Page 25 of Into the Fire: Before

I gave a single shake of my head. “No. Don’t reschedule.”

Brea furrowed her brow, frowning at me.

“I’ll stay,” I said quietly.

The two women exchanged a look, the older one looking back at me. “Stay…”

“With Brea.”

Another silence lingered over the room. “It’s really no problem to switch, Caine,” Brea said.

“I don’t want to.”

The woman cleared her throat, stepping closer. “You have every right to choose your counselor, Caine. And Brea wouldn’t have been accepted into the program if she weren’t capable of giving productive, impartial attention regardless of the circumstance. But if there’s any part of you that may feel inhibited or uneasy continuing on with someone you know, it’s best we sort that now.”

My eyes slid to Brea. The neutralizers meant I couldn’t get a good sense of her scent, but her face was impassive, like we were discussing the best route to take to lunch. That wasn’t the face that stuck in my mind, though. It was the look she’d given me outside.

If she saw the pieces…well, that was a start.

I swallowed. I met her eye. “I’m here. So. Take that or leave it.”

Twenty-six

Taryn

Mymorningdowntownhadme so amped up that I went on a productivity spree around the apartment. I gathered all the laundry that I’d promised Brea I would do and lugged it up to the shared laundry room on the third floor.

And that stack of mail on the counter? Sorted! A bank statement I ignored—we’d opted for paperless three times, yet still they came in paper too; a pamphlet about some new clinical trials for expectant omega mothers; an ad for singles night at a ritzy new bar a few blocks away; weekly coupon pages.

Junk, junk, junk.Into the bin, you go!

Counters—wiped! Dishes—washed! I even went into my one-day-gonna-be-a-nest and did some sketches. Maybe we could sit down tonight and do some cozy-goody ordering.

My phone timer interrupted my sketching, and I jogged back up the stairs to fetch the laundry—Lin had sprung for a fancy washer-dryer combo machine so loads didn’t have to be switched—and bring it back down to the apartment.

Sweat rolled down my spine as I overturned the huge basket and dumped the mound of clothes onto the bed.

You’re a badass bitch, motherfucking queen of doing the things!

I looked around the half-cleaned apartment, then at the veritable mountain of clean clothes before me. But I was now hot, and tired, and the effects of the climbing up and down and up and down stairs, and the sunny June morning march were finally rearing up like an angry stallion. I wanted nothing more than a tall glass of water and a few minutes off my feet.

Seeing as the bed was unavailable—and, okay, yes, the couch was covered in the last remnants of my unpacking chaos, which had escaped my productivity whirlwind—I lay splat onto the rug at the foot of the bed with a heavy sigh.

Baby steps, baby steps.

I wished I could harness the kind of organization and discipline Brea had. Seriously, it would be nice to just…be ableto hang up my clothes so I could find what I wanted when I wanted it. Or sort through my books and movies and file them alphabetically or by genre or whatever so that it wasn’t a constant mining expedition anytime I wanted a particular one.

In our last place, after I’d spent days looking for a specific bracelet in my various trinket and jewelry boxes, through all my bedroom and bathroom drawers, under the bed, on every windowsill, behind my computer on the desk, through all my favored (and unfavored) bags, I’d vented to Brea about it. How badly I wanted my brain to justdo,to feel on top of my own shit for once. She’d smiled, and traced her finger down my face, and told me she loved how my brain worked.

Your chaotic brain means you grew up with the space to be chaotic,she’d whispered with emotion behind her words.I wouldn’t want you any other way.

(I’d eventually found the bracelet hiding in the pocket of some jeans I hadn’t worn in years. Go figure.)

Still, I was trying harder. Maybe Brea loved my chaotic brain, but she shouldn’t have to live in the physical manifestation of that chaos.

“Okay,” I said aloud through a sigh. “Get up, Taryn. Fold the damn clothes.”

My body remained immobile.

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