth and quickly close it. I do it again, my mouth flopping like a fish out of water for several miserable moments before I flick my gaze back to the clock.
How has it only been five minutes?
“I always say something wrong.”
She picks up her notepad and begins to write. Strike one for Valentina—the nuthouse, here I come.After she’s done scribbling, she says, “Tell me about that.”
“Tell you about what?” I snap.
“Why you think you always say something wrong.”
