Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
My weekly therapy appointment comes right on time. My therapist is a seraph, but she appears like any other human… if you ignore the few minor details, like her wings. Her hair is white-blonde and striking against her umber complexion.
She’s perched on a stool, the only seating I can imagine her being comfortable on with her large, feathered wings.
As always, I’m on the white sofa. The scent of lemon floats through the space, thanks to an air diffuser, and the light in the room is soft.
It’s the picture of relaxation, but I can never find a moment of peace in the room.
Is this how most people feel about therapy?
“Okay, I know you warned me against it, but”—I press my lips together—“I started dating again. Or I tried to.”
“Oh?” She lifts a brow. “And how did that go?”
“Not well. I met her online, and she was sweet…”
“That’s nice.”
“It was. At first. But of course, I couldn’t get through the date without something happening.”
She watches expectantly rather than interrupting.
“I think she triggered a panic attack—not on purpose. It wasn’t something she did. Actually, I don’t know what it was, but she reminded me of Amelia.”
She frowns. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear from your first date after the event, but that makes sense. It’s only been a month. It may feel like time has passed, but that wound is still fresh.”
“Why should that stop me from dating? I don’t get it.”
“Trauma rarely makes sense, and trying to understand it only puts you under the weight of it. Don’t judge your responses. Do you know what the trigger was?”
“It was…” I close my eyes. “Her hair. It was the same color as Amelia’s. I didn’t consider it when we were texting, but once I saw her in person… it was different.”
“The people have no connection, but your mind still created a link.”
“I suppose so, but I wish it wouldn’t. I miss meeting new people, but now, when I meet someone, I feel like I can’t trust them. And maybe I can’t.”
“Is there evidence of that?”
“Well, no…”
I could tell her about the ongoing murders, but I push away the conversation. Talking about disaster dates is what therapy is for, right? That’s probably what humans talk to their therapists about.
On days like these, I want to feel human.
“Sometimes anxiety comes even when there’s evidence of the contrary,” she says. “It doesn’t mean your anxiety is telling the truth. Remind yourself of that. You can meet new people, even if you’re uncomfortable doing so right now.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Instead of jumping into the deep end, take baby steps. Meeting with a stranger alone may not be the best way to do it, even if you felt safe doing so in the past.”
“Then where should I start?”
“A group date with friends is a good place,” she says. “Tobey and Caldwell, for example. I’m sure they would go out with you. And you trust them both, don’t you?”
I’ve already talked about them enough times that she knows their names.
“There’s no one I feel safer around, and you’re right. They would probably love an opportunity to go out.”
Whenever we’re done solving the murders, that is. Tobey will probably call it a distraction if I ask before that. It’s hypocritical of them, considering they have a distracting boyfriend, but I doubt they’ll listen to reason.
“And you remember your grounding techniques?” she asks.
I nod but don’t otherwise comment.
“Have you been doing them daily?”
I sink into my seat and clutch a throw pillow, nearly hard enough to tear it. With an exhale, I release my grip. “To be honest, I’ve been forgetful lately.”
“Ah.” She chuckles. “That happens. You had a bit of a response there. What was that?”
“Nothing! I’ve been… been busy. That’s all.”
“I know you have, but it’s important to make time for it. Grounding can help in the moment, but it’s better to make a regular habit of it. The more you do it, the more grounded you’ll be, and the triggers will be less likely to go off.”
“I know. I’ll try to remember.”
“Set an alarm if you need to.”
These conversations are so mundane compared to my life. It’s a treat, and it always passes too quickly. I glance at the time on my phone, realizing we only have ten minutes left.
This happens every time. I spend the entire session saying things that don’t matter and forget to bring up the real problem until we’re almost out of time.
“There’s one last thing.” I glance up from my phone. “I know we’re running low on time, but…”
She nods gently. “Go on.”
“There was another murder on campus, and I was the one who found the body with Jun. You probably remember him. He’s the guy who—”
“Of course, I remember Jun.”
Therapists must work hard to train their expressions because she hardly reacts to the news. The only thing I can see is minuscule, something I only note because of my enhanced senses. She grasps her notebook tighter.
“The body looked normal—peaceful, even—but it was a weird experience,” I say. “Actually, weird doesn’t cover it, but…”
“The murders are still happening, then? Do you know if it’s connected to the last time?”
