Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEE N
CLAIRE
The library at the community college has become my sanctuary. Unlike the oppressive quiet of my childhood home, where silence often meant shame or fear, this quiet is purposeful and peaceful. The afternoon sunlight beams down on the wooden table I’m sitting at, and the smells of old paper and coffee from the small café near the entrance mingle in the air.
I adjust my laptop screen, attempting to focus on the essay I'm writing for my English class. Once again, Mark’s generosity came in handy; he let me borrow his old laptop for schoolwork. We haven’t spoken about what happened on New Year’s even though two weeks have passed now. I’ve thoroughly convinced myself that he thinks it was a mistake, because he’s been friendly but noticeably avoiding any deep conversations or opportunities to spend extra time together.
He’s been going into work more often rather than working from his home office, and I’m not sure if it’s out of necessity or avoidance. Either way, I’ve been keeping up with cleaning and random household tasks, and he’s been leaving a paycheck on the counter for me every two weeks now.
Even despite his distance, I can’t stop thinking about him. About our kiss. The way he wrapped his arms around me and held me like I was the only thing that mattered.
A notification pops up on my phone—a reminder about my evening class in two hours. As I gather my things, Perla from my psychology class waves me over from a nearby table. We're not quite friends, but there's a comfort in these casual interactions that I never had before. Here, no one knows about my past. I'm just another student trying to figure things out.
When I walk over to her, she asks me if she can interview me for an article for the school newspaper. Apparently she’s doing an piece about non-traditional students, so I sit and answer a couple of her questions before heading to class.
Class flies by, as it always seems to, and I’m making a mental list of things I’ll do tomorrow when I walk into the apartment and find Mark sitting at the kitchen counter.
He looks up when I walk through the door, and his expression is serious but soft, as if he has bad news.
My stomach drops.
"Claire," he says in a gentle voice. "Can we talk for a minute?"
I set my bag down, my hands shaking. What is he about to say? Does he want me to leave soon? That’s probably it. "Sure. Is everything okay?"
He gestures for me to sit beside him. "Everything's fine. I just wanted to suggest something." He pauses, choosing his words carefully as I slip into the chair beside him. "I think it might be good for you to see a therapist."
My chest tightens. "Oh." The word comes out small, wounded. "You think something's wrong with me?"
"No. God, no, Claire. That's not it at all." His hand reaches for mine, then stops, hovering awkwardly before dropping back to his side. "It just seems like you've been through a lot, and talking to a professional—someone who knows how to help you process everything—could be really good for you."
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I hate myself for being so emotional. "You think something’s wrong with me?"
His expression softens. "Of course not." He stands and pulls me into a hug, one hand smoothing over my hair. The gesture is so tender it makes my heart ache. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says. "You're incredibly strong. This is just... support. Therapy is a good way to work through feelings and what you’ve gone through. It’s a healthy thing."
I let myself lean into him for a moment, breathing in his familiar scent. It's the closest we've been since New Year’s, and it makes me dizzy in a way I can't blame on wine this time.
"I guess I can try it."
Two weeks later, I'm sitting in a cozy office, perched on the edge of the seat of an oversized armchair. Dr. Savannah Lawrence is smaller than I expected her to be. Her dark skin crinkles around her eyes with smile lines, and she has a voice that somehow manages to be simultaneously professional and kind.
Her office is inviting, with soft lighting and plants carefully placed on various surfaces. Dr. Lawrence sits across from me with her legs crossed and her fingers threaded together over her knee. I try to ground myself by focusing on the texture of the fabric beneath my fingers and not on how nervous I feel.
After explaining that this first session is mostly just about getting to know each other and figuring out what I need, she says, "So, let’s talk about why you’re here. Is there something specific you’d like to focus on in our sessions?"
I fidget with the hem of my sweater, gathering my courage. "I, um, grew up in a really restrictive religious community. I finally got the courage to leave, but I had to run away without anyone knowing. Someone I met here took me in and helped me, and he encouraged me to come here to see you."
