Page 54 of Who We Are

“Hey, T. I’m wondering if you have a few minutes.”

Even when I work daily on having positive thoughts, his words freeze my entire body. Is he going to fire me?

“Umm, yeah, is everything okay?” I ask as I step outside into a typically drizzly afternoon in Seattle and walk a few steps toward the bar.

Of course, everything is okay. Don’t be such a downer, Thea. He needs you. There’s no way he’s going to fire you. Losing a supervisor doesn’t mean that you ran out of luck.

“I mean, yes. As a matter of fact, I’m the one ringing the back door.”

“Great! I have someone to introduce you to.”

The door swings open, interrupting my brooding thoughts. Reed moves aside for me to enter, and right in the hallway, I spot a tall man who is watching me.

His grayish hair is combed back, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that enhances his green eyes. The man finally smiles at me. That smirk looks familiar, but before I can place it, he extends his hand. “Christian Colthurst-Decker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I stare at the hand, but my brain is paralyzed along with my upper limbs. This is the man my father talked about throughout my entire childhood. The guy who stole everything from him, including his happiness. For a long time, I believed that tale until I learned that my parents are takers and believe they’re entitled to everything.

“He might have the name of a rock star, T, but he’s a simple man,” Reed says, giving a gentle squeeze to my left shoulder.

“Thea Dennis.” I finally find my voice and the strength to meet his hand. “Nice meeting you, sir.”

“Sir?” He shivers. “I’m not that old, am I?” He tilts his bushy eyebrows waiting for me to respond, smirk in place.

“No, of course not, Mr. Decker.”

“Sweetheart, no need to be so formal. Call me Chris,” he corrects, starting to walk toward the main door and indicating with his hand to follow. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

Chris sits by the far-left corner table, where he has a pad, a pen, and a bottle of water. He points at the chair in front of the one he’s sitting in and instead of sliding in, I look around, searching for Reed. But he’s nowhere to be found. I take a deep breath before slipping into my seat.

“I got this earlier today.” He hands me my résumé, and I wonder why Matt gave it to his father. “At first, I wasn’t sure why my son sent it over. When I talked to him, he said you’re working toward your counseling license?” I nod. “How many hours do you have left to fulfill?”

“One hundred fifty-three. I passed my test already, but it’s hard to find…” I drop my gaze to the table, tracing each letter typed on the white paper while making up my mind about letting him know my background. Then I lift my head and frown. “No offense, but why would this matter to you?”

His lazy smile never leaves his lips, but his gaze narrows. Without a word he pulls out a business card.

Dr. Christian A. Colthurst-Decker. Ph.D. Psychologist/Counselor.

My jaw almost drops. I had no idea this man was a doctor, like me.

“I’m opening a counseling practice, and I could use someone specializing in addictions. However, I can’t have an unlicensed therapist,” he says, motioning toward my résumé. “Reed says great things about your character. He vouches for you and believes I should give you a chance. Do you have a supervisor for the hours you’re missing?”

I shake my head. “Every time I find a supervisor, they hate my style or say they can’t jeopardize their license because of me.”

“What exactly is it that you do to jeopardize their license?”

“The way I find a counselor is through a teacher or a classmate. The last one was through a church where I volunteered on Sundays. The wife of the deacon thought I’d be great helping foster children. I explained my issue to her, and she found a doctor who helped me for about fifty hours. But he found out I worked at a bar…” I trail off, shaking my head.

“What was the problem?”

“I’m a recovering alcoholic and an addict,” I whisper, closing my eyes for a couple of beats. “I guess he couldn’t believe I was clean when I handle alcohol for a living.”

Chris assesses me closely. “How many days?”

“Eighteen hundred seventy-one.” My voice quivers. I’m afraid it’s not long enough for him.

“How old are you?”

“Almost twenty-seven.” I hope he doesn’t ask me when I started. Because that’s just the opening for him to leave.

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