For her. For the sister I’ve raised since she was fourteen years old.
Because she doesn’t know how hard I’ve been fighting it up to this point. That’s my fault. I didn’t let her see it. I thought I was protecting her but maybe I was only protecting myself. She hasn’t had the opportunity to come to terms with my impending death.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Set it up. Use my card. But I’m staying here. I’ll do online sessions.”
Sofia exhales a slow, shaky breath before sinking back into Luca behind her. He nods once and tightens his arms around her briefly before they both leave me. Probably afraid I’ll change my mind if they give me the chance.
I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. Exhaustion and hopelessness weighing me down. It’s not going to help. Not when I’m this far gone. But maybe the appearance that I tried will help my little sister survive it.
Chapter Three
Maya
My stomach is full of butterflies as I slide into the chair behind my desk. I carefully check that my pens and notebooks are in order and take a deep breath before opening my laptop.
I don’t know what is wrong with me today. It’s been years since I felt this anxious about meeting a new patient. Completing my pre-licensure hours in community mental health services threw me right into the deep end, and thankfully, I learned how to swim instead of drowning. Private practice has been relatively tame by comparison since I opened my doors six months ago.
But still, I haven’t been able to shake this nervous energy all morning. None of my usual techniques have helped. Not the run I went on before work and not the breathing techniques or the rituals I follow every morning to create order.
What would I tell a patient to do? I guess that would depend on the patient. If they were a worrier in general, I might encourage them to notice the feeling and practice letting it go. If they weren’t predisposed to general anxiety, I might ask them to question what their body could be trying to tell them.
But letting it go isn’t working, and I learned a long time ago not to listen tomybody. I’m such a fraud. A therapist incapable of practicing what they preach. But my mind tells me to do things that I never could. Things that would get me incarcerated, or worse.
So instead, I push down the voice in my head and ignore my instincts, the way I have trained myself. I steady my thoughts with routines and rituals, focusing on grounding myself.
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Out for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Notice where my body connects to the chair and push back against the firm points.
Repeat until I settle and ground myself.
I can do this.I am in control.
I read over my notes for my new patient, Ryan Rivera. His sister, Sofia, contacted me to book him in, so this will be my first contact with him. Not how I normally operate, but she mentioned he has been resistant to starting therapy despite struggling with his mental health for a while now.
I want to kick myself when realization dawns on me. This is it. The reason why I’m feeling like this. I’m not doing things in the proper sequence. Of course I feel out of sorts. My life revolves around things playing out in the right way and in the right order. It helps me maintain control and composure.
But once the first session is completed, everything else will follow the treatment plan I create for him. I’ll be back in my happy, controlled routine. Back in my lovely, albeit small, comfort zone.
Let's see, what do I know about this man? He’s thirty-one years old. His sister told me he needed to get married, but he was hung up on waiting for the perfect woman, whom he couldn’t find. She said that if he didn’t marry, he would lose his position as CEO over his family business, and the strain was having a dramatic impact on his mental health.
I don’t blame him. God, rich people are awful. I can’t imagine ever putting my future children in such a position. Marry by a set date or lose everything? It seems so cruel. But judging his situation isn’t going to help him. And imagining how I would do better isn’t going to help either of us.
One last round of breathwork, and I connect to the telehealth call.
“Hello, Ryan?”
The man sitting across from me fixes me with a stare so intense I feel a prickle of unease crawl across my skin. His eyes, deep pools of a brown that seem to flash almost golden in the light, bore into my soul, dissecting me with a silent scrutiny. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just maintains that unwavering gaze, like he’s a predator assessing his prey.
He’s so statue-still that I begin to wonder if his screen has frozen. Except, a vein in his temple is flexing under his copper skin, and his eyes are full of fire. Almost as if he’s annoyed to be here.
“Ryan?” I say again. “Can you hear me?”
