3. #2
"What?" I ask softly, not quite defensive, but close.
Grant lifts his eyes, meeting mine fully now. His voice stays calm. "I'm seeing a note here that the medication was discontinued due to misuse."
The words land in the space between us like something heavy.
I don't move.
Poker face.
But inside, heat floods my throat.
I hadn't expected that to follow me here.
I hadn't expected a screen to tell my story before I did.
I swallow once. My fingers stop moving on the purse charm.
Grant continues carefully, "I don't need details you're not ready to share. I just want to understand what happened so we make safe choices going forward."
The safe part of me wants to deny it. To laugh lightly. To turn it into misunderstanding.
But the truth is... there is no misunderstanding.
I take a breath.
"It made me sleepy," I say, voice quiet. "And I... took more than I should have."
Grant doesn't react. Doesn't shame. Just listens.
My eyes drift to the bookshelf, to words I don't want to own.
"I was... depressed," I add, still controlled. "And sleep felt easier than being awake."
Grant nods once, like that makes sense. Like he's heard it before and it doesn't make me disgusting.
"And the note says you were hospitalized?" he asks gently.
My mouth goes dry.
For a second, my mind flashes a sterile hallway. A locked unit. A bracelet on my wrist. Rodney's face looming over me in a bathroom doorway, anger disguised as concern.
I keep my face neutral.
"Yes," I say softly. "Three weeks."
Grant's gaze stays steady. "Was that your decision?"
I hesitate.
The truth sits on my tongue like blood.
"No," I finally answer.
Grant doesn't push further. He just nods like he heard everything I didn't say.
He sets his hands flat on his knees, posture open. "Naomi, I can prescribe medication if it's appropriate. But in cases where panic attacks and night terrors are involved-especially with a history of medication misuse-what tends to be most effective is a combined approach."
Combined approach.
I already know what's coming.
"Therapy," I say quietly.
Grant's mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. More like understanding. "Talking," he confirms. "Coping strategies. Learning how to regulate your nervous system when it spikes. Figuring out what the nightmares are trying to process."
I keep my expression calm.
Inside, I want to laugh.
If I start "processing," I might never stop.
"I've tried therapy before," I say, carefully. "Once or twice. It wasn't really... my thing."
Grant nods like he hears that sentence daily. "A lot of people say that. Sometimes it's because it wasn't the right therapist. Sometimes it's because it's uncomfortable to sit with things you've spent years hiding."
Hiding.
I keep my face still.
Grant continues gently, "You booked a consultation, so I won't keep you longer than what you scheduled. But I'd recommend a trial-maybe two or three full sessions. An hour each. If you decide it's not for you, that's okay. You're in control here."
In control.
I stare at him. At the steady eyes. The calm tone.
I don't fully believe him.
But a small part of me wants to.
I inhale slowly, choosing a compromise. "A trial," I repeat. "A few sessions."
Grant nods once, satisfied-not victorious, not smug.
"Okay," he says. "Isabella can help you schedule. I have openings next week and if you change your mind, you can cancel. No explanation needed."
No explanation needed.
That sentence feels like a luxury.
Grant stands. I stand too, smoothing my skirt automatically.
He walks me toward the door, hand resting briefly on the frame as he opens it.
"Alright then, Naomi," he says, voice warm but professional. "We'll start there."
The waiting area feels the same on the way out, but I don't.
Not visibly. Not in any way a stranger would clock. My posture is still straight. My expression is still composed. My makeup is still untouched.
But my body feels... slightly rearranged. Like someone lifted a floorboard and set it back down without nailing it in place.
Grant holds the office door open for me. "Isabella will help you schedule," he says.
I nod. "Thank you."
He gives me one more steady look-nothing intrusive, nothing hungry-then steps back into his office and lets the door close softly behind him.
The click feels final.
I walk toward the front desk where Isabella sits behind a sleek monitor, typing. She looks up immediately, as if she's been waiting.
"Naomi," she says, voice warm. "How did everything go?"
It's a normal question. Polite. Professional.
But it still makes my throat tighten, because I don't know how to answer honestly in places where honesty is the entire point.
"Fine," I say. Calm. Simple. "Thank you."
Isabella smiles like that's enough. Like she isn't going to pry.
"Dr. Lennox noted that you're interested in starting with full sessions," she says, already clicking through scheduling software. "We can do Tuesdays or Thursdays. He has mid-day availability next week."
