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They watch me change.I let them see my profile, the careful tuck of my blouse, the precise way I smooth my skirt and lift my chin.The therapist speaks to me gently as I apply tinted moisturizer and a colorless lip balm.“You’re remembering who you are,” she says.“You’re recovering.”

I nod as I sweep mascara through my lashes.I practice blinking the way I used to—slow, thoughtful, as if I’m just now seeing myself again for the first time.“I look better,” I say.

She smiles.“You look safe.”

We sit across from each other and rehearse.“I was sick,” she prompts.

“I was sick,” I repeat.

“I’m better now.”

“I’m better now.”

“You’re loved.”

“I’m loved.”

She studies my face each time like she’s reading for tone.I give her exactly what she wants.I say each line with a flicker of relief.I lean into the part like I wrote it myself—not because I believe it, but because I’m watching her watch me.

Robert visits on Wednesdays.He always smells like shaving cream and cologne that cost too much.He wears sweaters and shoes that never scuff.

“My girl,” he says, as though nothing ever happened.He doesn’t talk about the past.Just talks at me—about where we’ll travel when I’m better, how good I’ve been, how proud he is.

“I knew you’d come back,” he says.“You always do.”

I smile.Say, “I missed you.”Let him touch my wrist.Let him kiss my forehead.I even pretend I like it.That’s part of it, too.Knowing when not to resist.Knowing when to leave just enough tension in my fingers that he thinks he broke something.Not that I let it go.

They serve dinner on real plates now.China.White with a silver rim.I eat slowly.I cross my ankles.I say thank you.I fold my napkin in my lap and I never—ever—drop eye contact.

Back in the dressing room, they give me a task.“Choose something you’d wear to brunch,” the therapist says.I pick a cream blouse and a beige skirt.I don’t look at the mirror while I dress.I know what’s in it.I wait until I’m fully put together.Then I turn and stare at myself until she says, “Beautiful.”

Later, alone, after the door is locked and everyone has gone to bed, I walk the perimeter of the room again.I’ve memorized every square inch.

Tonight I find the baseboard.I run my thumb over it.Rough.Shallow.But there.Words no one else will see.

I stand.Smooth the carpet with my palm.Shake it off.

Tomorrow I’ll wake early.I’ll eat the breakfast they leave by the door.I’ll take the pill.I’ll sit with the therapist and say every line with the right pauses.I’ll tell Robert thank you.I’ll press my cheek to his chest and breathe in the lie.

Even if it kills me.

51

Vance

We drive west, out past the neighborhoods with fake gas lanterns and high school banners nailed to fences.Past the grocery stores with wine bars inside, and the churches with Instagram handles.Rachel doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it’s just to annoy me.She taps the steering wheel like she’s playing a song only she can hear.

“You’re awful quiet,” she says.“Serial killer quiet.”

I don’t respond.She wants to control the tone.I don’t let her.

“Let me guess.Military?Ex-cop?Something grim and unfuckable.”

Still nothing.The silence makes her fidget.That’s the goal.

We hit a stretch of road with no lights.Woods on both sides.She glances over like she’s expecting me to pull a gun.Or maybe she hopes I will.

“Don’t worry,” she says, flicking on the high beams.“Nobody buries bodies out here anymore.Too many podcasts.”