Page 2 of The Therapist

I watched each young lady come back from the precipice of a dark abyss and not only live, but find love again.

And it always comes back to love doesn’t it?

The deepest of all human conditions.

Unconventional or traditional, love is what most seek to feel fulfilled. As a therapist, I know that’s hogwash. Only youcan make yourself happy and fulfilled—yet still—the one thing missing from my life is a great love affair.

Not for lack of trying.

The downside of this is that more and more, as time goes on, vanilla, traditional relationships don’t seem to hold my attention.

I hear such filthy, abstract, accounts of love and desire daily that I find myself beginning to crave something darker than customary vanilla love.

I just don’t know what kind.

I come from a conventional family.

I’ve lived a routine life.

I don’t know where to find non-traditional without trauma.

I open the door to my room and step into the hallway.

In my youth I was determined to make others happy, to be the sunlight in their lives, but after Amelia, all I felt for a long time was gray.

I’d adopted the mantra that if you don’t interact with others deeply, you never have to deal with feeling hurt or hurting others—even inadvertently. But right now, in the moment, I want to show those old classmates I am fun. I can be the life of the party. I will not repeatedly talk about my dog all night.

Breathing fast through my nose, I step across the corridor, take a deep breath, and place my hand on the knob. I plaster the biggest smile I can muster before opening the door.

People can change a lot in twenty years.

One

Present

Flash barely lifts his head when I get home. One eye opens to peer at me through his soggy lid and a deep sigh is the only acknowledgment he gives to let me know he’s alive. I drop my bag on the floor next to the side table and step out of my heels.

“Gee, thanks.”

His thick, short paws reach out as he allows himself a full body stretch before reluctantly getting up. I give him a solid head and neck scratch before heading to the back door to let him out. His long ears nearly drag on the floor as he waddles his way behind me. The tick, tick, click of his nails on the hardwood a welcome, comforting sound. I push open the back door and watch him disappear into the yard.

At a certain age, comfort becomes king. You walk in the door in the evening, with the overwhelming urge to change into jammie pants, an oversized worn band tee shirt from years past, and slippers.

And the bra, the bra is the first thing you want to go.

My slippers quietly swish across the hardwood floor as I set the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees. Pulling out a covered plate of leftovers, I lament that I’m eating them again. A nondescript casserole I made over the weekend for family dinner night at Eve’s house.

All of us involved with The Tutor case—Nora, Aubry, Lotte, Eve, Agent Brown, and Detective Salve—attempt to have dinner together once every few months.

It’s probably breaking some ethics rule somewhere, but that case bonded us all, fused us together in a way that tangled our personal lives, for better or worse.

It’s nice to sit and share a meal together in a non-professional capacity. To laugh and talk and catch up. I don’t have many friends. There are too many commitments already vying for my time to make or invest in new friends.

I set my ladybug-shaped egg timer for dinner, the rhythmic clicking reminding me of my life slowly ticking away. I blow out a breath and flop onto the couch. I take a moment to enjoy the utter lack of sound around me.

Listening all day to people talk makes the silence that much sweeter, come the end of the day. The house is quiet, just me and Flash.

No little footsteps, no giggles or witty banter from a child, spouse, or roommate.

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