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“What about this one?” Wren asks as she drops onto a couch. “It’s funky.”

I shake my head. “It’s white—not happening. No. I want leather so when Molly does something destructive to it I can yell about the cost and say,‘Hey! That’s leather!’You know, something cliché. Or‘Do you have any idea how much that couch set me back, dog?’”

Wren reluctantly stands, continuing our meander through the furniture store. I promised I wouldn’t pry, but I can’t stop thinking about therapy. What the therapist said. If I screwed the rest of her life up by bringing her there to begin with.

“How about this one?”

“You’ve already sat on that one three times,” she says.

Right.

I can’t focus.

“What happened in there?” I blurt.

“I was wondering how long you’d hold out,” she says with a triumphant grin, dropping into a recliner. “Yes, I told her everything.” I open my mouth; she talks over me. “And I showed her my arms. We talked about my triggers and what I can do.”

Do not push. Do not push. Do not push.

“And what are they? What can we do?” I push.

“Maybe my mom in general. When I feel guilty for things she did. Basically when anything feels like my fault. Apparently we aren’t supposed to take responsibility for other people’s choices.” She gives me a look I ignore as I sit on a recliner and kick my legs up.

“What can you do?” I ask.

“Not cut myself,” she deadpans.

“Earth-shattering advice,” I say flatly. “What else? What am I supposed to do? Put cameras in the bathroom or something?”

“Creepy.” She looks at me like she’s trying to make sure I do not go that route and drags her hand across a puffy bedspread. “Just talk to me, I guess. Keep being annoying.” I blink; she smirks. “She said the rubber band was good. And she suggested exercise.”

We both make a face at that, but I instantly think of Ford, telling me about boxing and the relief it gave him.

I stand and move to a sectional couch.

“Your dad boxes, maybe that? There’s hitting. I know from experience how therapeutic that can be.”

“No.” She tilts her head as she eyes a hideous marble coffee table. “I thought maybe running.”

“Running?” I ask, disgusted at the thought.

“What’s wrong with running? Lots of people do it.”

“Lots of people are ignorant sluts.” I squeeze the cushion of an overstuffed corduroy ottoman. “I made you another appointment for next month.”

She shrugs but doesn’t argue. “Fine. How about this one?”

“Plaid?” I frown. “Gross!”

She chuckles, moving to the next one. “Why are you so worried about the furniture if you’re just going to sell it?”

We stop at a brown leather sofa, sleek enough to look clean but pillowy enough to be comfortable. “Because I have to live with it for a couple more months, and I want to enjoy it.” We sit at the same time; I grin. “Perfect.”

She doesn’t move off the couch when I stand. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine.”

Translation: not fine.