She nods, her expression neutral but encouraging. There's no judgment in her eyes, no shock or pity. "That must have taken a lot of courage to leave home. How are you adjusting to life in this new environment?"
The question opens a floodgate. "It's overwhelming sometimes," I admit. "Everything is so different. I lived in my car at first, which was terrifying. Then this man—Mark—took me in as a total stranger. He's been helping me get started with school and everything."
At Dr. Lawrence’s prompting, I explain more about how Mark offered me shelter from the storm while still respecting my space, then I tell her about how much he’s helped me begin to build a life in this city.
"Tell me more about that transition," Dr. Lawrence suggests. "What's been the most challenging part?"
I pause, considering her question. "Learning to trust, I think. Back home, everything was about control—what we wore, what we thought, who we talked to. But Mark just helps without expecting anything in return. His friends seem to be the same way. It's confusing. "
"Confusing how?"
"Because..." I struggle to find the words. "Because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to reveal what he really wants from me. But he just keeps helping, and I don’t know why."
Dr. Lawrence makes a note on her clipboard. "And how do you feel about your relationship with Mark? Are you worried he’ll expect something from you in the future?"
I think for a moment before answering. "No, I don’t think so. When I asked him why he’s helping me so much, he told me that he knows what it’s like to be in my position, and he had someone to help him in the way he’s helping me now. He’s shown me nothing but kindness and respect."
"It sounds like he's been a significant source of support," she observes.
"He is, but sometimes I feel guilty," I confess. "Like I'm taking advantage of his kindness. And sometimes..."
She looks at me, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
"Sometimes I catch myself wanting more," I say, dropping my gaze. "Which is silly, but it’s true."
"Why do you think that’s silly?"
"Because he’s got his whole life figured out. He’s so confident and always knows what to do. Meanwhile, I have no clue what I’m doing."
Dr. Lawrence leans forward slightly. "I think you know a lot more than you give yourself credit for, but that’s definitely something we can explore together. This is all a part of your journey of discovering who you are outside of the constraints you grew up with. We can work on understanding them together, at your pace."
Tears prick at my eyes, but they're not entirely sad ones. There's something freeing about sitting here, being able to voice these thoughts without fear of judgment.
"Thank you," I manage to say. "I've never been able to talk about any of this before."
She smiles. "That's what I'm here for. Would you like to meet regularly? We can work on processing your past experiences and navigating your new life."
"Yes, I'd like that."
As the session wraps up, Dr. Lawrence schedules our next appointment. Walking out of her office, I feel lighter somehow, as if sharing even this small portion of my story has lifted some of the weight from my shoulders. Maybe, with time and help, I can figure out who I am beyond my past.
Later, in my evening class, my mind is still spinning from the therapy session. I barely notice when someone sits down next to me until they speak.
"Hey, are you okay? You seem kind of out of it."
I look up to find Chris, a guy from my study group, watching me with concern. He's nice—the kind of guy I probably should be interested in. Clean-cut, close to my age, always ready with a friendly smile.
"I'm fine," I answer, managing a small smile. "Just tired."
"Well, hey, we're supposed to partner up for the group project," he says. "Want to work together?"
I agree, partly because it's easier than saying no, and partly because I should be making more connections outside of Mark's apartment. But as Chris talks about meeting up to work on the project, I can't help but compare his eager, boyish enthusiasm to Mark's quiet intensity.
The class passes in a blur of discussion about theme, figurative language, and structure in poetry. Chris and I exchange phone numbers at the end of class, but I can sense the way he’s trying to steer the conversation toward more personal things. Unfortunately, I have no emotional energy left today, so it’s difficult to participate in even friendly, surface-level conversation. His face falls a little when I make an excuse about needing to head home, but it’s so quick that I think I may have imagined it.
On the drive home, I wonder what Dr. Lawrence will say when I explain more about the complexities of my relationship with Mark. About how I'm trying to build a normal life while living with someone who makes my heart race every time he looks at me. About how I'm keeping perfectly nice guys at a distance while dreaming about a man who probably sees me as nothing more than someone to help.