My fingertips grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. All I want to do is go to her. I want to hold her close to me and never let go.
I can still taste her on my lips—honey and nerves. It hits me all over again how fast everything shifted when those first tears slid down her cheek.
My body aches as images of Erin curled up in her room slam into me in a way I can’t fix. I just want to protect her and take every ounce of her pain. I want to find the switch that shuts it all off so she can fall into my arms without fear or doubt.
Erin is worth the wait. I know she’s the one that needs to take the next step if she wants this.
Wants us.
Right now, it’s clear she’s overwhelmed, and even though backing off seems like stepping off a cliff, if that’s what she needs me to do, I’ll do it.
She knows where I stand.
Now, it’s her move.
“Roberta will be with you shortly,”the receptionist says as she directs me to the waiting room.
I sink into one of the cushioned chairs and let out a breath. My legs bounce as I wait. The clock on the far wall is louder than I remember. Each tick is painfully slow. A reminder of how long it’s taken me to figure things out—four days.
I took off work and tried to convince myself I didn’t need this appointment, but alas, here I am.
I drag my gaze away from the clock, my attention landing on the same frayed olive-green chairs and lavender scent in the air. Nothing’s changed since my last visit, and yet, the room stretches in size. In the past, my issues filled up every inch of this space.
I pull on a loose thread at my sleeve, listening to the receptionist’s nails tapping the keyboard.
The door opens with a muted click.
“Erin,” Roberta says. Her voice is clear and familiar.
I stand, manage a smile, and wave.
“Come in,” she says, gesturing me inside her office.
The room holds memories of my previous sessions. My usual chair waits for me, and for a moment, I visualize a younger version of myself sitting there—small, scared, and unsure.
I lower into the seat. For a second, it’s like one of those old TV shows where a character touches an object from their past, andwhoosh, every single memory floods back in.
My palms dampen. The words scrape out of me. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
Roberta doesn’t press. She just watches me in a patient manner.
“This whole time I thought…” I stop again before blurting, “I met someone.”
“Would you like to tell me about them?” Roberta asks.
“It was the night of our last session. His name’s Chase.” Saying his name makes it even more real. “We started being friends. I was wary at first, but I liked being around him. He made everything easy. When he asked me out, I panicked and ran. I heard her voice again.”
Roberta leans forward. “Your mother’s?”
“Yes. The same condescending tone telling me I’d hurt him if I let him get close. So, I said no. I told him we could only be friends.”
My mind travels back to our phone call.
“He said he’d be mybestfriend.”
Roberta gazes at me with quiet understanding. “It sounds as if he cares about you.”
“He does. The more time we spent together, the safer I felt. Eventually, I realized just how quiet my head had become. I noticed the absence at first, the silence her voice used to fill. Then, one day, I stopped saying my mantras. Not on purpose. I just… forgot.”
