“I think the remote is right next to you,” I said.
“It’s not,” she answered.
I stood and found the remote on the couch right next to her.
“Oh,” she said, taking it. “You should’ve put it on my right side. My left arm is injured.”
“I will next time.”
“What are we going to do about my car?” she asked as I sat back down. She turned the television on with the question, and it was loud.
“I’m dealing with the insurance,” I said. “Hopefully they’ll cut you a check, and we can get you a new one.”
“What?” she asked.
“Turn it down, Mom,” I said.
The volume changed very little as she pointed the remote at the TV. Then she looked at me expectantly.
“The insurance will take care of it,” I said.
“It’s totaled. Was that man drunk?”
“Youhithim,” I said. On the freeway, going at least seventy. She changed into his lane without looking first. Or at least without seeing. She flipped, he flipped, they were both lucky to be alive.
“He wasn’t there. Then he was.”
“I know,” I said, because that was the story she’d told me many times. It wasn’t the story the other driver told, or the witnesses. “It was an accident. I’m glad you have good insurance.”
“This rice is crunchy,” she said.
I sighed. I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t been able to take a bite of my food yet. I did now. She was right. The rice was crunchy.
The space was like a big warehouse—all cement floors and exposed metal beams. In the center was a big boxing ring. And around the edges were lines of punching bags of various shapes and sizes. The boxing ring was empty, but several people were punching bags, and the noise echoed through the room along with voices and music.
I’d pulled my hair up into a ponytail, like I always did, and wore spandex shorts and an oversized T-shirt, which I rarely did. My shoes were too clean, showing how little I used them. At home I hadn’t had time to work out much in the last year or so, what with prepping to open a restaurant and then actually opening that restaurant. I was surprised I had the foresight to bring my shoes at all, but I remembered thinking that I would probably need an outlet here, like running. I did need an outlet. That’s why I’d come today. Tara had sent me the address, and I’d realized that punching something might actually be good for me. Help me. Definitely more than the fake therapy sessions had.
I hadn’t spotted Elijah yet in my scan of the room. He wasn’t at the punching bags. He and his preppy polo shirts and loafers were nowhere to be seen. He had told me ten, right? I checked my watch, it was five minutes until ten.
“Sutton,” a jovial voice said from behind me. I turned to seeMichael walking in the glass front door, Tara trailing behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“Something you two should be doing,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Boxing?”
“Working out?” Tara asked.
“No, therapy homework.”
He laughed, then with that same laughter in his voice said, “She still hasn’t figured it out? I’m so shocked.”
I narrowed my eyes at his sarcasm. Now was when I was supposed to tell them I was finished. That I didn’t want to do this anymore. Why did his smug look and Tara’s lowered-eyed reaction make me say, “We still have two more sessions,” instead?
Tara smiled at me. “Yes, we do. Don’t count us out yet.”
He shrugged like he didn’t think two weeks was going to make any difference. I waited to feel terrible that I had recommitted to this thing. It wasn’t like me to go back and forth like this, but I didn’t feel bad. It felt good that I was seeing this through. Thatwaslike me.
I looked past him. “Where is Elijah?”
