Page 31

Chapter 11

Last night’s pain rolled into the morning, seeming to seep into the atmosphere, coloring all of Santa Cruz Bay. By late afternoon, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, waiting to tuck the skyline into their sheet of gray.

I watched the cumulus collect while I nestled into the hide of the chair I’d designated for myself in my therapist’s office, the only thing about this purgatorial sentence that welcomed me with familiar and comfy arms.

My phone distracted me from descending into my own layers of Limbo—which I should have been doing, in search of the Voices, to get answers—but I aimlessly scrolled instead. A text popped up. Javi.

What are we doing today? he asked.

Just got out of class. Now I’m at therapy, I typed. Then I have work. Ugh. Cupping my jaw, I made a sad face and snapped a quick selfie. He hearted it immediately after I sent it.

Fine, valid excuse. What about tomorrow?

My thumbs pecked feverishly. Summer school in the morning.

This whole summer school thing is really ruining our plans.

I sighed. IKR? I can meet you at the lighthouse after class tomorrow?

Deal. Not to give you fomo or anything but… A perfectly curated pic of milky cold brew, a bean bag, and a stack of comics taunted me from the screen.

The jealousyyyy. BRB crying.

Javi flooded the thread with cry-laugh emojis.

I exited the app, turning up the trancey track resonating through my headphones so it was no longer background noise. Continuing to avoid the oath I’d made to myself—the Voices could wait. A little more daydreaming wouldn’t hurt.

The door to the office opened, but I didn’t notice until Dr. Fairmore’s apple cheeks and indigo cat-eye rims came into my view. “How are you, River?” her mauve tinted lips mouthed, words muffled by the music. “Doing okay?”

Eh, just missing some telepathic Voices and have potentially been hallucinating. Oh, and my best friend leaves for college soon, my last episode almost killed me but other than that, fine, totally fine. Actually, the endless list of not-okay things had me rubbing my temples.

I removed my headphones just in time to hear, “I saw the surf’s up.”

Oof, nobody says that except total rookies and characters on TV shows. An irrepressible cringe scrunched my nose. The motion seemed to jump from my face to my therapist’s, like she knew how forced and awkward it came out.

“That was corny,” she admitted, her natural rosy undertones flaring, searing her cheeks. With a self-deprecating shake of her head, she took a seat in the armchair across from me.

My heart sputtered. Did she—was she—cracking jokes with me. At her own expense?

When her color evened out, she addressed me again with a cool expression that slightly raised her brows and lips. “Anything specific you’d like to start with, or do you want to pick up where we left off?”

The wall clock filled the silence. I listened intently: to the ticking, to her mulling, to the scrapes on the leather seat from my restless fingers. She’d done this last time, disarmed me with her unexpected humanness. Kind, but not lacking confidence. Focused, but not in a creepy way that made me feel like a science experiment. Expectant, but not demanding answers. Although her straight posture and unwavering gaze did make it clear she demanded my respect. I could give her that. She’d actually earned it. I still hated therapists, but I found it hard to hate her.

I averted my eyes towards the window, feeling defeated. The wind had picked up and brushed the first drops of rain into long slashes against the glass. My exhales grew longer, the heaviness lifting from my chest.

Maybe she really was different than the others. Maybe I should give her a chance. Our last conversation had seemed to draw out the Voices.

The bud of an idea formed: if I let her in, could it coax them out of hiding?

“River,” Dr. Fairmore stressed my name like she had already repeated it, “is everything alright? You seem distracted.”

The aged leather lounger must have memorized my exasperation, because I flung myself back into a perfectly indented shape. “Sorry, I just have a lot going on.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dr. Fairmore spun a hammered medallion, its white gold chain dangling to her ribs—the same one from our last session, the angel with the trumpet. “This is what I’m here for.”

She closed her file. It was the smallest flick of her wrist, but the gesture was louder than anything she’d ever said. It was an invitation to be, to speak, to do whatever I wanted, with no scribbling pen to take my words out of context just to plot my next diagnosis.

Time to test my theory.