21. Julia #3
I reach the signature and lower the page into my lap.
For several seconds, I sit there staring through the words rather than actually reading them anymore, because my brain has already moved on to the much more dangerous visual he has just handed it.
Him behind me at the window. His hand closing over mine.
His mouth against my ear while he tells me what to do.
My body responds to the image with humiliating enthusiasm, particularly considering I don't have the first clue what the man actually looks like.
For all I know, I have just built an entire sexual fantasy around somebody with an unfortunate mustache and a passion for cargo shorts.
A laugh slips out. "That would be my luck."
I look at the letter again, and this time my attention catches on the part about Saturday.
He saw me after the call with Mom. I don't particularly enjoy knowing he was outside while I stood in the kitchen trying not to cry, but there is something strangely comforting about the fact that he noticed something was wrong without needing to know the details.
He didn't turn it into a puzzle or demand an explanation.
He simply wrote what he would have done if he'd been there — held me, listened or distracted me in a considerably less therapeutic way.
My mind supplies an image before I can stop it, except this time the man standing behind me has dark hair, glasses and the controlled voice I hear once a week telling me to slow down and actually answer the question instead of making a joke out of it.
I blink.
"Nope."
Kai disappears from the fantasy as quickly as he enters it.
My therapist has absolutely nothing to do with the man hiding in the woods behind my house, and apparently my imagination needs supervision.
I fold the page before it can provide any more terrible ideas and tuck it back into the black envelope. The last line remains with me anyway.
You decide when I am welcome.
I'm not ready to decide anything tonight. That doesn't stop me from wondering what I might decide eventually.
By Thursday, Saturday's fight with Mom no longer feels as raw as it did while I was standing in the kitchen with the phone still in my hand, although I wouldn't exactly describe myself as over it either.
Kai seems to notice something about me the moment I sit down.
He doesn't immediately say anything, which somehow makes me more aware of the way his attention lingers while I settle into the lounge chair and put my bag beside my feet.
"What?" I ask eventually, smoothing one hand over my skirt as though I might discover something visibly wrong with me.
His expression remains thoughtful rather than concerned. "You look a little different today."
The comment makes me glance down at myself. "That's reassuringly vague."
"I mean it positively." He shifts back in his chair, considering me for another moment before adding, "You seem more rested."
"That could actually be true."
He picks up his pen but leaves it resting loosely between his fingers. "I haven't asked about your sleep in a while. How has it been?"
I think about it for a moment, because the answer changes depending on which night he asks about.
"It's still inconsistent. If work has been horrible or I'm tired enough, I sleep without much trouble.
If I've had one of those days where my brain refuses to shut up, I can still be awake at stupid hours wondering why I said something embarrassing in 2017.
" I shift slightly in the chair and add, "Lately it's been pretty decent, though. Saturday was the exception."
Kai's attention sharpens just enough that I know he caught the opening.
"What happened on Saturday?"
I let out a breath and look briefly toward the window before answering. "I had a conversation with my mother that turned into significantly less of a conversation and more of a fight."
He doesn't interrupt, so I give him the shortened version instead of dragging him through every sentence Mom and I exchanged.
"Nanna called me that morning. Mom had been in one of her moods, which meant Nanna breathing too loudly probably would've been enough to irritate her.
" My irritation returns even while I explain it.
"She's ninety-four, her voice is raspier now and she obviously can't clean or cook the way she used to, but Mom sometimes talks about it like Nanna is deliberately refusing to be useful.
She'd yelled at her that morning because the kitchen wasn't done the way she wanted and because she was annoyed by her voice. "
Kai's brows draw together slightly. "How did Nanna sound when you spoke to her?"
"Fine, mostly. Annoyed more than upset, I think, but by the end of our conversation she was okay..”
A faint smile crosses his face. “That’s good."
“It is." I settle farther into the chair.
"Then Mom called me and started complaining about Nanna, so I told her I thought it was pretty entitled to expect a ninety-four-year-old woman to keep doing everything she did twenty years ago.
Somewhere in the middle of that she asked when I was coming over, and when I said maybe next weekend, she started telling me how I always have time for my friends but not my family. "