I glance at the hallway leading back to his office, then at the glass doors out front, like I'm deciding which direction will hurt less.
"Thursday," I say.
"Okay," Isabella replies, fingers flying. "Thursday... he has a one o'clock."
My mouth opens and a small breath catches.
One o'clock means the middle of the day. It means I'll have to plan this carefully-around Vivian's calendar, around Rodney's expectations, around security. It means this will become a thing.
But it also means I won't have to do it in the dark.
"Thursday at one is fine," I say.
Isabella's eyes brighten, as if she's pleased for me. "Perfect. I'll book you for Thursday at one."
She pauses, then looks up again with the same polite smile. "Would you prefer a reminder call or email?"
"Email," I answer immediately. Calls are too easy to overhear. Too easy to trace.
"Got it." She types, then slides a small printed card across the counter. It's minimal-just the office address, the appointment time, and a phone number.
I pick it up, my fingers careful.
Isabella watches me for a second, and in that pause there's something about her that feels... familiar. Not her face exactly, but the energy. The ease with which she moves in this space. The way she says Dr. Lennox like she belongs close to it.
"Thank you," I say again.
"You're welcome," she replies. "We'll see you Thursday."
I tuck the card into my purse and adjust the strap over my shoulder.
Then, because I can't help myself, because my brain loves puzzles when it can't solve its own life, I ask in the lightest tone possible-
"Isabella... do you work with Dr. Lennox often?"
Her smile doesn't waver. "Every day."
Something in the way she answers makes me wonder if she's family. If she's his wife. If she's someone he trusts with the things people come in here to say.
But her expression stays smooth, pleasant, unreadable. Like she's been trained too.
"Have a good day, Naomi," Isabella adds.
"You too," I reply.
I walk out into the crisp afternoon air with my face calm and my heart pounding like I've done something dangerous.
Because I have.
Not because I met an attractive therapist or signed an NDA or scheduled an appointment.
Because I agreed to come back.
I get into my car, set my purse in the passenger seat, and stare ahead through the windshield for a beat longer than necessary.
Thursday. One o'clock.
A simple appointment.
A normal thing.
And yet my body reacts like it's a secret.
I start the engine and pull away.
I don't call Reese until I'm halfway across the city.
I wait until the road opens up, until the traffic thins, until the security detail behind me has settled into its quiet rhythm. The men assigned to my car don't speak unless spoken to. They follow at a distance that looks casual to strangers and calculated to anyone who knows.
I press a button on my steering wheel.
The line rings once.
Reese picks up on the second.
"You're alive," she says, and I can hear the smile in it. Reese's humor is dry and sharp, like she uses it to slice through things that would otherwise drown her.
"I'm alive," I reply.
"And?" she asks immediately. "Did you do the thing?"
I keep my eyes on the road. My voice stays calm, like I'm telling her I stopped for groceries.
I exhale softly. "I went to the consultation."
"Thank God," she says, and I can practically hear her leaning back in her chair. "It only took you a month of spiraling in silence."
I let out something that could almost be a laugh. "I wasn't spiraling."
"You were spiraling," Reese corrects.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, but my face stays composed even though no one can see it.
"I saw them," I say, changing the subject before my throat can tighten too much. "Brooks and Amira."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"At Dr. Lennox," I tell her. "She was leaving when I got there. Brooks picked her up."
Reese is silent for a beat, like she's pulling up a memory reel she doesn't want to watch.
"Those two," she says finally, voice full of tired disbelief. "They almost gave me an aneurysm at twenty-seven."
I smile despite myself. "You're dramatic."
"I am not dramatic. I am traumatized." Reese scoffs. "Do you know what it's like to be tasked with putting out fires caused by two people who keep insisting they're in love like love is a valid defense in Washington, D.C.?"
I picture her at some glossy desk, hair perfect, eyes sharp, phone glued to her ear as she spins catastrophe into "misunderstanding."
"It's kind of sweet," I say quietly. "That he risked everything."
Reese's voice goes softer-not gentle, just less sharp. "It was hell for me."
I hum. "You can admit it was sweet."
"It was both," she admits reluctantly. Then her tone snaps back into its usual edge. "Anyway. They better be happy. Brooks nearly took ten years off my life."
She's the White House's fixer, the woman they call before a scandal becomes a headline.