Chapter 3 #2
Sometimes I can’t understand how they’re so involved in their own lives but not their child’s. No matter how far away I am, it doesn’t take much effort to pick up a phone.
When I don’t respond, Lance continues. “My parents pulled strings to make this happen for you. No one wants to see you like this or for you to be in a dark place.”
A mirthless laugh comes from me. “The only reason they pulled strings is because it would reflect poorly on you to have your fiancé cast away in some mental ward.”
“That’s not—”
“It is true.”
Larissa, Lance’s mother, cares about two things; her son and the Bronson image.
It’s the one thing I can say about her, after all these years and be absolutely certain of.
I’m not allowed to taint that, which is probably why Dr. Miso set up the discharge plan he did—after being paid off by them, of course.
We pull up to the small outpatient building, large windows lined from left to right with an entrance door in the center.
“You should be thanking them,” Lance bites out a little more harshly than expected.
The truth is that we were already struggling before the accident.
Now…the threads that held us together are just that much more frayed.
“Of course I should be,” I say, gathering my messenger bag from next to my feet as he pulls up to the curb. “Maybe I should start bowing down to them whenever I’m in their presence.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath, disregarding my sarcastic comment. “I’ll let you out here and be in when I find a parking spot.”
I loop my bag over my shoulder and let out a clipped, “Don’t bother.”
“Emory.”
My name on his lips almost pulls me back, almost has me wanting to climb over the console and wrap my arms around his neck. It’s so familiar, so needed, but I hesitate.
I can’t.
Not when I’m unsure of so many things, and my body and mind are still healing from the whirlwind of my situation. From his distance and betrayals. From my accident. From him picking sides.
I almost want to ask why we’re getting married when it’s beyond obvious that neither of us are happy. It’s almost wild that this is my life at twenty-eight.
Instead, I say, “No.” My voice is serious, much like it has been for days now. It’s either anger or my words come out in trails of sad, depressing undertones that linger long after I speak. “I don’t want you coming in with me.”
That bitterness that shoves its way to center stage becomes more pronounced. I can’t help but wonder if he feels it, too, and if that’s why the car suddenly charges with a toxicity as potent as a vat of boiling green liquid.
This isn’t the man you’re meant to marry.
“Fine,” he breathes out. “I’ll be out here waiting. Maybe try not to be this difficult with your therapist.”
I open the door without saying another word and slam it shut. It does nothing to let out the frustration I feel as I walk inside, check in with the receptionist, and wait to be called back.
I cross the room, recognizing the faint scent of coffee beans in the air and a hint of something darker and more masculine.
The room is small, no real reason for it to be larger than it is.
One wall is lined with bookshelves, some of them filled while others remain empty.
I notice the two cardboard boxes on the floor to my right, a red stamp on them indicating that they’re heavier than one might realize.
There must be books inside or some kind of office supplies.
My gaze swings to the couch on the other side of the room.
It’s green and a little too bold for my taste.
It reminds me of a field of grass shadowed by a dusky sky, nightfall slowly slipping over it.
Sienna brown pillows accent the piece of furniture.
Above it is an abstract painting with similar hues.
Near the edge, the colors slowly morph into a blue-gray, and I inhale a little too sharply at it.
It reminds me of rolling waves on the surf.
Of that day.
Terror slinks down my spine, collecting and resting just above my tailbone, though that’s not the only place I feel it in my body. It’s everywhere, like a million tiny fire ants marching on my skin, a trail of peril left in their wake.
I’d rather live through the discomfort of a thousand papercuts. That, I think I could endure. Whereas now, I’m barely surviving.
I force my eyes away and rest my hand on the cool wood of the shelf, letting it bring me back from the intensity of my thoughts and emotions.
When that isn’t enough, I rest my forehead against it, hating the way my body warms when that foreign, but familiar, sensation of anxiety sweeps over my skin and embeds itself.
Now is not the time, Emory.
Just breathe.
A knock sounds a minute later, indicating that my session is about to start and I’ll be reintroduced to Dr. Cole.
