Dr. Tanner cocks her head to the side, clicking her pen and jotting down a few notes. I wish I could see what she’s writing, but it’s probably best that I can’t. “Is there any chance you might be making some assumptions about how they see you?”
“Maybe… I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Next time you are at the studio, really try to open yourself up objectively. Pretend you didn’t come from the Institute. That you’re just another member of their company without the baggage that comes from your old employer. See if the perception you have is truly there or a defense mechanism you’ve used to shield yourself as you start something new.”
“Okay. I’ll try to pretend.” Not sure what good it will do me, but I’m willing to try anything Dr. Tanner suggests if it will help.
“How about outside of dance? Have you finally talked to Blake about going public with your relationship?”
“Um,” I bite my lip, “I’m still working up to it.” All I can hear is the scratch of her pen against paper. Not a good sign. “Next time I see him I’m going to, though.”
“Okay.” Dr. Tanner’s attention returns to me, no longer pinned to the pad in front of her. “Why don’t we practice?”
“Practice?”
“Pretend I’m Blake. What would you say to start the conversation?” She straightens and sets her notepad and pen to the side. The intensity of her stare sends my gaze to my tapping toes.
“Blake,” I swallow thickly and roll my shoulders back as I meet fake Blake’s eyes, “now that I’m not at the Institute and it doesn’t impact our careers…what if we went public with our relationship?” Dr. Tanner opens her mouth to speak but I cut her off. “Sorry. This is weird. Can we just do something else?”
“Of course.” She picks up the pen and pad again, jotting down a few words before tucking the pad against her lap.
Great.
I don’t know why the exercise makes me so uncomfortable. She’s just trying to help me get my nerves out. A dress rehearsal before the real performance. For whatever reason, I feel just as tongue-tied as I did the other night. At least I was able to get the question out this time.
“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” she asks, her pen poised in her hand.
Yes, but that doesn’t mean I will.
“What about the messages and things you were seeing? Are you still seeing them?” Her question hangs in the space between us. While she means well, her tone is tinged with enough skepticism that I’m unsure if her instruction toexplorethese occurrences was sincere. It’s more likely she pitied the delusions of a grieving daughter who’d been through hell over the last year.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, and I wonder if therapists have some special shop they buy them from. If they’re meant to be a constant metronome, counting out the beats of our session. Reminding patients that our time to get it out is limited.
Tick-tock.
My throat is dry and I rasp out, “I haven’t seen anything else.”
The truth isn’t one I can give her.
She readjusts her glasses, as if killing time until I say something else. Sweat beads at my hairline, and I slick it back, taming the few wisps left there from rehearsals this morning. Between ballet, physical therapy, and these appointments, it’s like I’m constantly being trapped and studied under a microscope. The lens may change but the scrutiny remains.
Can she tell that I’m lying?
I need her help and still have things to process, but there are things that go beyond her scope of practice.
Jax is surely beyond that scope.
Dr. Tanner purses her lips and her gaze slips to the clock. “Well, I think we made some great progress today.”Did we?“Try out the exercise when you go to the studio and let me know how it goes next session. If you notice anything else, jot it down in your journal, or if it’s urgent, please don’t hesitate to call the emergency line.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dr. Tanner.” I pop up from the couch, ready to get out of here. “Same time next week?”
“Same time next week, Jolie. I’ll see you then.”
