Trial Run (The Well Space #1)

Chapter 1

T he woman on Ben’s laptop screen dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, but today’s tears were a good sign. For one thing, Penny had her camera on. On bad days, she’d leave it off, and he’d spend the hour speaking to a black square. Ben had rarely seen his patient’s face on camera, and it had never looked this relaxed. The usual lines of stress creasing her brow had disappeared, and her eyes were softer.

Penny smoothed a hand over her silver bob and gave him a watery smile.

“I’m ruining my makeup. And I actually put on makeup the last three days. I also got dressed in real clothes this morning. No more pajamas. You can’t see, but I’m wearing jeans with a zipper—and a button.”

“Impressive.” Ben gave her an answering smile, something he only did for patients these days. He was still good at helping clients, but that fact wasn’t all that comforting when he was utterly failing at everything else in life right now.

“When you told me three months ago I’d feel like getting out of bed in the morning again, I didn’t believe you. But I think I might be getting past this.” She hesitated for a moment before speaking again, her voice revealing a hint of uncertainty. “Don’t you?”

“I think you already know the answer. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Penny squared her shoulders. “I am better. I don’t know how else to describe it other than it feels like … like I was under a heavy blanket, and now it’s lifted off me.”

“That’s exactly right. That’s what it feels like.” Ben swallowed, his eyes ticking to the window of his office before returning to the screen. He cleared his throat and grounded himself in his office chair by connecting to his surroundings. The smooth black leather armrests were familiar under his palms, his home office quiet and lit with a soft yellow light bulb. The crisp cotton of his dress shirt was free of wrinkles, and his tie was neat and straight. In this space, at least, he was in control.

“Depression might always be a part of you,” he told her. “But you’ve learned techniques to help you deal with it, including your new medication. And if it ever gets worse again, you’ll know what to do, and where to go for help.”

“I will.” Penny beamed at him. “And I appreciate you taking the extra time with me today,” she went on, dabbing her eyes one last time with her tissue. “I never feel rushed with you. But I hope I’m not making you late.”

“Of course not. I build extra time into my schedule for times like this. Let’s go over your breathing exercises one more time, then I’ll email you the written instructions afterward.”

Five minutes later, Ben clicked off the call, pulled off his reading glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. His life had been reduced to this—a series of video calls.

He shoved his chair away from the desk, stood, and paced the small space. He had to move, before this restless energy swallowed him whole.

On the desktop, sandwiched between two half-geode bookends, stood his personal copies of each of the three psychology books he’d authored. His framed doctorate degree hung on the wall, alongside his license to practice psychology, clearly visible during his video calls.

To outsiders, he probably appeared to be at the peak of his career. But people weren’t what they seemed a lot of the time. People were good at pretending. In fifteen years of practice, he’d learned that much.

The calendar app flashed a reminder at him from his laptop screen, notifying him of his next meeting. He had one hour, then it was back to this new normal, a reality in which he spent his days in this tiny home office because he hadn’t been able to drive himself to work for almost a month.

He closed the laptop with a snap and jogged downstairs to the kitchen, where the early spring sunshine streamed in the windows on the front side of the house. On a day like today, most people in the neighborhood would have their windows open.

A flash of white caught his eye as the mailman pulled up to the curb in front of his brick townhome, and his gut clenched. The mail carrier loaded the mail into the cluster of shared mailboxes at the end of the walkway and sped off.

The walk to the mailbox took twenty-six steps there and back, a ridiculous piece of knowledge to have, much less need.

He smoothed a hand down the front of his tailored vest and put a hand to the doorknob. He drew in a slow inhale, using one of the many breathing techniques he’d written about and coached patients through, techniques he shouldn’t need to walk to the curb and get the damn mail.

He’d let this get too bad, given in to the anxiety’s demands one too many times, and this was where it had gotten him. The longer he went without going out, the worse it felt, everything too bright, too loud. Today might be different, but it probably wouldn’t. As soon as he cracked open the door and the warm April morning breezed in, his stomach tightened further.

Leah would laugh her ass off at him if she could see him now, barely able to take a few steps out of his own house. He’d always been the strong one, the one who took care of everything. But she wasn’t here to laugh at him now, which was too bad, because it might have snapped him out of this.

