Page 73 of The Last to Let Go
“Sorry,” I croak. “I’ve been trying to get over this cold thing for weeks.” I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
He sits down across from me, the aquarium illuminating his face in waves. It’s weird to be in a waiting room after hours, no fluorescent lights, no phone ringing. “You know, I’ve tried calling you several times. Have you gotten my messages?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. Well, maybe,” I lie. “Sorry, I’ve been really busy. School and work and everything.”
“No, I understand. It sounds like you’ve had a lot on your plate.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“You’re saying ‘sorry’ a lot,” he says as he leans back into the chair, crossing his leg.
I’m about to say “sorry” again, but I stop myself.
“Which makes me wonder if there’s something you’re feeling bad about, perhaps? Is that what brought you here today?”
“No,” I lie. “I—I told you. I came to pick up Callie.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. I’m in no hurry, if there’s something on your mind.”
“I can’t pay you,” I blurt out.
“Well, good thing this isn’t an official appointment, then.” He laughs, which makes me relax a little bit. “Seriously, we don’t need to be talking about money.”
“Okay.”
“So, what is it that brought you here?” he asks.
“I told you—Callie.”
“Yes, but why did you want to pick her up? It seems like you’ve been going out of your way to keep your distance from my office.”
“I don’t know, I guess I was feeling...” I trail off, suddenly not quite sure how I’m feeling, exactly.
“Yes?” he asks when I don’t finish.
“Alone.”
“Mm,” he hums, nodding slowly. “Good answer.”
“Which is weird,” I continue, “because sometimes all I want in the world is to be left alone. Other people make things so complicated. But then I’m finally alone and all I want is other people around.”
“Well...,” he begins, then looks off in the direction of the aquarium. “?‘You are born alone. You die alone. The value of the space in between is trust and love.’?” He meets my eyes and shrugs.
“Cheerful.”
“Yes, it kind of is, actually.”
“Is that Freud, or something?” I ask, somehow managing to joke, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt quite so low in my whole life.
He lets out a small chirp—that same laugh I heard with Callie that day behind the closed door. “No, an artist said that. Louise Bourgeois.” Then he slinks out of his coat and pulls a notepad from his briefcase. “Go on.”
I do. I don’t know why, but I do.
SPRING
REASONS
I RIFLE THROUGH MYdesk drawers like a madwoman. I hid it months ago, after we moved back in. But I know I kept it—that small scrap of paper. My hands run over all kinds of objects, erasers and pens that no longer work, Post-it notes, and old flash cards.
