Chapter 5 – 2
My thumb hovers over her number. Would a text be inappropriate? Probably. Our relationship is professional, regardless of how I felt seeing her at Lou's this morning. Regardless of how her smile lit something inside me that has nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with being a man attracted to a compelling woman.
I put the phone away without texting. I'll tell her at our next session. That's the appropriate channel for this kind of update.
But as I return to the common area where the guys are already arguing about what to watch on TV, I can't help but wonder if she thought about our encounter too. If paying for her breakfast crossed a line I shouldn't have crossed. If the connection I felt sitting across from her was entirely one-sided.
These questions have no place in our therapeutic relationship. I know that. But they persist anyway, weaving themselves into the cautious hope that today's breakthrough has given me—the hope that maybe, with Everly Morgan's help, I can find my way back to being the firefighter I used to be.
The firefighter I want to be.
Three days later
Three days after the Maple Street fire, I find myself back in Everly's waiting room, arriving ten minutes early just like last time. The receptionist—Jim, I've learned his name now—offers me water, which I accept. The simple ritual feels familiar, almost comforting.
I'm both eager and anxious to tell Everly about the breakthrough at the fire. Eager because it validates her methods, anxious because our last interaction wasn't in this professional setting. The memory of seeing her at Lou's—casual, approachable, beautiful in a completely different way than she is here—has lingered with me, making me question whether I've somehow compromised our therapeutic relationship.
When her door opens at precisely 2:00, I stand perhaps too quickly.
"Ollis," she greets me, professional but warm. "Please come in."
I follow her into the now-familiar office, noting small changes since my last visit—a different arrangement of books on her desk, a new plant by the window, a cardigan draped over the back of her chair. These details shouldn't matter, but somehow they do. They remind me that Everly Morgan exists outside this room, has a life separate from her role as my therapist.
"How are you?" she asks as we settle into our respective chairs.
"Better than expected," I reply honestly. "Something happened that I wanted to discuss."
She nods encouragingly, but before I can continue, she raises a hand slightly. "Before we get into that, I'd like to briefly address our encounter at Lou's."
A knot forms in my stomach. "Is there a problem?"
"Not a problem, exactly," she says carefully. "But I want to clarify some boundaries that help maintain the effectiveness of our therapeutic relationship."
I brace myself, wondering if I've somehow screwed this up before it really began.
"While casual interactions in public spaces are unavoidable in a community like Cedar Falls, there are certain boundaries that preserve the professional nature of our work together," she continues. "One of those involves financial transactions."
It takes me a moment to understand what she means. "You're talking about the breakfast."
"Yes," she confirms. "While I appreciate the gesture, it's important that our relationship remains strictly professional, without exchanges of gifts or services that might complicate the therapeutic dynamic."
I feel my face warm slightly. "It wasn't meant to be inappropriate. It's sort of a firefighter tradition—we often pay for people's meals. Community goodwill thing."
Her expression softens slightly. "I understand that, and I'm not suggesting any inappropriate intent. I'm simply clarifying the boundary for future reference."
"Noted," I say, feeling oddly chastised despite her gentle tone. "Won't happen again."
She offers a reassuring smile. "Thank you for understanding. Now, you mentioned something happened that you wanted to discuss?"
The momentary tension dissolves as I focus on the real reason I've been looking forward to this session. "We had a call. Structure fire with entrapment. Older man trapped upstairs while I was working the hose line."
Everly leans forward slightly, her full attention on me. "Go on."
"A ceiling beam collapsed—similar to Henderson's, similar sound, similar circumstances," I explain. "And I felt it starting—that freezing response. The cold, the time slowing down. But this time, I used those grounding techniques you taught me. Focused on physical sensations, reminded myself where I actually was."
"And what happened?" she asks, though I think she already knows from my demeanor.
"It worked," I say, still somewhat amazed. "I pushed through it. Stayed present. Kept functioning."
The smile that spreads across her face is genuine, lighting her eyes behind those glasses. "Ollis, that's significant progress. How did you feel afterward?"
"Relieved. Surprised, honestly. I didn't think it would be that... immediate." I pause, organizing my thoughts. "It wasn't a complete test—I still wasn't the one entering the heart of the fire. But it was a situation that would have triggered me completely a few weeks ago."
"This is exactly the kind of incremental progress we hope for," she says. "You faced a trigger, applied the techniques, and experienced success. That creates a positive feedback loop for your nervous system—evidence that these traumatic memories don't have to control your responses."
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself smiling—a real smile, not the forced ones I've been offering the world lately.
"I need to emphasize that recovery isn't linear," she continues, tempering the celebration slightly. "You may still experience setbacks or find that different situations trigger different intensities of response. But this is clear evidence that the process is working."
"What's next?" I ask, suddenly eager for more tools, more progress. "How do we build on this?"
