7. #3
My stomach turns.
Fine.
Good.
Functional.
Armor words. Empty words.
"It's fine," I say.
Grant holds my gaze. "Fine like peaceful?"
I let out a small breath through my nose. "Fine like—he's my husband."
Grant nods once. His voice stays calm. "When you say that, it sounds like you're telling me what the relationship is, not what it feels like."
"I think two things can exist at the same time. The relationship is fine and I feel fine in it."
The truth is, if I tell him what it feels like, it becomes real in a way I can't control.
Grant doesn't push.
He just shifts the angle like he knows how to find the truth without breaking you open.
"Do you feel emotionally supported at home?" he asks.
I stare at a spot on the rug between my shoes.
Emotionally supported is such a gentle phrase for something my life doesn't have room for.
"I have support," I say. "My mom and my friends."
Grant nods. "And Rodney?"
My fingers twitch in my lap. I still them.
"He's under a lot stress," I say, which is the safest lie I know. "A lot of pressure."
Grant's voice stays neutral. "Does that stress ever turn toward you?"
My heart gives a small, stupid jump.
I lift my eyes to his.
His face is unreadable. Not accusatory. Not dramatic.
Just steady.
I hold his gaze for a beat.
Poker face even here.
Even now.
"I don't know what you mean," I say.
Grant nods as if that's an answer too.
"Okay," he says. "Let me be more specific. Do you ever feel like you have to monitor yourself at home—your words, your expressions, your choices—so conflict doesn't escalate?"
My chest tightens.
Because yes.
Because that's my whole life.
But I can't say yes.
Instead, I give him something that's true enough to pass.
"I think everyone does that to a certain extent in marriage," I say. "There's a level of compromise in every marriage, Dr. Lennox."
"That can be true," Grant says. "And sometimes it's more than that."
Silence settles between us.
Not awkward.
Weighted.
I realize my thumb is rubbing the edge of my ring.
I hadn't noticed until I was doing it.
Grant notices. He doesn't comment.
He simply asks, "Naomi—when you're anxious, where do you feel it first?"
In my throat.
In my chest.
In the place Rodney grabs when he's angry.
I inhale carefully.
"My chest," I say.
Grant nods slowly. "And when you feel it in your chest, what is your mind telling you?"
I stare at him, and for a split second I hate him for being good at this.
"Nothing specific," I say. "My thoughts get sort of rambled. I feel panic more than anything."
Grant doesn't challenge the word.
He just says softly, "Okay. Do you ever feel like your mind is preparing you for something? or telling you something will happen or that there's something you need to do."
I swallow.
My voice comes out even. Controlled.
"For the next thing I have to do," I say. "My schedule. My responsibilities."
Grant's pen moves again.
Then he looks back up. "Is it okay if I ask a more direct question?"
My pulse stutters.
I nod once.
Grant's voice stays low, professional, steady.
"Do you feel physically safe at home?"
The world narrows.
My skin goes cold.
I don't flinch.
I don't cry.
I don't do anything dramatic.
I just sit there with my spine straight and my face calm, like I'm being photographed.
Safe.
That word is too big. Too simple.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Then give him the only answer I can manage without detonating my life.
"I'm careful," I say.
Grant's expression doesn't change.
But something in his eyes sharpens—not suspicion. Not judgment.
Concern.
He sets his pen down, and the small sound of it landing on the desk feels like punctuation.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "That tells me a lot."
My throat tightens.
I hate the way gratitude makes me feel exposed.
Grant leans back slightly, giving me space. "We don't have to go further into this today," he says. "But I want you to know something."
I keep my eyes on him.
"If there are things happening at home that you can't name out loud yet," he continues, calm, "we can still work on safety. We can still work on options. You're not required to hand me the whole truth in one session."
The room feels too quiet.
I blink slowly, forcing my breath even.
Grant's voice softens just a fraction. "Would you like to stay with this topic or would you rather shift back to sleep and coping for now?"
There it is.
A choice.
A real one.
I stare at him for a beat, then look away like I'm considering it casually.
Like my answer doesn't matter.
Like my life isn't balanced on it.
"I'd rather talk about sleep," I say.
Grant nods immediately. No disappointment. No pressure.
"Okay," he says simply. "Let's talk about sleep."
And even though the topic changes, I can still feel the question he asked sitting in the room between us—quiet, undeniable.
Do you feel safe?
My face stays calm.
But inside, something shifts.
Because he didn't force me to say it.
And somehow that makes me want to come back and say more.