Page 68 of It's Always Been You
“Fifty dollars is fine,” I say slowly. “I plan to go to the tree farm tomorrow or Sunday,” I add, struggling to answer her questions as the baby monitor lights up on my nightstand. Teddy calls out for me, asking for his water. Frantically, I look around the room for his sippy cup. “And if you can hold off on buying the decor from Amazon, we could go to Target on Sunday.” Teddy’s protests get louder. “Evie, can I call you back? Teddy just woke up.”
“Actually, it’s getting late, so I should probably go to bed.” Her voice is strained. But then it turns timid rather abruptly. “Will you give Teddy a hug from me?”
I swallow. “Of course. Will I see you at church on Sunday?”
“I don’t know.” I wait, and she sighs. “Maybe.” She hesitates. “Goodnight.”
“Sleep well, Spitfire.”
“You, too.”
When the line goes dead, I hang my head.Lord, will I ever get things right with her?
Chapter 21
Evie
I’msortingthroughBrandonand Gladys’ mail on Monday morning when someone bursts into the practice. The bell above the door scares the living daylights out of me, sending the mail flying across the front desk as I spin around, causing a strain in my lower back.
The twisting pain is quickly forgotten when a petite woman with striking red hair collapses onto the lobby couch. She lowers her mascara-streaked cheeks into her hands and sobs quietly to herself while I stand there in complete shock.
Comfort her.
Obeying the little voice, I approach her. She doesn’t notice me right away, even when I kneel in front of her. I grab the tissues on the coffee table and balance the box on her knee.
She looks up abruptly, snatching one up to blot at her cheeks. “Ugh! I’m sorry. I’m a total mess.” She lowers her head into the palm of her hand.
Don’t worry. That makes two of us.
She sways, mumbling under her breath as she threads her fingers through her silky curls, tugging roughly on the gorgeous ringlets—almost like she’s trying to pull them out.
“Are you a patient here?” I mentally slap myself. That was probably the least comforting thing I could have asked. I might as well have said,Hey, if you wanna cry here, you gotta have shoes on and be a paying customer!
She sniffles and nods, still rocking back and forth.
“Hey,” I whisper. Her frantic rocking pauses as she peeks at me through the curtain of her auburn hair. “What can I do to help?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I—I think I’m having a panic attack.”
I reach out. “May I touch you?”
Slowly, she takes my outstretched hand, her chest heaving as she struggles to control her breathing. I lift her hand in front of her face. “This is a technique I use when I feel out of control.”Or when I want to self-harm . . .I begin tracing her fingers. “You trace your pointer finger up and down the length of your fingers, breathing in on the upward motion and out on the downward motion. I do this as many times as it takes to calm down.” We do it together for several minutes. Eventually, her breathing evens out, and the lines in her forehead disappear.
She sighs apologetically. “Where did you learn that?”
I look down. Brandon taught me many different methods of coping with the whirlwind of my emotions to prevent me from self-harming. Sometimes this technique works, other times it doesn’t. Either way, it’s been a long time since I’ve used a blade. I only have Brandon to thank for that.
“My therapist,” I finally say.
“Brandon?”
At first, I think she’s asking if Brandon is my therapist, but then someone touches my shoulder. “Evie.” I glance up, realizing he’s here. Brandon gives the woman a soft, comforting smile—one that meets the ultramarine color of his kind soulful eyes. That warm, easy smile exudes confidence, strength, and comfort in a way that makes my insides melt and pool into hot sludge.
Ugh, I love this man.
The thought weighs me down with despair. Will I ever fall out of love with him?
No. Of course not. Ihavealways loved him, and Iwillalways love him. My soul is tangled up with his—whether I like it or not. If he comes to love someone else, well, that doesn’t matter, either. I’ll always be wrapped up in him, wishing things were different. Wishing he loved me the way I love him.
