Page 6 of Night So Silent
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” he finally asks about 30 minutes into the ride.
“I talk for a living. So, when I’m not working, I just like the quiet.” I glance at his stoic face. “Seems like you like the quiet, too.”
“You’re the therapist, yes?”
“Do you need one?” It’s my usual response, which qualifies as both a joke and a surprisingly effective marketing technique.
“Are you always this wound up?” he asks, giving me pause.
“What do you mean,wound up?” I squint back at him.
“Therapists are supposed to be a calming influence, no? I help you with your luggage and then you start yelling and jumping on me like a squirrel on a nut.”
Instantly, heat blooms across my cheeks.
“You’rethe one who appeared out of nowhere and walked off with my suitcase!” I snap. “Not even ahi, I’m your ride, and don’t worry, I’m not a psycho!”
“You’re wound upnow,” Sergei says with nonchalance.
My eyes bulge and I set my jaw.
“I was detained by airport security because they thought I was a serial killer, some unhinged woman chased me through the airport throwing her shoes at me, I barely made my connection, and the severe turbulence nearly resulted in a crash landing, andthen—” I stop right before divulging Caleb’s weirdo texts. “Yes, I’m a little on edge.”
Sergei’s skepticism is unwavering. “Therapists can’t be serial killers.”
That’s all he can say?
“Technically, Hannibal Lecter was a therapist.” I also like throwing this one out there.
But he doesn’t miss a beat.
“How do you like your meat cooked?”
Before I can respond, we take a sharp left and turn onto a gravel drive flanked by a wall of trees. Soon, the house I’ve only seen in photos with its wood siding, wide front porch, and snow-covered roof appears before me. I didn’t realize we were so close. Then again, time flies when you’re disassociating.
I’m so excited that I nearly forget about my horrific journey. I’m about to jerk open the back door of the Tundra when Sergei beats me to it and lifts my suitcase out of the back seat.
“Thanks,” I say as I meet him at the front of the truck. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He arches his brow, but says nothing, so I don’t argue further. He looks like he could toss meandmy suitcase off this mountain with a flick of his wrist. I follow him up to the porch adorned with rainbow Christmas lights and an evergreen wreath on the door. Not five seconds after he rings the doorbell, thedoor flies open and I glimpse Brett’s wild mane of strawberry blonde ringlets.
“BARRETT!” she shrieks and leaps onto the porch.
I’m overcome with excitement, even as a tiny pang of sadness pierces my heart. We haven’t lived in the same city for a year and a half, and even though we text every day, it still feels like we should be going out for Thursday dinners and watching our TV shows together.
“How are you?” I ask when I finally manage to peel myself away.
“Exhausted,” she replies, motioning for us to come inside. “This is the most lively I’ve been in months. I probably need to go lie down now. But, seriously, I’m just glad you’re here!”
The house is warm and cozy and smells of vanilla and spice. A tall Christmas tree lights up the corner in front of the window, covered in ornaments and warm white lights. Colson is lounging on the sofa, settled back into the cushions with a baby curled up like a little tree frog on his chest. I hurry over and sit down next to him, overcome with the absolute adorableness of Ev’s chubby cheeks and wisps of red hair as she snoozes away. I think I’m starting to get misty-eyed again.
But then I laugh to myself as I take in the scene. If you’d told me back in college that I’d be sitting next to Colson Lutz—my best friend’sstalker—in their mountain hideaway while he holds their sleeping baby, I would’ve laughed in your face. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly jealous of Mark Holloway, the therapist I referred Colson to once they got to Colorado.
To be a fly on the wall during those sessions…
“Barrett,” Colson rumbles.
“How’s the little sprout?” I ask as I lean in for a hug.