I don’t swing around right away, instead giving him the time to enter and get settled in the brown leather chair that’s directly across from where I’ll be expected to sit.
Although at least this room has more of a personal touch.
It’s not so…foreboding. Not like my hospital room was.
Dr. Cole’s presence is heavy and hard to ignore. I tell myself it’s the nerves that linger in my stomach from being here at all when it commands me to spin around and face him.
His masculine voice fills the space. “Unfortunately, I think something has gotten into me. You’re the only patient I’ve been late to see for as far as I can remember.”
“That’s what clocks are for,” I say, more sarcastic than anything. “To remind you of where you’re supposed to be when those little thin arms move to a certain number.”
His golden gaze, colored the same shade as honeyed whiskey draws me in, my own eyes trapped in the stickiness of caramel hues.
I know then that I’m never going to get used to having his attention on me.
I don’t know why, but the notion presses in on me, my skin heating an additional degree with every step that brings him closer to me.
He grins softly and stops at the edge of his desk. He sits back on it, his hands on his lap as he looks beyond me at his bookcase. “Do you like to read?”
“I prefer the creativity made behind a camera lens,” I tell him. “Not so much the kind that involves stringing sentences together.”
“Not even if those sentences stir emotions that you’d otherwise never feel in your everyday life?”
I shrug and look at the line of book spines facing me. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’ve never been a reader. My mother used to bribe me with bags of Twix just so I’d read the summer book list my teachers would give me in middle school.”
“Just didn’t care for it, huh?”
“I preferred walks with my camera.” My voice lowers as I recall all the times my parents would pretend ground me for coming home too late.
I got sidetracked easily, my finger glued to the shutter button.
“I always thought there was something timeless about capturing moments as they happened and the beauty that could be seized and shared.”
“So, that’s what you were doing out on that rock.”
I nod, hope filling me because at least someone gets it. Or, at the very least, is trying to.
“There was a storm beyond the horizon, and it made for a good moment to capture.”
A sad smile crosses his face, and it’s then that I notice a small circular scar on his neck close to where one would find a pulse. His skin, tanner than mine, is puckered and whiter there. It makes me think of the one that’ll be left behind once my arm heals.
He lifts his hands and plops them down on his brown slacks. It startles me, pulling my attention away from the blemish on his skin. Then, he walks over to his chair and holds a hand out for me, silently asking that I have a seat on his green couch. I comply. It’s what I’m here for, after all.
“I have something I’d like to try during today’s appointment, so long as you feel up to it.”
“Oh,” is all that tumbles from my mouth as I drop to a cushion and clutch my messenger bag on my lap. It’s a lifeline, an object that existed before my accident.
The warmth in his voice grows legs and comes to sit next to me when he says, “Think you can give me your undivided attention for the better part of an hour, Miss Prescott?”
All I do is nod, a surprising alchemy curling around the edges of my heart—because the person I’d love to hear that from is miles away.
But even if he were right in front of me, I know I wouldn’t sense the relief and peace that washes over me when Dr. Cole gives me a reassuring chin dip and tells me I can trust him.
“Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes.”
“Okay,” I breathe out, unsure of Dr. Cole’s techniques. The sofa cushions are soft below my body as I lie with my head just below the armrest. My body is parallel to the floor, this piece of furniture existing in the space between. “Are you sure this narrative thing is going to help?”
“There’s a very large possibility that it’ll help you connect the dots in your memory and fill in those blind spots from the brain injury. If it doesn’t, that’s okay, too. There’s nothing wrong with you if nothing comes to the forefront of your mind.”
I swallow hard, already hating the way my skin heats.
Whenever I sit and think about what happened for too long, this clamminess takes over my entire body and I can’t seem to focus straight.
“Is it really necessary? Dr. Miso said it’s possible that with more time everything will come back to me.
That I don’t need to do anything specific for that to happen. ”
“Remembering isn’t just about finding those missing puzzle pieces. It’s also about understanding how certain moments of that day make you feel. Having the ability to reflect on that and process it is important, Emory.”
“I don’t see how,” I mutter, my eyes trained on the backs of my eyelids as my sweat-soaked hands rest on my stomach.