Chapter 2
CITY OF SECOND CHANCES
NORA
My phone buzzes just as I'm walking up the steps to Dr. Henshaw's office. Camilla's name flashes across the screen with a message that makes me pause:
Camilla
Meet me at Mondea's after work - I have BIG news! xx
Camilla
Oh and good luck today! xx
I slip the phone back into my bag, making a mental note to ask Camilla how she managed to hack into my calendar in the first place to not only arrange an an appointment but also set up hourly countdown reminders on the day.
Typical Camilla.
She'd claimed the position of my best friend within forty-five seconds of meeting me at Corrigan's last summer, and since then, she's appointed herself as my unofficial life manager.
The waiting room smells like lavender and has that carefully neutral beige color scheme that's supposed to be calming. I check my watch—five minutes early, just how Camilla programmed the reminder.
"Lenora Wells?" Dr. Caroline Henshaw appears in the doorway, and I follow her into an office that feels more like someone's living room than a clinical space. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fine." The automatic response slips out before I can stop it.
She settles into her chair, pen poised over her notepad.
"Fine is often where we hide."
I sink into the familiar couch, pulling a throw pillow into my lap. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"Let's start with how has this week been for you?"
My fingers trace the edge of the pillow, finding the familiar worn seam.
"Same as every other week, I suppose."
Dr Henshaw scribbles something down on her notepad.
“Listen, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to tell you.”
“You tell me whatever you want to tell me.”
“My best friend, she’s the one that arranged this because ever since the accident I’ve just had trouble sleeping. But I mean, that’s normal isn’t it?”
"Accident? What kind of accident?”
“I was involved in a pretty bad car accident last summer.”
Dr Henshaw makes another note and now it’s kind of pissing me off that she’s making these silent observations with no explanation.
“Would you be comfortable sharing more about that night with me?"
"Isn't the point of all this to try and move forward instead of looking back?"
"Yes," Dr. Henshaw leans forward slightly, her expression patient. "But sometimes, moving forward is impossible when the thing that's holding us back is something we refuse to acknowledge fully happened."
"I am acknowledging it happened. I almost died because of some drunk driving idiot. But I didn't. End of story."
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I can feel my shoulders tensing.
"Your conscious mind might think it's moving on, but your subconscious mind is still holding on."
"So?" I shift restlessly, crossing me arms against my chest like armor.
"So, what the mind tries to forget, the body will always remember." Her voice is gentle but firm. "There's no running away from it, Lenora. Eventually, it will find you and demand that you be ready to face it head-on."
I shift uncomfortably, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. "I don't know what you want me to tell you."
“So, you’re not sleeping?" She asks, sitting back in her chair, her pen now resting idle.
"Not really." The admission comes out as barely a whisper.
"What happens when you close your eyes?"
I go back to that night and I relive it, over and over and over again.
The words stick in my throat.
"Surviving and processing are two different things, Lenora. Can I ask you something?"
"That's your job isn't it? To ask things?"
The sarcasm tastes bitter on my tongue.
She smiles warmly, and I feel bad for coming at her with snark remarks.
"Do you know who it was that was driving that night?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
My whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as if I'm bracing for impact all over again. My hands begin to shake almost imperceptibly, and I press them flat against my thighs to stop the tremor.
The room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I can almost smell the asphalt, hear the screech of brakes, feel the cold seeping through my clothes as I start bleeding out.
Yes, I know who was driving.
I can’t escape Scott’s voice or the look on his face when he realised who it was he’d hit. The smell of alcohol on his breath when he spoke to the woman and told her to get back in the car. And the scent of her perfume drifting as they both walked away.
But saying it out loud feels like lighting a fuse to a bomb I'm not ready to detonate.
"No," I say finally, my voice barely audible.
"Who are you protecting?"
The question catches me off guard.
I blink rapidly, my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack.
"What do you mean?"
"In my experience, when someone refuses to talk about who hurt them, it's usually because they're protecting someone else. So who is it? Who are you shielding by keeping this secret?"
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard.
“I, I’m not protecting anyone."
She sets down her pen and looks at me directly.
