43. Exposure
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
EXPOSURE
Ellie
Mom is sitting on one side of the waiting room, Dad on the other. Neither of them will look at the other.
The sharp scent of industrial cleaner hangs in the air, stinging my nose. Somewhere down the hall, a copier hums, and someone taps steadily on a keyboard.
I don’t want to be here.
Not exactly.
I don’t want them to be here.
I’ve been seeing Dr. Matthews for a few weeks now. Long enough to know which waiting room chair wobbles, that she keeps peppermint tea in the cabinet behind her desk, and that her comfortable silences don’t make me panic anymore.
Usually, it’s just me. I like to curl into the same corner of the couch in her office and complain about school, or Mona, or everyone whispering about my family.
Mom is busy filling out paperwork, her pen moving in quick, efficient strokes, the rhythmic scratch a tiny, insistent sound. Dad is pretending to read a magazine, staring at the same page for ten minutes, the glossy paper uncreased and unread in his hands.
Neither has spoken since we arrived. I sit scrolling through my phone without actually reading anything. Every few seconds, I glance up and catch them doing the same thing—looking anywhere but at each other.
It’s weird seeing them in the same room now.
Not because they’re never together. There are family dinners when Grandpa insists. They’ve gotten pretty good at what Sloane calls “hostile, cooperative parenting.”
It’s been two months since the play. Two months since I followed Sloane down that hallway and the truth came crashing down. Two months since I screamed at Brooke in front of half the town, and since I watched the mask of composure shatter on my mother’s face.
Everything feels both different and the same.
The office door opens with a click, and Dr. Matthews steps into the waiting room, wearing her usual soft grey cardigan and carrying a ceramic coffee mug that says ‘Progress, Not Perfection.’ A faint scent of peppermint wafts from it, and she smiles when she sees me.
“Hi, Ellie.”
I automatically smile back, a reflex I can’t suppress. Then her eyes move to my parents.
“Claire. Ethan.”
Mom offers a polite nod, her expression carefully neutral. Dad manages something that vaguely resembles a smile.
“Come on in.”
The office feels smaller today. The couch sits beneath a window, surrounded by overflowing plants and crowded bookshelves. A small fountain gurgles in the corner.
Normally, the room feels like a soft cocoon. Today, it feels like a trap.
Mom takes one end of the couch, her back ramrod straight. Dad takes the other, sinking into the cushions. The empty cushion between them might as well be an ocean, vast and uncrossable. I select the armchair next to Dr. Matthews, the worn fabric now inviting, as I refuse to sit between them.
Dr. Matthews settles into her chair and opens a notebook. A clock ticks somewhere behind me, and I focus on the soft fiber of my sleeves.
“I’m glad all three of you came.”
I stare at a hairline crack in the ceiling, willing it to widen, to offer some distraction.
“Why do you think I brought all three of you in here together today?”
Mom answers first. “Because… this year has been hard on all of us.” The answer sounds polished, like she’s giving a presentation at work instead of sitting in family therapy.
Dad keeps his eyes on me when he speaks, “Because I hurt the people I love.”
Dr. Matthews nods. Then she looks at me as I continue picking at a loose thread on my sleeve, the small action a desperate anchor.
“They’re worried about me after my outburst in the school auditorium.”
I still refuse to look at Dad. I don’t think I’ve met his eyes since that night at the theater.
“I feel like I need to pick sides,” I mutter, twisting my sleeve until the fabric bites into my fingers. “Like Dad is the villain. But that’s not—” I stop, my throat tightening.
I look at Dr. Matthews because I can’t look at either of them.
“Mom was always at work. And Dad...” My voice catches. “Dad became distracted.” I work past the knot in my throat. “Now I know why.”
“You’re right. I missed all of it. I left you standing there alone, and if I could go back, I would. Ellie, I love you so much. You are the most important person in my life.” Mom’s voice breaks on the last sentence, and something in me begins to soften.
Dad doesn’t speak. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees. When I turn to look at him, his hands are clasped so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
When he finally looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed.
“I love you, Ellie, and I’m so sorry I hurt you.” His voice comes out rough and gravelly.
I look away.