43. Evie
Evie
BOOK CLUB BANDITS
LAYLA
excussseeee me
mini Ellington, when were you going to tell us about the elevator???
CINDY
ELEVATOR???
BELLA
has she been holding out on us?
LAYLA
massively!!!
BELLA
girls’ night is in order. Totti’s, Thursday, 6 p.m.
CINDY
YOU ALL BETTER BE THERE
EVIE
Jesus, the boys gossip worse than us
I’ll be there x
LAYLA
SHE DIDN’T DENY THE ELEVATOR
EVIE
;)
Angel is picking at her nails, turning the cherry-red acrylics this way and that before dropping her head back with a groan. “Ugh, are good nails hard to come by now? Why are they always crooked?”
“Because you keep going back to the same place, do the same thing over and over, and expect a different result. Definition of insanity, by the way,” Tristan declares as he appears beside us as we make our way through the building.
Angel’s eyes slide to Tristan. The look she sends him would make most men cry but not Tristan. He’s too used to her by now. “Hush you.”
He just snorts at her response before throwing an arm around her shoulder. “I can’t wait until Kalani is back and that thorn in your side is plucked out.”
“I’ll have you know I was born with this attitude. It has nothing to do with my dear bestie being MIA.”
Tristan fixes her with a dead stare until her eyes roll. “Fine, my sass has leveled up a notch. Sue me.”
Usually I’d laugh alongside Tristan—I adore nothing more than hearing these two bicker—but the knot in my stomach won’t untie itself enough to allow me to be present.
My first therapy session is in thirty minutes.
I promised not only Matteo but myself that I would do it, that I would try and trust someone enough to help me through the memories, but I didn’t think he’d be able to get me an appointment so soon.
Walking out of the front door, there’s a lump in my throat I have to clear before I say my goodbyes to Angel and Tristan, both of them too engrossed in their argument to see that there’s a slight tremble in my hands and a sheen of sweat coating my skin.
I’m so nervous that I haven’t even been able to tell them about the kiss with Matteo.
Which, if Angel finds out before I tell her, that sass she loves to dose out will no doubt be aimed my way.
The therapist’s office is only a fifteen-minute walk from the dispatch station, but as if I dragged my feet the entire way, using every excuse possible to slow my steps, it takes me twenty-seven minutes to finally reach the building.
It appears like any other skyscraper in the heart of Denver, a dozen offices held within, but as I step inside and hit the elevator button, my stomach rolls, my heart sinking with every level the elevator climbs.
What a stark difference this elevator experience is compared to the one I had with Matteo…
The ding of my arrival steals my breath, slows my heartbeat. I’m not sure where the strength comes from, but something makes me take a step off the elevator.
Pushing open the door, I finally exhale, every organ in my body beginning to work again as I find the therapist’s office isn’t what I expected at all.
What was also unexpected was the receptionist informing me a credit card was already on file, one that wasn’t mine. Doesn’t take a genius to know Matteo put his down.
I pictured a cold, neutral, uncomfortable office with a couch I was meant to lie down on and share all my most horrendous memories.
Instead, Dr. Elizabeth Stutton is a woman who can’t be more than ten years older than me.
She has radiant red hair and a matching smile.
She towers over me even though she’s only wearing flats, so she must be close to six feet tall.
She holds the door open for me, gesturing me in the direction of the plush sage-green couch. “Hi, Evie, so nice to meet you. Please make yourself comfortable.”
With a nervous flutter low in my belly, I take a seat and all but sink into it. “Thank you.”
Closing the door behind me, she crosses the cream patterned rug to the matching chair across from me. The coffee table between us holds photos of a border collie dog. Artwork decorates the wall behind her, with wall trimmings lining the abstract art.
“Your friend was very persistent but a vault all the same. So I’d love to hear from you why you decided to start therapy.”
I chuckle at that, a nervous one, but I’m grateful for her breaking the tension as she settles into her seat.
She surprises me once more when she doesn’t pull out a notebook.
Aren’t they meant to take notes?
Wringing my hands in my lap, picking at the skin around my nailbeds to give my fidgeting fingers something to do, I wobble through an answer. “I’ve had a lot of stress in my life recently. A lot of…change.”
She nods along, her smile warm and inviting. “What kind of change?”
Blowing out a breath, I cross my ankles, then uncross them. “I found my boyfriend cheating on me with my best friend in our bed the same day I was fired from my job.”
Her brows shoot into her hairline. “Stress is an understatement. That would be a lot to process in one day, let alone a month.”
“Yeah, it was a lot…”
She cocks her head. “But that’s not all of it, it seems. Is there more you wish to share with me?”
Intuitive.
This is dangerous for my poor heart and its incessant need to avoid the topic haunting me.
“I, um…” Clearing my throat, I try to force the words out. “I had some childhood memories resurface. Things I didn’t remember at all until a few months ago.”
Her face seems to grow softer, gentler. “It’s always hard when memories come up, but I assure you, it’s very normal. Did it happen all at once or in pieces?”
“Pieces,” I breathe, my chest rising and falling faster the more she probes.
“Do you know what triggered the memories? Typically, it can be a smell, certain keywords, people that remind us of others, events that are similar.” She shrugs. “Sometimes they can arise for no reason at all, so there’s no pressure if you can’t pinpoint anything.”
Licking my dry lips, I’m surprised to hear how small my voice is. “It was an event that…made my body feel…like… It wasn’t happening again but it…”
“Reminded your body of the time?” she gently offers for me.
Nodding, I murmur, “Yes.”
“Do you feel comfortable sharing with me what you were doing?”
I have to, that’s why I’m here—to try and face the unthinkable. To try and live my life without the memories hounding me. To try and walk down the street without cringing away from men when they get too close. To try and feel safe when I go to sleep at night.
I want to feel safe again.
So I part my lips, take a deep breath, and talk.