He hurried to the mailbox, counting the twenty-six steps, and by the third one, all breathing techniques fled his brain. A woman walking her dog yanked on the chain and the animal yelped. A car rushed around the corner, too fast. Two toddlers chattered and played on a neighbor’s lawn.

With a shaking hand, Ben yanked open the mailbox, pulled out the stack of letters, and rushed back inside with a few long strides. He slammed the door shut behind him and sagged against the frame.

It shouldn’t be this way, but it was. He’d had it under control before, and it would be again.

He slid the mail onto the counter without looking at it and crossed the room to his treadmill. A quick walk to bring down the tension a notch—not enough to break a sweat in his suit—and then he’d be ready for afternoon appointments. Later, he’d go for a longer run. Five, six, or eight miles to burn away the bad thoughts.

By next week, he’d go back to the office. He’d push past this last terrible month, because he had to. The clinic and his patients demanded it from him.

He’d set up The Well Space ten years ago in a three-story Victorian house in downtown Kansas City, rather than renting a traditional office space. The quirky building’s comfortable furniture and old-fashioned feel helped destigmatize therapy, which many patients resisted at first. The clinic had skyrocketed in popularity the last few years, as word spread on social media about the velvet couches, kitchen with endless hot chocolate, and family atmosphere.

And they needed him back, stat. That feeling of being needed had always been enough to get him over himself and his own issues in the past, so why wasn’t it working now?

He’d just have to suck it up one of these days and go back. Tomorrow, he’d call Cameron. Have his assistant set up some meetings in the office, in person. But he’d do that tomorrow, not today, because he wasn’t ready to—

The doorbell chimed, which it never did at this time of day, and he hit the pause button on the treadmill. He wouldn’t answer the door, because he never did.

A quick check of the doorbell app on his phone showed a giant bunch of daffodils and a pair of legs. The flowers obscured the face of the person carrying them. He’d never order flowers, his birthday was months away, and anyway, no one ever sent him gifts.

A shattering sound cut through the air, followed by a shriek, and he jumped off the treadmill. He’d jogged to the door and yanked it open before he had time to think.

A woman knelt in a puddle of water on his porch, water soaking the knees of her jeans, surrounded by shards of glass and yellow flowers with wet green stems. Ben froze, his knees locking, because he could not actually slam the door in her face. Leaving her to step on broken glass.

He winced as she reached to pick up one of the larger shards.

“Don’t touch that.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, but he was lucky he could form any words at all, because he’d opened this door, and now he had to figure out a way to shut it again.

Her gaze jerked up to him, and Ben lost track of his thoughts.

Her eyes were a light, bright gray, the clear color of a winter sky, startling against the thick dark brown lashes framing them. They were also wide with shock and sheened with tears. She wasn’t crying yet, but she wasn’t far from it.

“You’re not Francine Hays, are you?” Her voice was low and soft, shot through with distress.

“No.”

“Any chance you’re … Mr. Hayes?” A hint of desperate hope colored the words.

“You’ve got the wrong address.” He managed the clipped answer, then clamped his mouth shut, because his momentary distraction had faded, and now reality came rushing in. A reality in which he was standing at the threshold of his home with the door wide open.

The woman sat back on her heels, her high ponytail of deep brown waves swinging over her shoulder. She took a moment before speaking again.

“Of course it’s the wrong house,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t have gone to the right house, even using my maps app. That would be way too easy for this morning. I’m so sorry I disturbed you.”

She shot to her feet, but wobbled on the way up, almost falling backward into the broken glass.

Ben lunged forward and put a hand on her elbow to help her up. Two things hit him at once. One, she was tall and curvy. She came up almost to his chin, her white sweatshirt soft and thick under his hand. And two, he was fully outside now, close to the dead center of his porch.

He jerked his hand away from her and took a big step backward.

“I’ll get the broom. Don’t move or you’ll step on the glass.” That had come out rude at best, but nothing mattered except getting back inside so he could breathe. He hurried back inside to his cleaning supply closet.