"What would happen if you told the truth about that night?"
Images flash through my mind—Nate's face when he finds out it was his father, who he already hated, that nearly killed me.
The rage that would consume him.
The way it would destroy him in new ways and what was left of his family.
"He'd kill him," I whisper, not realizing I've just said it out loud. The words escape like air from a punctured tire.
"Who would?"
"Look, I know you're just doing your job and trying to help. But I feel like I've had enough for today."
I'm already reaching for my bag, my movements jerky and desperate. Dr. Henshaw nods knowingly, but doesn't move to end the session.
"Hold on, before we end this session. I just want to make sure I have the facts right from where I'm sitting. Can you hear me out for just a moment? Then you can leave."
I pause, my bag halfway to my shoulder.
"Fine."
"You know who was driving that night, but the person you're protecting doesn’t. From your body language and the way you speak about them, I'd say this isn't just friendship, which complicates everything."
I nod because that's all I can offer her at this moment.
"What's your relationship to the person you're protecting?"
How do I even begin to explain what Nate and I are?
What we were?
The labels never seemed to fit what we had—too intense for friendship, too complicated for love, too broken to be anything real.
"It's complicated."
"Love usually is." She pauses, studying my face with practiced empathy.
"You know, when someone carries both a romantic heart and a mature mind, it creates its own kind of suffering.
The heart doesn't understand logic, while the mind is always guided by reason.
Your heart yearns to feel everything fully, while your mind wants to be responsible, to avoid the pain that comes with unrealistic hopes. "
I listen, feeling every word land like a small truth I've been avoiding.
"The heart tries to take control when it encounters even a spark of hope, focusing on those rare, beautiful moments. Meanwhile, your logical mind examines every angle, preferring safety and control. And as they battle for dominance, your body suffers—constantly torn between what you feel and what you think you should do. Add to this the physical trauma from your accident, and the processing becomes even more complex.” She says with a warm smile.
“Healing takes time, especially when you're grieving something while your body is still recovering from violence."
“What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Start by asking yourself: who are you really protecting? And what's the cost of that protection—not just to them, but to you."
Dr Henshaw’s words follow me out of the office, sticking to my skin like the humidity outside.
I carry them with me through the tube ride, through the elevator up to the twelfth floor, through hours of pretending to be composed while the question keeps circling like a low-grade hum I can’t shut off.
By the time the workday ends, the weight of it has settled behind my ribs—uncomfortable, persistent, demanding.
I'm packing up my things when Liam appears at my desk, his usual stack of manuscripts tucked under his arm.
"Heading out?"
"It's been a day." I zip up my bag, trying to avoid eye contact. Ever since he started pushing about my manuscript, our conversations have felt heavier.
"You okay? I missed you this morning for our early coffee."
"Yeah," I turn to face him, managing a tired smile. "I've got a lot on my plate with the internship and everything."
His face falls slightly, and I can see him processing my tone. "I'm being pushy, aren't I?"
"A little."
He runs a hand through his hair, looking genuinely contrite. "Fuck, I'm sorry. My enthusiasm sometimes gets the better of me. Let me make it up to you—dinner? For being an absolute bellend?"
"I can't. I'm meeting my friend at some bar." I hesitate, watching his genuinely apologetic expression. "You could come along if you want? I think a bunch of her work colleagues will be there too."
His face brightens immediately. "Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."
"It's fine. Fair warning though—Camilla can be a lot."
He smiles while grabbing his coat. "I like a lot."
Mondea's is exactly the kind of place Camilla would choose—industrial chic with exposed brick walls and Edison bulb chandeliers. She's already claimed a corner table, her dark hair catching the warm light as she waves us over enthusiastically.
"Nora!" She stands to hug me, then turns expectantly to Liam.
"Camilla, this is Liam. Liam, Camilla."
"Camilla." Liam extends his hand with a smile. "I've heard so much about you."
"All terrible things, I hope? The good stuff gets boring after five minutes." Camilla gives me a sly look, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
I glance around the restaurant, looking for her usual entourage.
"Where are your work friends? I thought they were meeting us?"