“That doesn’t mean you can’t call him now.”
“I’m not sure this is therapy-worthy.”
Vanessa’s face changes, becoming firmer in a way that probably works on Kara more often than Kara realizes.
“Honey, a stolen knife and creepy text message are absolutely therapy-worthy. Call Dr. Vale. Not because you’re falling apart. Because you’re trying so hard not to.”
Kara lets out a long breath.
I don’t like the idea of some man who knows private pieces of her being pulled into this, which is not rational, professional, or helpful. I don’t like it anyway.
“He might not even have an opening,” Kara says.
“Then you leave a message. Or you call someone else. Or you call me. I’m always willing to be your therapist too, even if the state of Florida remains weirdly stubborn about licensing.”
Kara laughs. The sound is soft and tired, but real.
“There she is,” Vanessa says, smiling. “I missed her.”
Missed.
One ordinary word, but after the knife photo, I hear it differently.
Miss You.
Kara doesn’t seem to. She only shakes her head, affection loosening her expression. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And useful.”
“Debatable.”
“Rude, considering I found you the beach house and bullied you into resting.”
Kara’s eyes glance toward me for a split second, then back to the screen. “Yes. You did.”
“Call him,” Vanessa says, gentler now. “Promise me.”
“I’ll reach out.”
“Today?”
“Yes. Today.”
They talk for another few minutes. Nothing important on the surface. Restaurant drama. A supplier issue. Someone named Marco who apparently believes garnish can fix a bad crab cake. Kara laughs twice, and each time Vanessa looks satisfied, like she has successfully pulled her back from an edge.
When the call ends, Kara stares at the blank phone screen and appears to be typing a text message.
“She cares about you,” I say.
“She does.”
“Do you need to talk to a therapist?”
Her gaze lifts. “Dr. Vale?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to.”