Does therapy still help if I lie to her every session?
“I don’t know. It could be something else… but that’s even scarier, isn’t it?”
“It is. And you’re so strong, so brave, to get through this time and time again. You’re still here. You’re talking to me, even when it’s hard. That tells me how powerful you are.”
She sounds so earnest, but powerful is the last thing I feel.
“Thank you.”
“Grounding is even more important right now, and don’t forget your affirmations. Come up with some new ones if you need to…”
Her voice fades into the back of my mind.
Therapy is helpful, and she’s already done a lot to improve my life, but I have the sneaking suspicion she won’t be able to help me with this problem until I’m no longer surrounded by death and sorrow.
There’s a chance that day will never come.
She asks me to ground, but I can only think of Poppy. She’s already six feet under, as grounded as she can be.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
I’m a tornado as I waltz into the café to meet my friend. Poppy and I don’t connect as much as I would like, but it’s difficult to make time when I’m supposed to be on the other side of the world. If I’m constantly flying into town, she might become suspicious.
When I finally reach out, she agrees to meet at the café without question.
It’s a gray spring morning. Poppy lounges in her usual spot in the corner with a sketchbook on her lap.
Nothing makes me happier than seeing her, but lately, I find it harder to be overjoyed by the sight. I never realized the starving artist cliché was real until Poppy graduated and went off alone. Each time I see her, she looks frailer than the last.
I help her as much as I can, giving anonymous donations online, but the help she needs is beyond what I can do without her realizing it’s me. She’s too proud to accept major help from me or anyone else, but now and then, she’ll let me surprise her with a meal delivery to her apartment.
It’s the least I can do.
“Darling!” I bend to kiss her on each cheek, leaving a lipstick mark behind. She doesn’t bother rubbing it off as I sit across from her.
She greets me, and the joy radiating from her is genuine.
The weakness in her disappears as soon as she smiles, and she becomes what I’ve always known her to be—the sun. My sun. With her golden hair and her light green eyes, she radiates in the vibrant café.
The only one I’m willing to share her brightness with is Tobey.
My love for Tobey knows no bounds, but they abandoned us in Castine. They didn’t leave for a lively city, either. New York, I would have understood. Even Los Angeles. Instead, they’re living in Portland, Maine.
It’s a quaint city, and it’s less than an hour away. They can do better.
“What brings you to Castine?” Poppy asks, setting her book down.
“Ah, my mother was coming to visit, so I thought I would follow her,” I say. “Any opportunity to see you.”
Of course, it’s more complicated. Truthfully, this year’s play is over, and I have more time to spend with my friends. Perhaps I can share it, but the words die in my chest instead.
I have many things to tell Poppy, but they’re secrets I keep under lock and key. We live different lives now, and I don’t wish to rub mine into her cheerful face.
There’s a hint of sorrow behind Poppy’s smile. It’s new, but I see it as a sign of maturity. I’m growing and changing. Why shouldn’t she, too?
“I’m glad you could make it,” she says. “Castine isn’t the same without you.”
“And my life isn’t the same without you. Come to Paris with me.” It’s an empty offer, considering I’m not actually attending school in Paris.
She lets out a puff of laughter. “I couldn’t possibly!”
“And why not?” I pout. “I want you by my side, and Paris is the perfect place for an artist.”
“You know why not.”
“I don’t. Enlighten me.”
Her lips twist, and her smile becomes bitter. “I can’t afford it.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have made her say it aloud.
I like to imagine there’s no resentment between us, but the smile on her face says otherwise. And why shouldn’t she resent me?
There’s always been a financial barrier between Poppy and me. It’s the only blockage we have in our friendship, and it doesn’t exist between her and Tobey. Not really. Tobey is right between the two of us, but their family had financial struggles, too. They can relate to one another…
I can’t. Sometimes, I wonder if Poppy hates me for my family’s wealth, even if she doesn’t realize it.
“That’s all right,” I say. “I’m only teasing. I know Castine needs you, and I’ll be back soon enough.”
She leans forward, picking up her warm cup of tea. “I suppose it does.”
The world needs Poppy. They need more of her, even if they can’t see it yet. Someday, they will.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be here,” Poppy says. “Really. I am. I love Castine.”
But the more she insists, the more it feels like she’s trying to convince me—and maybe herself.