Chapter 3 - Fern #2
Then, a man struggling with anger management. Robert is court-mandated, resistant, and defensive. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t think he needs help. His ex-wife is the problem, not him. I let him talk, let him vent, and by the end of the session, he’s agreed to come back. Small victories.
Both sessions are productive, and by the time my lunch break rolls around, I’m exhausted but satisfied. This I can do. This I’m good at.
I’m eating a sandwich Ruby dropped off earlier—turkey and avocado on wheat bread, better than anything I grabbed on the road—when there’s another knock at my door.
“Come in,” I call, expecting Patricia with more paperwork.
Connor fills the doorway instead.
He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the definition of his arms. His dark hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and those blue eyes lock onto mine right away, making my breath catch.
“Do you have an appointment?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“Yeah. Three o’clock.” He holds up his phone and shows me what I assume is a confirmation.
I glance at my schedule. Sure enough, “Connor Langley” is listed for three. “Okay. Have a seat.”
He closes the door and takes a seat. The room suddenly feels smaller with him in it, like his presence takes up more space than it should. I pick up my notepad and pen, armor against whatever this is.
“So, Connor. What brings you in today?”
“Just thought I’d check it out.” He leans back in the chair, completely at ease. “See how the new therapist operates.”
“This isn’t a show. Therapy is confidential and personal—”
“Relax. I’m not here to judge your psycho bullshit.” The words are blunt but not quite cruel. More like he’s testing me, seeing how I’ll react.
I set down my pen. “If you’re not here for actual therapy, then why are you wasting both our time?”
“Maybe I wanted to make sure you were settling in okay.” His gaze drifts around the room as he adds, “Patricia said you started today.”
“I’m fine. The job is fine. Was there anything else?”
“You seemed pretty shaken up yesterday. Wanted to check on you.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I default to deflection. “I appreciate that, but I’m a therapist. I’m trained to handle stressful situations.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his head and studies me. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Running across the country, sleeping in your car, looking over your shoulder every five seconds. Doesn’t seem like you’re handling it that well.”
Anger flares in my chest, hot and defensive. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know someone’s been terrorizing you for months. You’re scared, and you’re trying to pretend you’re not.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “And I know you’re used to taking care of everyone else, so asking for help probably makes you feel weak.”
The accuracy of his observations steals my breath. I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words stick in my throat. How does he see through me so easily? I’ve spent years perfecting this professional mask, this competent exterior that hides the mess underneath.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Connor assures me. “I’m trying to help.”
I snort and ask, “By booking a fake therapy appointment?”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I catch myself watching the movement. “This is a small town. People talk. If I just showed up at your cottage, everyone would have opinions about it.”
“And this is better?”
“At least this way you can bill the medical center for the session.” A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.
Despite myself, I almost laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He stands, and I realize the appointment has barely lasted five minutes, yet has somehow been my most stressful one of the day. “Anyway. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Looks like you are.”
I swallow the truth before I lie. “I am.”
Connor pauses at the door with his hand on the knob. “Fern? If you need anything—and I mean anything—you call me. Not Ruby, not Patricia. Me. Got it?”
“Why?” I ask, knitting my brows together.
“Because I said I’d keep you safe, and I meant it. You have my number. It’s in my patient file. Put it in your phone and use it if you need to.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, and I’m left sitting in my carefully arranged consultation room, my heart pounding and my carefully constructed walls feeling dangerously thin.
I tell myself it’s just adrenaline from yesterday. Just the stress of starting a new job in a new place while running from my past. It has nothing to do with the way Connor looks at me, like I’m something worth protecting. Like I’m not just a problem who tumbled into his town.
Nothing at all.
I pick up my phone and stare at the blocked number from earlier. Robbie is out there, probably closing in, definitely not giving up. And I’m here in Silvercreek, accepting help from people I barely know, letting myself imagine I could be safe.
Maybe Connor is right. Maybe I’m not handling this as well as I think.
But what choice do I have except to keep going?