He leaned back on his stool and looked me up and down. “How about hot chocolate around the bonfire? Does that get around the daylight issue?”
“Yes, that sounds so…quaint.”
“Quaint—that’s how I roll.” He put some cash down on the bar for Gary and asked me, “So, tomorrow night?”
When I nodded, he said, “I’ll pick you up after sunset. Be ready.”
On my way home, the therapist texted:
Eleanor:Welcome to Valentine! Short notice but I am working late tonight. I could fit in a session if you’re interested?
Me:on my way!
Dr. Eleanor Rosetti had an office over the adorable bookstore on Main Street. Alone, I sat in a quiet waiting room with two chairs arranged around a coffee table. The wall facing me featured a painting of a decaying tree inhabited by owls, their big, round yellow eyes staring me down not in judgment, more like they wanted to eat me. A cheap water feature was probably intended to relax me, but running water made me nervous. Too much time in a cave will do that.
Unlike the Reka River caves in Slovenia, therapy was unexplored territory. A part of me was excited to see what all the hype was about. Another part wanted to put up my nose and walk out. All of these people hyping it were too young to remember important recent history, such as Luke and Laura’s wedding onGeneral Hospital.Practically babies, wielding the language of suffering like they were the first generation to experience despair. There was always enough suffering to go around. Anyone who lives long enough gets a piece.
Lately it was all: “You’ve never been in therapy?” Gasp. “You must have so many unresolved issues.” “I would never date a man who wasn’t in therapy.” Sure, I get it, men are assholes. That’s why I watch the Hallmark Channel.
To avoid the judgment of the owls, I pulled out my phone and started mindlessly scrolling. On my fourth makeup tutorial, I remembered what I should really be doing—googling Jeff. I typedTiffany Amanda Blair Jeff Valentineand bingo:
Tiffany Amanda Blair and Jeff Powers, both of Valentine, are delighted to announce their engagement to be married. Tiffany and Jeff are Valentine High graduates from the class of 2014. Jeff is in the family business, growing Christmas trees on the Powers Family Tree Farm. Tiffany is employed at the general store on Main Street. She is known for her starring roles in the annual production of Shakespeare in the Park. The two will be married at the Powers family farm next summer.
So Jeff had been Tiffany’s fiancé. It was a charming announcement, but clearly something had gone terribly wrong. Tiffany had disappeared for an undoubtedly non-fun reason and sold her identity by way of a black-market ID fixer to a vampire.
The good news: Tiffany had a dark side, which was something I could work with. Maybe my version of Tiffany was someone with an edge and a haunting past but who, like me, was trying to make a fresh start.
Mid–Tiffany Amanda Blair research, Dr. Rosetti emerged from her office with a waft of musky perfume and a rustling of expensive fabric. Dr. Rosetti was tall, with dark, curly hair and a smattering of cinnamon-sugar freckles. “Tiffany,” she said, her voice like a bell.
“Dr. Rosetti?”
She held out her hand, warm with life next to my cold alabaster. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Come in. Have a seat.”
A Persian rug, comfortable chairs, and several paintings of old barns welcomed me in. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the people most nostalgic for barns were never farmers.
“It’s good to meet you, Tiffany. What brings you in today?”
“I moved to town a few days ago. Tyrone, my neighbor, mentioned that therapy is very popular here. I thought I might get to know my neighbors, understand the town, the people.”
Dr. Rosetti sat back, choosing her words. “Oh. That’s an interesting idea, but you realize that therapy is more of an introspective practice. It’s about gaining self-awareness, not investigating others. Helping you look inside and lead a more fulfilling life.”
I scrunched up my face. “So you’re only worried aboutmypsychology?”
She nodded.
“That sounds very boring. I already spend all day with myself.” I’d spent three hundredyearswith myself. Learning more about myself—no, thank you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”
“People are always talking about their childhood, their work problems, their lovers. I assumed the therapist helped someone understand why other people do dumb things.”
Dr. Rosetti picked up a pen and scratched something on her notepad. “A lot of people find that gaining self-awareness helps them gain understanding of others as well. Your actions and reactions are the only ones you can control.”
This woman was very good at stating the obvious. “So we can’t talk about other people at all?”
“Well, you can talk about other people. It’s expected, but I can’t tell you anything about what others tell me. It’s called doctor-patient privilege.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows in question. “I can tell youanythingand it’s a secret?”
