Chapter 33 #2
Mason shifts closer to me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You induced a heat to avoid getting on a plane.”
“That’s not—“
“Please do this,” he whispers. “For me.”
If a bottomless pit opened up right in front of me, I would probably jump into it headfirst.
When I glance at Melanie, she gives me a gentle smile.
“Fine,” I hear myself say, already regretting it.
The room Melanie leads me to is small and aggressively beige.
The walls are that particular shade of institutional off-white that’s supposed to be calming but mostly just feels like someone couldn’t be bothered to choose an actual color.
Framed prints of abstract art hang at precise intervals, blobs of blue and green that are probably meant to evoke nature or tranquility or something equally therapeutic.
A small table sits in the center of the room, flanked by two chairs that look like they were purchased from an office supply catalog circa 1997.
A box of tissues sits in the center of the table like a warning.
This is a waste of time.
I drop into one of the chairs, crossing my arms over my chest. The defensive posture is obvious even to me, but I can’t seem to make myself relax. Every muscle in my body wants to be somewhere else.
In this moment, the thought of getting back on a plane is less terrifying than having a conversation about why I’m so afraid of it.
Anywhere but here, about to talk about my feelings with a stranger.
The silence stretches.
“So,” I finally say, unable to stand it any longer, “is this the part where you ask me to lie down and tell you about my mother?”
Melanie gives a rueful shake of her head. “I don’t think we have time to delve that deep, but do you think your relationship with your mother is related to the anxiety about flying?”
“My mother can probably be blamed for a lot of things, but not that.”
“Okay. Then why don’t you tell me how it started?”
God, I hate this.
“Look, I appreciate the thought but I don’t think any of this is necessary.” I slide to the edge of my seat, muscles flexing, because I’m just waiting for her permission to rocket out of the room. “I’ve been dealing with the flying thing for years. It’s just—it’s a thing. Everyone has things.”
“They do,” Melanie agrees mildly. “What kind of thing is it for you?”
With an exaggerated sigh, I consider the question.
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.” I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, needing something to do with my hands. “I’ve flown hundreds of times. I know planes are safe. I know the statistics. I know all of it. It just doesn’t help.”
“Knowing something intellectually and believing it emotionally are different things.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “The emotional part doesn’t seem to care what the intellectual part thinks.”
She nods like this is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said. “When did the anxiety around flying start? Do you remember?”
“I’ve always needed medication for flights,” I say slowly. “From the beginning. My first flight was when I was six, for a commercial shoot. My mom was terrified. She spent the whole time telling me everything that could go wrong.”
“That sounds frightening for a six-year-old.”
“I didn’t know any different.” Another shrug, but this one feels heavier. “I thought everyone’s mom rambled about aviation disasters during takeoff.”
“But your anxiety response has only continued to get worse?”
“Not if I take my medication.”
“Until this last time, you mean.”
“To be fair, most people would have a panic attack if they think they’re about to die…”
I stop. My chest has gone tight, and I realize with distant alarm that I’m demonstrating the very thing I’m describing.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “You’re safe. You’re on the ground.”
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth until I think again.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter when I can speak again.
“It’s very human,” Melanie corrects gently. “Fear responses aren’t rational. They don’t respond to logic. They respond to perceived threats. And flying has become something that your mind perceives as a threat.”
“Because of my mom?” I ask tiredly. “How very Freudian.”
“Not necessarily.” She tilts her head, considering. “But something taught your nervous system that being trapped and unable to escape…is dangerous.”
Being trapped and unable to escape.
The memory surfaces before I can stop it.
Laurence Starling’s cologne, thick and cloying.
The click of the lock. The way the room seemed to shrink until the walls were pressing in on all sides.
His hands on my shoulders, his voice in my ear, his breath hot against my neck while every cell in my body screamed wrong wrong wrong but I couldn’t move, couldn’t run, couldn’t do anything except wait for it to be over.
“Phoenix?” Melanie’s voice is gentle, but firm. “You went somewhere just now. Can you tell me where?”
My mouth opens. Closes.
For ten years, I’ve been able to keep that memory locked away. I rarely tell anyone the full story, but I’ve always been able to make the connection between my avoidance of alphas and what happened.
Maybe that’s not the only connection the animal part of my brain made.
It’s not just the flying. It’s not just my mother’s childhood stories about aviation disasters. It’s the trapped part. The inability to leave. The complete surrender of control to forces outside myself.
Being locked in a hotel room with a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Being strapped into a metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air, unable to open a door or change direction or do anything except sit there and hope the people in charge know what they’re doing.
“I think I just figured something out about myself,” I say finally.
“That’s good. I’d strongly encourage you to follow up with a therapist who specializes in trauma when you get back home,” Melanie says gently.”For right now, there are some techniques that might help. Not solutions, but tools to make the flying more manageable while you work toward deeper healing.”
By the end of the session, the thought of getting on a plane doesn’t make me want to take up lobster fishing and move into town permanently.
Atticus and Mason are exactly where I left them, almost. They are outside of Stephanie’s room, seated on a bench that looks like it’s been there since the hospital was built. Mason has put his sunglasses back on, hiding his eyes, but Atticus looks up the moment I appear around the corner.
He’s on his feet immediately, crossing the distance between us with long strides. “How did it go?”
“Did Stephanie kick you out?” I ask, instead of answering.
Atticus’s expression turns rueful. “She had phone calls to make.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
Mason appears at my elbow, having shed the sunglasses again. His expression is carefully neutral, but I know him well enough to read the concern beneath the composure. “Better?”
I turn to face him—my assistant, my friend, my…whatever we are now. The man who spent three years taking care of me, who just spent three days in heat with his estranged bondmate, who suggested I talk to that social worker because he knew I needed help I was too stubborn to ask for.
“You were right,” I tell him quietly. “I needed that.”
His expression softens. “You seem calmer.”
“Don’t get used to it.” I reach out and squeeze his arm, the touch brief but meaningful. “I’m going to find something else to be bratty about soon.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I would expect nothing less.”