Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Willa
I glare at my therapist.
She stares beatifically back, with her pristine white hair and blue eyes.
I recross my legs, adjusting in my seat. Judith does the same.
I give an exasperated sigh, and she does the thing where she smiles without smiling. It’s faint and might not register to a stranger, but I’ve been coming here long enough to recognize the twinkle in her eyes and the slight twitch in the corner of her lips.
Go to therapy , they said.
It will be great , they said.
They’re all a bunch of dirty, dirty liars.
Fine—no one said it would be great, per se. They did say it might help me, and so far, I see no sign that it has done squat. I’m not sure I’ve made any progress at all in the year I’ve been seeing Judith. The other thing that hasn’t changed is my dread every week on therapy day.
Maybe to some, the experience of laying bare the most vulnerable parts of themselves to a stranger with a degree feels good. Healthy. Rewarding. Cathartic.
For me , it’s like someone handed over a skimpy two-piece bathing suit and told me I’d be walking a mile-long runway under the most unflattering lights in subzero temperatures—in front of a football stadium of people who all have binoculars to examine my every flaw.
Actually, I might prefer that.
On therapy days, my hands start to sweat and tremble a few hours before my appointment. My stomach ties itself into a tight knot, and my thoughts turn into Formula 1 racecars.
The sessions all start the same: Judith and I engaged in a standoff to see who will break first and speak. She seems to enjoy it, while in me, it makes anger bubble and build. She says she wants to give me space to start the conversation (her words), and every week, I prefer to see exactly how long we can sit in uncomfortable silence. The record so far is nine minutes and forty-seven seconds.
What no one ever told me is that therapy is war. And while Judith is the one I feel like I’m waging war against, I know it’s actually me battling against myself.
It’s uncomfortable. Painful. And though I’m sure Judith hears all kinds of stories, I can’t help feeling humiliated by mine.
The only reason I still come every week is because I prepaid for a package her practice offered through a Facebook ad. That should have been a red flag to me. Something as serious as mental health shouldn’t come in prepaid discount packages advertised on social media.
But also … I want to, at some point in my life, be able to leave Serendipity Springs again.
Judith clears her throat and adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her tiny, perfect nose. She has the adorable, pert features of a Disney cartoon. One of the nice side characters who helps the main character on their journey. She also has all the doggedness of a bloodhound following the scent of all my secrets.
I sigh again and turn to study the curtains, which are a thin, multicolored fabric that clashes with the more traditional maroon rug and the handful of bright bean bag chairs scattered around. I asked Judith once about the decor of the room. It’s a sunny addition on the back of a small house she repurposed into a therapy practice.
“I like to mix things up,” she answered. “It may not match, but having different styles is inviting. There are more options for people to relate to, which might make different kinds of people feel at home.”
There’s nothing in this room I relate to. Not even the gorgeous midcentury modern chairs Judith and I are currently sitting in for our face-off. Sophie would love them. And while I appreciate them, they’re too stiff for comfort, the wooden legs too aggressively pointy.
But I’m not sure any decor would make me feel more comfortable in this situation.
“So,” Judith begins, as she always does. “How have things been since our last session?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mutter, wondering what she’d say if I started off by telling her my closet transported me across a building and up two floors.
“Pardon?”
Judith leans forward with interest, resting pointy elbows on spindly knees. I’ve tried to pinpoint her age, but so far, I have failed to narrow it down to a specific decade. She has few visible wrinkles, but her short hair is solid white. She chooses a nondescript wardrobe of black or navy pants paired with a solid-colored blouse. No jewelry, save for a simple diamond with a platinum band. She’s thoughtful and kind but with a sassy edge that makes her real .
I think if I met her in any other context, I’d really like her.
But in this room, Judith is trying to make me talk about things I don’t want to talk about. Which means I can’t like her.
“A lot happened,” I say. “I’m not sure an hour will be enough time to cover it.”
Forty-nine minutes now, but who’s counting?
“I’d love for you to try.”
Well, she asked for it.
Leaving out the part about how my closet has some kind of fickle magic transportation powers, I back my struggle bus up and unload on Judith.
Meeting the grumpy new building owner, surviving a possum attack, the death of my business thanks to the same new building owner, running into my newly engaged ex and my former friend who’s now his fiancée. I end with my new job, which I’m shocked to find I like.
One of the other things that bugs me about therapy is that though I’m expected to share everything , Judith is a vault. It’s rare to get any reaction from her aside from the occasional encouraging smile.
But today I get two: a soft humph when I recount the grocery store encounter with Trey and Mel, and a curious hmm at the mention of my new job working for Archer.
“So, you know, just a typical week,” I say.
“I’m not sure typical is the word I’d use.” Judith raises a sculpted white brow.
“What word would you use?”
“What’s another word you might use?” she counters. “Aside from typical.”
Ugh . Judith asks so many questions. Which is, I guess, her job. But still.
“I might say …stupid. Dramatic. Ridiculous.” I pause, thinking about this week. “But not boring.”
