3. Chapter 3 - Minnie
It takes me twenty minutes to walk to the discount therapy place I found on Screech last year. I know that sounds all kinds of sketchy, but it’s totally legit. The therapists are trainees who need clinical hours, and they’re supervised by a qualified professional.
My therapist is Betty, an ex-retiree. Her grandson, Liam, moved out to go live with his fated mate, Violet, the town librarian.
It left poor Betty with too much free time on her hands, so she became a therapist. If I were her, I’d travel the world, but apparently she’s always dreamed of having a career.
“It’s good to see you, Minnie,” she says brightly when I enter. “How are you?”
Considering everything that’s been going on, I’d have to say horrible with a side of awful. But instead of telling Betty any of that, I give her a polite smile. “Good, thanks.”
“Happy to hear it,” Betty says smoothly.
She’s got a tablet and a stylus in front of her, but the screen is off. I don’t see the point of taking notes in her session with me.
“How’s work?” she asks. She always starts with the easy questions—ones where Formula M will actually let me talk.
Apparently, not today. I’m too worried about getting fired to do much more than yawn.
Betty tries again. “And how’s Natty doing?”
My heart starts to race, the sounds of honking and squealing tires echoing through my head. I almost got him killed!
Formula M pumps me full of calm, and I yawn. Several times.
“I see,” Betty replies, even though I didn’t say anything. “He’s what, three now?”
“Yes, three.” It’s a safe enough topic that I’m finally able to get the words out. “He’s growing up so fast. Learning new words every day. And he’s really taken to swimming. He can float on his back!” I sound like a proud mama, or in my case, a proud Minnie.
“His dad might come back sooner than expected,” I add.
I don’t tell her it’s because he might get parole.
I don’t even think prison is in Formula M’s vocabulary.
And I definitely don’t mention that I’ll lose custody.
That I should lose custody. That I’m a terrible guardian and Natty needs someone better. Someone who can keep him safe.
I examine my nails instead.
Betty nods. “And how do you feel about that?”
Awful. I’m terrified I’m going to lose Natty. I always knew that I would—he isn’t my kid—but I’ve raised him for three years. I changed his diapers. I wiped away his tears. I tucked him in at night.
We’ll never be biologically related, but I love that little boy as though he were my own—and the thought of never seeing him again makes me feel like I might shatter into a gazillion pieces and never become whole again.
He’s safe, I remind myself. At least he’s safe.
If I could break into tears, I would. But I don’t. Formula M helps me calm down, and I shrug.
Once again, Betty doesn’t miss a beat. “Have you talked to Natty’s dad about how you feel?”
Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly a mind-reader, but her profile on the therapy center’s website—and town gossip—both say she’s fully human.
And as for her question, have I talked to Zachariah? No. No, I have not.
But what if I did? Not about what happened this morning. I am never going to tell him that!
But what if I offered free babysitting so I could keep seeing Natty? Would it be enough?
The thought of going back to the empty bakery alone makes me wish time would turn back and I could live the last three years all over again.
I can’t imagine waking up in the middle of the night and not looking over at Natty snuggled up in his toddler bed, sleeping peacefully.
Not hearing his laughter every day…. not being able to hug him… I can’t do it. I just can’t!
The little boy’s everything to me. He’s my life!
I’ll put on the magic dampener and fall on my knees in front of Zachariah to beg for more time with Natty if I have to.
Maybe he isn’t my fated hate because he’ll take away Natty.
Maybe he’ll just take advantage of how much I love his little boy.
Make me clean his house, or pay his rent, in exchange for visits.
At least then I’ll still get to see Natty, even if it’ll never be enough.
I yawn a few times, examine my perfectly pink nails, and start to feel a little better.
Betty nods as though I’ve said something and turns on her iPad. Maybe she’s writing a to-do list, or jotting down her password. Don’t seniors always have trouble remembering their passwords?
All I know is, I’ve given Betty absolutely nothing to write about, unless she’s keeping a tally of yawns.
Asked about Natty’s dad—two yawns.
Asked about work—one yawn.
Riveting.
“Do you like Natty’s father?” Betty asks.
I used to.
A few days ago, I thought he might be my fated mate.
And before that, I had a one-sided crush on the man for years.
How could I not? He’s attractive and has a good heart.
He always asks how I’m doing and listens to everything I say.
And whenever we hug, or our fingers inadvertently touch, my heart starts to race.
Betty watches me carefully. “Do you think he feels the same way?”
As if.
The only reason he wants us to visit is so that he can spend time with his son. I’m probably just wallpaper to him.
It hurts, but I shrug and let out a bored yawn. The hurt disappears.
“That bad, huh?” Betty asks. I guess Sapphire’s right, and I really do have tells. I wonder why Formula M doesn’t switch it up.
As for my answer? It’s worse than bad!
The magic connecting Zachariah and me is proof that I’m fated to hate him for the rest of my life. Otherwise, the same magic wouldn’t tie me to Damien and Dr. Reddy.
Add in Amber’s babymoon cruise, the fact that I almost got my mouse and Natty killed, plus my current living arrangement… and my life is falling apart faster than the flaky croissants Bob bakes.
“So what are you going to do?” Betty asks.
What can I do?
Not for the first time, I consider wearing the magic dampener and telling Betty everything. But what would be the point? It’s not like she can magically—or humanly—solve my problems.
Plus, what if she’s ethically obligated to report me to child services for squatting at the bakery? And she should report me for continuing to take Formula M and nearly getting Natty killed.
The realization slams into me like a freight truck. My chest suddenly feels too tight, and Formula M fights to prove its worth. It pumps wave after wave of calm through me, but it doesn’t erase the truth. It’s either Natty or Formula M. I have to choose.
I can’t keep taking the stuff. Not if I’m going to keep Natty safe.
He’s getting bigger every day. Faster. More independent.
But I need the potion. I’m a complete and utter mess without it.
There’s no solution. No way out. Except one.
I should just let Julian leave on that cruise and let the curse kill me. I deserve all the pain and suffering for what I’ve done. Zachariah will be there to comfort and care for his son, and he’ll do a much better job than me.
Then, at least I won’t have to face a future that’s looking gloomier by the minute.
But even as the thought comes, it floats away on a wave of Formula M calm.
Everything will be alright.
I just need a plan.