“She Used to Be Mine” by Brooks & Dunn filtered through the speakers, and part of me regretted turning on music as my gaze flicked to Hayden’s hands tensing on the steering wheel.
“What was your dream about?” Hayden’s question came out soft—cautious. When I hesitated, he added, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I don’t want to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. Um. It was about that night.” My gaze shifted to the floorboards. I hadn’t told anyone about what happened nine years ago. Not Hayden, and not even the therapist the court recommended I see. That relationship didn’t last very long, and it wasn’t the therapist’s fault, at least I didn’t think it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
sierra
EIGHT YEARS AGO
Stark white walls with watercolor paintings of mountains hanging on them greeted me as I stepped inside my new therapist’s building. I’d never gone to therapy before, but the court had recommended it for both me and Mom.
A fragrance oil diffuser on a small coffee table dispersed a subtle aroma of chamomile, and an oscillating fan whirred in the corner. I awkwardly sat in a cream-colored chair in the corner, away from the other people who were waiting in the lobby.
I tapped my foot lightly against the wood-grain floor, picking at the skin underneath my nails as the lobby slowly started to dwindle in numbers. Some passed through to leave, while others walked down the hallways to their sessions.
“Sierra?” a kind voice called out my name.
I stood, glancing in the direction of the woman standing in the hallway.
“We’ll be down this way.” She waved me toward her, and I followed her down the hall and around a corner to asmall office.
The space was cozy and welcoming. To the right of the door was a large bookshelf. Against the back wall, a leather, espresso-colored sofa with fluffy pillows was placed across from a blue armchair, each equipped with a small side table and a box of tissues. Natural light filtered in from the vermillion curtains covering a large picture window on the wall across from the door. A poster that read,Things to Release, with a bunch of balloons with writing in them hung on the wall, and the opposite corner of the couch housed a small desk.
“Have a seat.” My therapist—a woman with dark auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail—gestured to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. My name’s Elena.”
“Hi, Elena.” I forced a small, pathetic smile as I sat on the couch, sinking into the leather cushion. At least it was comfortable.
The first couple sessions were easy, or at least they felt relatively easy. The way Elena had described it was that the first month or even two months were to get to know me as a person and earn my trust. At least, that was the way she put it. She wanted to earn my trust.
“I’ll let you steer most of the conversations we have. I don’t want to pretend that I know your life better than you do, because frankly, I don’t. You’re the expert when it comes to your life and your experiences. There may be times that I’ll want to backtrack if we seem to be going off course, but for the most part, I want you to know you have the power in our sessions. I’m here to help guide the conversation and give you a safe space to talk.”
It wasn’t until a few sessions in that our conversations started to get deeper and more uncomfortable. Not in aninappropriate way, but in a way that I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
“Tell me more about your relationship with Hayden.” Elena didn’t hesitate to get into the nitty-gritty after asking how I’d been.
“He…” My voice trailed off, because how was I supposed to describe Hayden and what he meant to me in the confines of just an hour? Less than, really, because of the time it took to talk about my week. “He was my best friend.”
“I noticed you spoke about him in the past tense. Are you two not in contact anymore?”
“Not really. It’s no fault of his own, I just…” I pursed my lips, my eyes darting to the floor as my brows pinched together. “I don’t know.”
“What are you feeling at this moment?”
“I’m not sure, guilty, maybe?”
“Why do you think that emotion is coming up for you? Walk me through what you’re thinking and feeling right now.”
“I guess I just feel bad because I could reach out to him. I still have his number saved. But I’m afraid?”
“You’re afraid.”
“I guess I’m scared that he’ll be mad at me that I haven’t reached out.”
“So what if he’s mad?” The question didn’t come out accusatory; it was more like she was genuinely curious why that would matter.
“I don’t want to disappoint him.”