She smiles. “Definitely not boring. You almost seem”—Judith tilts her head, examining me—“energized talking about it.”
Though my first response is to say something snarky about showing her energized, I find myself considering her words. Maybe I am energized.
By frustration . I’m energized by frustration, mostly aimed toward one grumpy man who has toppled over the comfortable chaos of my life. Although the frustration has morphed now into a whole new set of complicated emotions.
Interest with a side of empathy. Hard to be angry with the man for his cold demeanor now that I know his background. Attraction, which shows no sign of slowing.
And yes—still frustration.
He might have given me the kitchen space without cost, but with the rent increasing, it’s a moot point. So, yeah, I’m still mad at him.
And I think about kissing him more than I should.
Such a strong mix of opposing reactions can’t be healthy, right? I almost ask Judith but then remember I don’t like talking to her.
“How are you feeling about the new job?”
“It’s a job. I need the money.”
“Your new boss came up quite a bit.” Judith stares with what I like to call her laser eyes. They tell me she knows I’m not giving her the full story.
I stare back, which tells her I don’t want to give her the full story.
For a moment, the room is quiet, aside from my fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. “I think I’m good at it. The job.” Might as well go back to her first question, which is easier to answer.
Archer seems very appreciative, which he expresses by way of frowning a little less. He even gave me a clipped thank you at the end of my second day. I also notice he’s binge-eating fewer of his disgusting mints. I’m not sure I should get all the credit, but I’m happy to take it.
“You seemed to have mixed but strong feelings about your boss when you talked about him.”
That’s one way to put it.
I wish I didn’t. I’d prefer to have mixed-but-meh feelings about him. But even Judith’s question has my heart picking up its pace.
Slow down there, little buddy. No need to get excited about that guy. I’m too young for you to get overworked.
“You’re frowning,” Judith says.
“My new boss has that effect.”
“But a moment before, you were smiling.”
“Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare?”
“I’m simply observing. Switching gears, how are you doing with your steps?” Judith asks.
My steps . I’d rather talk about Archer for the remaining time.
“I still haven’t really made much progress on that front.”
“Have you tried?” Her question is gentle but prodding. It sinks into me like a blade, leaving a sharp tug where it lodges in my chest. “Remember, we’re not trying for perfection, only progress.”
It sounds so simple when she says it, but the reality is a lot more difficult for me. So is progress.
“Two weeks ago, I drove past the city sign,” I admit, a hot flush of shame creeping up my neck. Because this sounds too small to celebrate. Even if it’s the first time I’ve left the technical city limits in years.
But Judith beams. “Willa—that really is something to celebrate. It’s progress.”
“I made it a mile before I had to turn around.” Even now, remembering has my palms starting to sweat. One minute, I was grinning and whooping and feeling like just maybe I could do this. Maybe I was done with the weird mental and physiological block keeping me stuck here.
And then I had to pull over so I could dry heave on the shoulder of the road.
Judith leans forward again, her expression somehow both sharp and soft as she says, “Don’t downplay your accomplishments. Honor them. Repeat them. Then build on them.”
I nod numbly, understanding and accepting what she says on an intellectual, logical level. On an emotional level, however, I’m frustrated with myself that what counts as something to celebrate is so very small.
Serendipity Springs is a great place to live. I didn’t grow up with grand plans to move to a bigger city or travel the world. But now that I’m trapped, I think about all the places I’d go if I could. Beaches. Islands. Mountains.
Not Paris. But maybe London or Venice?
I’d fly on a plane and ride in a boat. Try snowboarding or scuba diving (not in the same location, obviously) or zip lining.
I’m not sure I’d like all of these activities or if I’d want to try them under normal circumstances. But being stuck has me dreaming big. Even if I’m not necessarily being brave or doing the hard work I should be doing.
“And how was seeing Trey?” Judith’s question about my ex is actually a welcome change of topic.
“I thought it would be worse. My mom dropped the engagement bomb, so I was mentally prepared for that.”
Mom did not, however, mention Trey was engaged to Mel , and I’m still debating how to bring this up. Or if I should. Right now, I’m too hurt.
Ever since my diagnosis, my parents have struggled to speak hard truths—or any truths, really—to me. Which makes me feel worse about everything and more out of sorts. As an only child, I had the kind of upbringing where my parents treated me like a mini adult. But now, I’m an adult being treated more like a baby.
“It was awkward, but I didn’t feel heartbroken, which I’ll take as a win.”
“Good,” Judith says, her mouth a firm line. Though she’s never actually said as much out loud, I get the sense she doesn’t like Trey.
I can’t blame her. I’m not sure how much I like him either.
And to think—you came this close to marrying him.
I would have, too, had he not proposed in the way he did, making our future contingent on one he’d planned without me. Or planned for me, even knowing the struggles I was just starting to parse through.
Honestly, this has sabotaged every dating relationship I’ve tried to have since. If I could be so wrong about Trey and so ready to marry him, how can I trust my own judgment?
