Chapter 90 Celia
CELIA
“And you’re sure she can be trusted with… my secrets?” I asked my dearest friend through the phone awkwardly pinned between my cheek and my shoulder.
“Dr. Hernandez is very well recommended for her professionalism and her discretion in your circles. I’ve sent all her information to Dominico and Taylor, if they didn’t find any reason to be suspicious, then neither should you, Celia,” Emory said in a condescending tone..
“I’ve just never really done this before. Not like this, not with the intent of bearing it all,” I explained anxiously.
“And that’s why it’s never worked for you before. Real communication requires work, consistency, honesty. Things we all know you don’t excel in. If you can’t give her the bare minimum, then don’t bother wasting her time,” she snapped at me as if she knew I was starting to chicken out.
“Ouch amiga,” I said with a laugh.
“It’s a waste of your time too, if you can’t respect her time, at least respect your own. You will never heal if you don’t sort through your damage. It’s not up to them to fix it for you.”
She meant my guys.
She wasn’t wrong, I couldn’t lay the burden of all my problems, my fears, my traumas on them. Sure, they could be there for me, but it wasn’t up to them to always have to clean up my messes.
It had been a week since Carolina had died and I hadn’t slept more than three hours total. It wasn’t that I couldn’t sleep, it was that I was afraid to. Afraid to close my eyes and deal with the aftermath of every horrible thing I’d done to claim the throne I could finally sit on.
“How’s Grimm’s Reach?” I asked, the sarcasm in my tone too clear.
“I don’t want to talk about it, don’t change the subject,” Emory snipped at me.
“Fine,” I said. “Besos.” I hung up without another word, knowing she would be mad for about thirteen seconds before she got over it and found something else to irritate her instead.
With some struggle, I used my wrists and the few uninjured fingers to put my phone in my purse, standing at the door as if I hadn’t just had an entire conversation in front of this person’s house, trying to decide whether or not I would be going in at all.
I knocked with my elbow, my hands still badly injured, wrapped in gauze and splinted.
“Cecilia Gomez?” The elderly brunette opened the door to her modest home.
I nodded, appreciating that Emory was thoughtful enough to not give the name that was associated with my political career.
Dr. Hernandez wasn’t a stupid woman, she would have had to have been living in an alternate dimension to have missed my face plastered around the news with the upcoming election.
The fact she was opting to stick with the alias let me know Emory might have been right about whether or not the doctor was trustworthy.
She led me through her home until we reached double wooden doors that opened into a beautiful office.
A rich mahogany desk sat in front of a backdrop of bookshelves, nothing but psychology textbooks displayed on the shelves.
She gestured to the sofa and took a seat on the opposing chair. I followed suit, sitting down as well.
“Thank you for clearing your schedule for me on such short notice,” I told her.
“I understand you’ve had a family tragedy recently. Is that where you’d like to start?” she asked, getting down to business without asking a single word about me.
I fidgeted with my hands nervously on my lap.
“Actually, I’m not sure. I’ve never really done this before, I’m not sure where to start…” I told her truthfully.
“Here’s the thing Cecilia, in order for me to help you out of the grave you’ve dug for yourself, I need to understand just how deep you’ve dug it.
That’s the only way therapy can work.” she said, as if she somehow knew everything that was going through my head without knowing anything at all. “Start with what hurts the most.”
I nodded my head, letting out a deep exhale before opening my mouth.
“I spend a lot of time wondering what would have happened if my father had a son…”