Chapter 53
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
EMMETT
Not a couch or zen garden in sight. The walls of Harvey Cohen’s office are a pleasant shade of beige, and three mismatched green chairs sit in a loose semicircle, all of them looking comfortable enough. Plants climb toward the light filtering through an arched window.
Other than the missing TV, the therapist’s office looks more like someone’s living room than a place you unpack your damage.
Which I guess is the point—to make you comfortable enough to tell a stranger all your secrets.
I’m not sure it actually works, but I appreciate the effort.
Harvey stands across from me, waiting patiently while I hover in the middle of the room.
“I just sit anywhere?” I glance between the chairs.
“Not anywhere,” he says. “That one’s mine.”
He drops into the oversized dark-green chair and grabs the notebook from the table beside it.
“The notebook tends to freak people out,” he adds. “Most people assume I’m writing down every questionable thing they say.”
“Aren’t you?” I ask flatly.
“Sometimes.” He grins. “It’s mostly treatment goals—things I want to circle back to. Occasionally a reminder that I need milk on the way home.”
“Very professional.”
“You’d be surprised how human therapists are.”
When I don’t say anything he just keeps on.
“Some things we try here will work for you, some won’t, and that’s okay. Failure doesn’t exist in therapy.”
I settle into one of the chairs, scooting around but failing to get comfortable. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Thanks?” He barks a laugh.
“I just mean . . .” When James Corbin gave me Harvey’s name, I expected a personality that matched his headshot—gruff and no nonsense.
It seemed like telling someone who looked less likely to talk my ear off would make this easier.
Right now, it’s not terrible, but once we start getting into why I’m here—well, that’s what I’m worried about. “Nevermind.”
“You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”
“You look more like a guy I’d find working on a ranch than a therapist.”
“Ah. It’s the beard.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“My wife hates it.”
“You should know I hate small talk.”
His pen moves across the page. “Noted.”
Then he settles back, crosses one arm over the notebook, and leans in.
“You mentioned on the phone earlier this week you wanted to see someone as soon as possible.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that about?”
There are about a dozen ways I could answer.
“It’s overdue,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair. “And I’m required to be here if I want to return to work.”
“Ah.”
Ah. What the hell does that mean?
“Do you want to be here?” he asks.
“Does anyone?”
He smiles faintly. “If we were given the choice, most of us would pick a life without trauma or struggle.”
I think about that—about the worst moments and the people I never would’ve met if things hadn’t gone wrong first.
“Are you about to tell me you have to go through the dark to find the light?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Bad shit happens, and sometimes we find joy on the other side. It can feel connected, but most of the time it’s just coincidence.”
I nod.
“I do want to be here,” I say quietly. “I get what you’re saying, but I want that clear. I’ve got things I need to deal with, and I’m tired of putting my life on hold because of them.”
Harvey studies me for a second longer, and then nods slowly. “What does putting your life off mean to you?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Avoidance—people, relationships, roots. Leaving before someone can leave me. I live in a camper on land that isn’t even mine. Not exactly subtle when you think about it.”
“Why a camper?”
“I like being outside and it works with my job.”
Harvey waits, like he knows there’s more to own up to.
I huff out an annoyed grumble.
“And because if something changes, I can up and leave.”
“And do you ever leave?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“My grandmother is there, in memory care.”
“Has she been there long?”
“Three years.”
“And you’ve stayed close.”
“Of course.”
“The caregiver role isn’t an easy one to fill.”
I shrug because what does he expect? For me to abandon her because it’s hard?
“She’s in memory care. Some days she knows me, some days she doesn’t. But I’m the person who shows up. I’m not changing that.”
“I’m not suggesting you should.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” I ask too quickly.
“Just wondering if there’s room for anything else . . . something for you.
Aspen’s bright smiling face is the first thing that fills my mind.
“I met someone who makes me want a future.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Aspen was the spark—I won’t pretend she wasn’t.
But if she decides I hurt her too much, if the future I want with her isn’t the one I get, I’ll still show up next week.
Because that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
I can’t put the responsibility of saving me on someone who was only trying to love me.
“No.” I drag a hand over the back of my neck.
Talking about myself is hard, nd rehashing my pain doesn’t change what I did, but maybe I can loosen its grip on me.
“Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like I belonged anywhere. Before her, everything felt temporary, but opening myself up to a real connection made me realize I’m tired of living like I’m waiting for the next bad thing to happen”
Harvey leans back slightly. “And what do you feel you need in order to stop living like that?”
“I need to deal with my past . . . deal with the things I’ve done.”
“Is there a specific event that you think caused you to live this way?”
“I know there is.” My palms are already damp. I wipe them on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. I stare at the floor because it’s easier than watching his face change.
“I started a fire when I was a teen and someone I loved didn’t make it out. It destroyed my family.”
My chest tightens, like my body’s trying to drag me backward into it, but I don’t stop.
“I went in after her,” I add. “I still do—every time I close my eyes.”
Silence settles between us.
“It cost my grandparents everything.”
Saying it out loud after telling Aspen is easier than I expected. Whatever reaction I get I can handle because it doesn’t matter. I told Aspen and she didn’t give up on me.
When I look up, I expect judgment. But it isn’t there. Instead, there’s . . . patience. Like he’s waiting for me to figure out how to say the next thing.
When I don’t he says, “You’ve talked about your family twice now.”
My brows pull together. “What?”
“When you talk about what happened, you talk about what everyone else lost.” He taps his pen against his notebook. “I’m curious if you’ve ever let yourself think about what that night cost you.”
And that’s how the rest of the hour goes.
After the session, I step out into the September sun. It’s not as hot as those first weeks in Timberline Peak, but it’s still warm.
I know one appointment doesn’t undo years of believing the worst parts of myself, and I have a long way to go before I fully forgive myself.
But for the first time, I believe maybe I can.
I just don’t know if Aspen is ready to forgive me.
But I know I won’t forgive myself if I let fear make one more choice for me.
There’s one thing I need to do before I find her.
Then I’m going to tell her everything I should have said when she was brave enough to say it first.