Then there’s the pesky matter of thinking about dating and having to tell a guy, Oh, by the way, I can’t leave Serendipity Springs. Hope you like it here and sorry for the inconvenience!
My only gauge for knowing how a guy might respond to this is Trey. Who sent a message loud and clear: You’re broken, and I can fix you by giving you an impossible ultimatum!
So, it’s no surprise I’m not eager to lead off with this information.
I remember the potent feeling of nausea I felt staring down at Trey’s earnest face, as he was on one knee with a velvet box in his hand. I didn’t even see the ring.
All I could see was his lack of understanding.
It felt like being given some kind of loyalty test by a person you thought you’d already proven yourself to. A kick in the gut instead of a kiss.
But in a way, he was the one who set up a test and then failed it himself.
Bullet dodged! Thanks, agoraphobia, for saving me from a marriage mistake!
For some reason, this makes me think of Archer, saving me in the grocery store. Or not saving me, really, but stepping in. And telling me that Trey and Mel didn’t seem like friends. The thought warms my heart a little bit, and I almost forget I’m still in a therapy session.
Until Judith jumps in with another question.
“Did this leave you feeling a new sense of closure? And maybe make you more open to a relationship?”
Heat shoots up my neck and across my cheeks. “A relationship with my boss? Isn’t that unethical? I’m a little surprised you’re suggesting that.”
“I didn’t suggest it.” Judith smiles. “In fact, I wasn’t thinking about your boss—Archer, was it?—when I mentioned a relationship. But clearly, you were.”
She’s got me there.
“As far as ethics,” she continues, “dating a coworker or even a boss can be tricky. But your situation sounds a little less formal. Didn’t you say it was temporary?”
“I—yes.”
Though I’ve enjoyed the change of pace and the dopamine rush from completing tasks, managing a building or being an assistant isn’t my dream. Then again, it’s making me wonder if a cookie business is actually my dream. I love the cookie part. But it’s been a relief to not worry about Serendipitous Sweets. Maybe that’s not what I want either.
The best part about my new job, if I’m being fully honest, is seeing Archer. My skin prickles every time he strides into the office, with his blazing eyes and firm mouth, ordering me to do something. Even when that something is calling the plumber.
The deep timbre of his voice is like a tuning fork. It makes my heart hum.
My favorite thing, though, is the way he’ll hesitate in the doorway a few times a day like he wants to say something. Like he’s starved for some kind of human contact. He never brings himself to speak, so I happily jump to fill the silence by either babbling inanely or asking him questions.
Oh, no…
My conversations with Archer are my conversations with Judith, only in reverse. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. Awesome. I am therapist-ing Archer.
Except he wants to be there. He keeps coming back, dispensing orders and then softening a little, hovering just inside the office with a look that’s almost hopeful. That is not like Judith and me.
I feel slightly better.
“I think ultimately, it would depend on the power dynamics between you. In a healthy relationship, both parties are on equal ground,” Judith says. “You wouldn’t want him to be your boss outside of work.”
A sly smile overtakes her face, and I realize I was wrong. She’s not a supportive side character in a cartoon movie. She’s a straight-up villain.
“Unless you want him to boss you around … elsewhere.”
I gulp. Then I glare, but it’s hard to do so when my face feels like it’s melting right off my bones. “I don’t think it’s … we’re not …”
“Do you feel like you can freely express yourself with Archer? Could you be partners?”
She’s back in business mode, thankfully. No smiles. No innuendos—was that an innuendo? Are therapists allowed to make those?
Whatever it was, I’m still recovering. But I force myself to think about her question.
I think of bossing him around in the kitchen while he wore a pink, frilly apron. Despite his commanding and somewhat intimidating presence, I’ve never had a problem speaking freely. Even the night we met.
But it doesn’t matter because I’m not seriously considering this, am I?
I can think of at least five or ten good reasons not to. Perhaps the biggest one, which has become more clear as I’ve heard bits and pieces of Archer’s conversations with Bellamy and others, is that his real life is in New York. He’s said nothing about going back, but he’d have to, wouldn’t he?
A billionaire would be bored in Serendipity Springs.
And even if the idea of living in a bigger city like New York excites me, I can’t. Literally. It would be Paris and Trey all over again.
It would be different , some small voice insists. Archer isn’t Trey.
But the parallel between the two situations has been made, leaving me with a sour feeling in my gut.
The alarm on my phone beeps, and I jump to my feet, relieved I’ve survived another week of war. And safely avoided answering her questions about Archer. He is a pothole—no, a sinkhole—up ahead on the road I’m driving. And the best option is for me to steer right around him and keep going.
So why is my foot twitching to hit the gas and drive straight into him?
“If you can, take that drive again,” Judith says. “Only as far as you already went. Unless you want to go beyond. But Willa?”
“Hm?” I turn at the doorway, where I’ve got one foot out of the room already.
“Go easy on yourself.”
I give her a tight smile, not sure this is something I can do.