"Today I'd like to work on strengthening your narrative understanding of the trauma," she explains. "The physical grounding techniques address the body's alarm response, but we also need to help your mind make sense of what happened."
I shift uncomfortably. "You mean talk more about Henderson?"
"And Eva," she adds gently. "From what you've shared, these experiences are connected in your trauma response."
The mention of Eva's name still sends a dull ache through me, but it doesn't paralyze me the way it might have before. "Where do we start?"
"I'd like you to tell me Eva’s full story, from the moment you received the call to the aftermath," Everly says. "But this time, I want you to include not just what happened but what you were thinking and feeling throughout the experience."
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "It was June, eight years ago. Middle of a heatwave. We got the call around 10 PM—apartment fire in a complex downtown."
As I begin recounting the details, something shifts. Instead of the detached, report-style narration I've used before, I find myself including the sensory impressions, the emotions, the thoughts that raced through my mind that night.
I tell Everly about the suffocating heat of the summer night, intensified by the fire. About the chaotic scene when we arrived—half-naked residents gathered in the parking lot, some crying, some still in shock. About the information from bystanders that most residents were accounted for, except for a woman in apartment 3C.
"Lewis and I took the stairwell—elevator was already compromised," I continue. "Visibility was poor but not zero. We checked 3C first—empty, at least at first glance. But something told me to be thorough."
I pause, remembering the instinct that made me double-check the closets while Lewis moved on to adjacent units.
"The bedroom closet was packed with clothes, shoes, storage boxes. I almost missed her. She'd wedged herself into the corner, covered herself with clothes, stuffed towels along the bottom of the closet door." My voice grows quieter. "She thought she was protecting herself."
Everly nods, understanding the tragic misconception that led Eva to hide rather than flee.
"When I found her, she was unconscious but had a pulse. I radioed Lewis, started carrying her out." The memory is vivid now—Eva's weight in my arms, lighter than I expected, her dark hair falling across my arm as I navigated the increasingly smoke-filled hallway. "By the time I got her outside, she wasn't breathing. We started CPR immediately, paramedics took over, but..."
I trail off, the familiar sense of failure washing over me, though less intensely than before. "We later learned she had severe asthma. The smoke inhalation, combined with her pre-existing condition..."
"You did everything possible," Everly says quietly. "You found her when others might have missed her. You got her out quickly. You began life-saving measures immediately."
"But it wasn't enough," I finish.
"Sometimes it isn't," she acknowledges. "That's the hardest reality for people in your profession to accept. You can do everything right and still lose someone."
"We're trained for that possibility," I say. "We understand intellectually that we can't save everyone."
"Understanding intellectually is different from accepting emotionally," Everly points out. "Especially when these losses accumulate over time." She leans forward slightly. "When you were carrying Eva through that hallway, what were you thinking?"
The question catches me off guard. I have to search my memory, pushing past the clinical details to find the actual thoughts that ran through my mind in those moments.
"I was thinking that she was going to be okay," I admit. "That I'd found her in time. That she was going to wake up in the hospital and be grateful, and maybe the department would do one of those human interest stories about the rescue." I laugh bitterly. "Arrogant, right? Already planning the happy ending."
"Not arrogant," Everly corrects gently. "Hopeful. You had faith in your abilities, in the system designed to save lives. That's not arrogance—it's the necessary belief that makes your job possible."
Put that way, it does sound different. Less like ego, more like the essential confidence required to run into burning buildings while others run out.
"Now," Everly continues, "tell me about the moment when you realized she wasn't going to make it."
The memory rises unbidden—standing in the parking lot, watching the paramedics work on Eva, the gradual shift in their urgency from frantic life-saving to knowing they were fighting a lost battle.
"One of the paramedics looked at me," I say slowly. "Just a glance, but I knew. And I remember thinking, 'I was too slow. I should have checked the closet first instead of the bathroom. I should have moved faster through the hallway.'"
"You blamed yourself," Everly observes.
"Wouldn't you?" I counter. "If you lost a patient because you checked for internal bleeding in the wrong place first?"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Everly's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes—a brief shadow of the pain she alluded to in our previous session.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately. "That was out of line. I shouldn't have brought up your experience that way."
She shakes her head slightly. "No need to apologize. It's a valid parallel, and one I've considered myself." She pauses, then adds, "And yes, I did blame myself. For years. Part of my own therapy was recognizing that self-blame was easier in some ways than accepting the randomness of tragedy."
Her candor surprises me, though she maintains her professional demeanor. This brief glimpse into her own healing process feels like a gift—a reminder that she understands not just from clinical knowledge but from lived experience.
"What changed?" I ask. "How did you stop blaming yourself?"
Everly considers the question. "I realized that claiming total responsibility was actually a form of control. If I was entirely to blame, then theoretically I could have prevented it—which meant I could prevent all future tragedies by being perfect."
This hits uncomfortably close to home. Isn't that exactly what I've been doing? Believing that if I had just been faster, smarter, better, Henderson would still be alive?
