Page 140 of Wait for Him

The tide did not give a shit about my discipline.

The mistake was social media. Months clean, and I broke on a Tuesday for no reason I can name. I just opened the app the way you touch a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Evidently, the algorithm knew exactly who I was, even out here. Wesley's trial was everywhere. Every day of coverage, every courthouse photo, every panel of talking heads dissecting the case like it was content instead of people's lives.

Jackson was there. Every single day.

Same seat. Same suit. Same unreadable face in the background of a hundred photographs, and not once did he look at the cameras.

And the women.

So many women came forward.

I read their accounts long past the point where reading them was doing anything but harm. Harassment. Assault. Details that made my stomach turn because I recognized too much of him in them, that same terrible signature running through story after story.

Then I was crying.

Then I wasn't getting out of bed.

Then somehow it was three days later.

It wasn't until I heard knocking at my door that I saw daylight again, with Dr. Campbell standing between me and the sun.

"Hey, doc."

"Hello, Rosalie."

I step back and let him in, and we start the familiar route toward the second bedroom I converted into an office for our weekly sessions.

He doesn't hurry.

I watch him take the scenic tour without appearing to. The open food containers on the counter. The empty bottles clustered beside the sink. My phone face-up on the couch, still murmuring the latest report on Wesley's case to a room that has stopped listening.

He doesn't comment on any of it.

"Coffee?" I ask as he sets his bag down.

"Please, yes."

I go through the motions of making two cups, grateful for a task with steps.

Scoop. Water. Mug. Pour.

Very advanced stuff.

I can imagine how I look. I haven't showered in days. My hair has developed opinions. There's a version of me that would be mortified for anyone to see me like this, but Dr. Campbell stopped being anyone somewhere around year three.

I hand him his mug, take my usual seat across from him, and find that I can barely lift my eyes to his face.

I'm afraid of what I'll find there. Disappointment, maybe. Pity would be worse.

I'd been doing so well, and some part of me is already drafting the apology, outlining the mitigating circumstances, preparing to litigate my own relapse before he's even asked the first question.

"Rosalie?"

"Present, your honor."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face at that. He's told me before that my humor is a vital sign. The day I stop deflecting is the day he worries.