Page 45 of Deadly Knight
After the show,we all walk about half a block down to get away from the crowd exiting the bar. The four of them gather by the crosswalk going north while I turn to walk the opposite way. Melissa and her husband say their goodbyes while Nora lingers, ignoring the green light giving them the right-of-way at the crosswalk.
“That was fun. See you Monday, Katya!”
“Bye.”
Caleb remains between the two crosswalks, his eyes flicking to the trio, to me, and back again. “You’re not coming?”
“I live this way.” I jerk my head in the direction of the opposite street.
Another look back and forth. “You shouldn’t walk home alone this late. I’ll take you.”
Heat blossoms across my chest, which only reminds me I’m still wearing his sweater. I remove it, and the evening chill of late summer, of a fall creeping up in the months to come, causes goosebumps to almost immediately sprout.
“I’ll be fine. I walk alone all the time, so no need. Thanks, though.”
He takes his sweater back only to drape it over my shoulders, clenching it tight around the neck before using the material to drag me closer to him, our bodies coming nearer than what being coworkers allows for.
My heart flies out of my chest. Panic at the sudden nearness. Anxiety over how to respond.
“I don’t have to,” he replies in a low tone, almost a growl, “but I want to. Wear my sweater because it’s chilly. Even if it’s a shame to cover you up.”
He wants to walk me home? Instinct has me wanting to escape his hold and go alone, considering we barely know one another. What’s to say when he gets me alone, he won’t try to kidnap me or something equally dangerous?
Because he’s a normal man offering to do a nice thing. Accept it. Be normal.
Normal. Normal I can do. I think. A man walking a woman home could be considered normal, if I was the kind of woman with a cushy past. It’s what I’m trying to become, though, so without another argument lined up, my head bobs once, uncertain what part of his speech I’m responding to.
“This way, you said?” Without waiting for my response, he starts across the intersection, tugging me after him.
“Y-yeah. It’s not far. I hope it won’t be a long trip for you afterwards. Seriously, you don’t have to do this.” The terrified side of me doesn’t want him to, but the therapeutic side trying to heal does. It’s a conundrum within my body.
Caleb shrugs, clearly unbothered by the thought of having to walk himself home later. “That’s what buses are for. Besides, it’s worth it.”
We walk a few more feet before he shoves his hands into his front pockets, his shoulders lifting up to his ears. When he talks, it’s with a casualness that suggests it’s a warm afternoon instead of chilly night.
“So… What led you to becoming a therapist?”
Attending counselling myself showed me the power behind helping someone through the hard times. The mental load people silently carry because, until talking to someone, it’s apain concealed behind expressions and a lack of trust and openness. The horrors I survived at eighteen were terrifying, but knowing kids younger than I was live through the same and have no one to share that burden with—to help them understand and process it—changed my view.
Caleb’s question is common enough. Most people get a standard response:“I enjoy helping people.”While not a lie, it’s not the entire truth either, and I’m compelled to admit the truth to Caleb for some reason. Well, to be semi-truthful without giving away the details.
“I, uh, lived through something really shitty when I was younger. It changed my worldview, I guess, so I switched my major from teaching to psychology and trained to become a therapist.”
His gaze makes the side of my face prickle, but I don’t risk looking over, uninterested in his pity. If only he knew the details of said “shitty” thing…
“I’ve always heard people who end up in the field of psychology are the ones who had it the hardest at one point. The ones trying to ensure what happened to them doesn’t happen to others.”
For that statement, I do give him my attention, because it’s like he read me.
A welcome notion, strangely enough. The last man to read me so correctly was?—
“Yeah,” I murmur, because what else is there to say?
“Did you always want to work with kids?”
I nod. “They’re why I went into the field. Counselling adults is enjoyable because they, you know, talk. Reply to my questions. They’re attending therapy because they chose it, so it’s easier for them to open up. With kids, while some request support, most are referred by their parents.” Or in special cases, Children’s Services and courts. “Half of them don’t want to be there, andthe others think it’s all colouring and games. Which is fine too, because counselling children is all about giving them a safe place and person to open up to. Not many have that, and their brains are young and innocent, so to be that person is a bit of an honour. It’s unfortunate not every child gets the chance to retain that innocence, you know? Plus, considering I once wanted to teach elementary school, it felt right to do something similar but different.”
Caleb steps out of the way from an oncoming couple, and the back of his hand brushes against mine. Old instincts urge me to jerk my hand away—toprotectmyself. But he feels good, and the sensation is quickly cooled. My muscles untense, my arm remaining in the same place.