"The harder truth," she continues, "is accepting that we have influence but not control. That perfect performance doesn't guarantee perfect outcomes. That sometimes, despite our best efforts, tragedy occurs."
"That's a hell of a thing to accept in our line of work," I say.
"It is," she agrees. "But the alternative is carrying an impossible burden of responsibility that eventually breaks us."
We sit with this for a moment, the weight of her words settling between us.
"Let's connect this back to Henderson," she suggests finally. "When the ceiling collapsed, what went through your mind?"
"Eva," I admit. "I saw Henderson's face, but I thought of Eva. That I was about to lose someone else. That I'd failed again."
"And in that moment, your body responded with the freeze response—trying to protect you from another devastating loss," Everly says. "But at the Maple Street fire, you were able to recognize this pattern and interrupt it."
"Because I understood what was happening," I realize. "The grounding techniques gave me a way to separate past from present."
She nods. "Exactly. Now we're working on the narrative understanding that will support those techniques—recognizing how these experiences connected in your mind, and gradually untangling them."
The session continues as we dig deeper into the parallels between Eva and Henderson, identifying the specific triggers that connect these traumas in my mind. By the time our hour approaches its end, I feel mentally exhausted but somehow lighter, as if naming these connections has already begun to weaken their hold on me.
"You've done excellent work today," Everly says as our time draws to a close. "This kind of processing is challenging but vital to recovery."
"It helps to have the right guide," I reply.
Everly eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
I'm aware of her presence across from me—the slight flush on her cheeks from the intensity of our session, the way she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
"Ollis," she says softly, my name a gentle warning on her lips.
I should acknowledge it. Should thank her for the session and leave. Should maintain the professional boundary she so carefully established at the beginning of our meeting.
Instead, I find myself leaning forward. "I can't stop thinking about seeing you at Lou's."
Her eyes widen slightly. "We've discussed that. The boundaries—"
"I know," I interrupt, surprising myself with my boldness. "I know all the reasons why this is inappropriate. Why it crosses lines. Why it complicates everything."
"Then you understand why we need to end today's session," she says, though she doesn't move away.
"Do you think about me?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Outside of these sessions. Do you think about me the way I think about you?"
A visible shiver runs through her. "That's not a question I can answer."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both," she whispers.
I'm not sure who moves first—maybe we both do—but suddenly the careful distance between our chairs has vanished. I'm standing, she's rising to meet me, and then my hands are cradling her face, and her glasses are slightly askew, and I'm kissing her.
For one breathless moment, she freezes—surprise or resistance, I can't tell. Then her body softens against mine, her hands finding my shoulders, her lips responding with an intensity that matches my own.
My hands slide down to her waist, feeling the curve of her body beneath that professional blouse. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me closer with surprising strength. I back her gently against her desk, our bodies pressed together in a way that leaves no doubt about the mutual attraction we've been fighting.
My hands find the buttons of her blouse, fumbling slightly as I begin to unfasten them. She makes a slight sound against my mouth—encouragement or hesitation, I'm too lost in the moment to discern.
One button. Two. The edge of a lace camisole becomes visible beneath the parting fabric.
Suddenly, her hands cover mine, stilling them. She breaks the kiss, breathing hard, her forehead resting against my chest for a moment before she steps back.
"Stop," she says, her voice unsteady. "We have to stop."
Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water. What the hell am I doing? This is my therapist. The person helping me rebuild my career and my sense of self.
"Everly, I'm sorry," I say, taking another step back to give her space. "I shouldn't have—"
"This is my fault too," she interrupts, refastening her blouse with trembling fingers. "I let this happen. I've been... less than professional in maintaining boundaries."
The flush on her cheeks has deepened, spreading down her neck to the hint of collarbone visible above her blouse. Her lips are slightly swollen from our kiss. She's never looked more beautiful or more troubled.
"You should go," she says quietly, adjusting her glasses. "Please."
"Can we talk about this?" I ask, unwilling to leave things so unresolved.
She shakes her head. "Not now. I need... I need to think about what this means for your treatment. For my professional ethics."
The mention of ethics hits me like a car crash. I've potentially compromised not just my own therapy but her professional standing.
"I'm sorry," I say again, meaning it deeply. "The last thing I want is to cause problems for you."
"I know," she says, and the sadness in her voice cuts through me. "Please, just go."
I gather my jacket, moving to the door with reluctant steps. At the threshold, I turn back. "Will I see you for our next session?"
She doesn't meet my eyes. "I don't know. I'll have Jim call you once I've... once I've figured out how to proceed."
I leave her office in a daze, barely acknowledging Jim as I pass through the waiting room and out into the afternoon sunshine. In my truck, I sit gripping the steering wheel, alternating between self-recrimination and the lingering sensation of her lips on mine, her body pressed against me.
What have I done?