It was just the porch. He would not hand off the broom and watch a stranger clean up the mess from the safety of his kitchen. He would go out and sweep up the glass. Quickly, because she was still standing there, framed by the open doorway, waiting for him to return.

He registered more details once he’d made his way back to her. She wore slim jeans, the sweatshirt, and worn blue sneakers. Ordinary clothing, nothing that would make her stand out in a crowd. But her face was unusual. Oval-shaped and pale, with dark winged brows and a strong jaw. A complicated face, not easy to read. And those strange light eyes, glowing gray.

He’d been staring several beats too long. Her chin went up a notch, as if daring him to say something about her mistake.

He cleared his throat and gestured down at the glass shards with the broom handle.

“Stay where you are, and I’ll sweep it up.”

“If you’ll give me the broom, I’m happy to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted. “It’ll only take a minute. Don’t move.”

He took a deep inhale, stepped outside, and began sweeping the area around her feet, starting on her left side and circling around behind her. She stood still, like he’d told her to.

Ben’s breath picked up, because it had been a long time—weeks, to be precise—since he’d spent this much time outside, and pretending it wasn’t happening didn’t seem to be stopping the whole anxiety process.

Pretending to feel fine when you weren’t fine was not an advisable coping mechanism. If he were a patient, he’d tell himself not to do it. But he didn’t follow much of his own advice these days.

He stood six feet away from the door now. Eight. He swept faster, trying to finish the task before she noticed anything wrong.

“Are you all right?”

Her voice came from far away, down a tunnel of sound. He shook his head, brain buzzing with white noise. He couldn’t breathe. All the air in the world had gone somewhere, and that gasping sound in his ears was coming from him.

She removed the broom from his hand gently and leaned it against the wall.

“I think you got all the glass now. Let’s go sit down for a minute.”

A moment ago, she’d been distressed, but now her entire demeanor changed, her voice softening. She was talking to him like a lost puppy, and it should have been humiliating, but maybe that part would come later, because for now, all he felt was grateful someone else was in charge.

Her cool hand slid into his, and Ben let himself be led to his porch swing, where he hadn’t sat in months. He sank down onto the weatherproof cushion, and her soft weight landed beside him. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to catch his breath.

A minute later, the soft pressure of her hand landed on the back of his neck. He startled at the touch, then settled. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him, but he didn’t mind the contact in this moment.

“Is that okay?” she asked. When he gave a slight nod, she continued. “My grandma used to get panic attacks. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Ben managed another movement of his head, which he hoped indicated something like “yes.”

“Keep your head down. Do you need me to call someone?”

“No. No need.” He was more winded than if he’d been running, and all he’d done was stand outside for a few minutes. But it was passing now, the panic leaving his body like a storm moving off on the horizon.

The swing rocked as the woman pushed it back and forth with her foot. The neighborhood sounds faded in intensity, and the world came back into focus.

“What do you normally do when this happens?” she asked after a moment. “What does your doctor tell you to do?”

He huffed a humorless little laugh. “Funny enough, I am a doctor. I should know what to do. But I seem to be having problems going out.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. The truth he hadn’t told any of his family or coworkers, he’d just blurted out to this stranger.

“Oh. Well … What do you do to help it?”

“I wait for it to pass, and it does.” Or he avoided certain situations entirely. At least up until now, the strategy had worked.

He kept his eyes on the ground as his vital signs returned to normal. Maybe there was something to be said for waiting out the anxiety, or pushing through it. Or for having someone there to keep you company. And hold your hand like a toddler.

Heat washed into his face, crawling up the back of his neck. The embarrassment he’d been missing a few minutes ago roared to the forefront. He wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye again.

He straightened his posture, searching for something resembling his usual control.

“Give me another minute, and I’ll be fine.” His gaze raked over the spilled flowers. “And I’ll pay to replace the flowers.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. I’ve taken extra time from your morning. And you … helped me out.” He cleared his throat, still not looking at her. “Give me the name of the florist and I’ll call them with my card.”

He scanned his driveway for the florist’s van, looking for the name of the business. Tillie’s Flowers was printed in green on the side of the vehicle, in a scrolling font.

His eyes stopped when they reached the passenger window. Through the glass, a boy’s face watched him, brown eyes round with curiosity.