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Dr. Reynolds, my new therapist.

It takes three tries for me to find my voice. “Yes, um… I heard you were leaving, Dr. Chastain, and wanted to say goodbye. I hope everything’s okay at home?”

He nods. Distant. Professional. “Thank you. Everything’s fine. My son had a severe asthma attack and was taken to the hospital, but he’s okay now. Since Dr. Reynolds was arriving today anyway, I’m going to leave a few days early.”

I shouldn’t know he’s lying, but I do. This man has never lied to me. Not once. Until this moment. I stare at him, waiting for him to look at me. But he doesn’t.

My choices are clear: make a scene, or act like a mature woman who cares about other people, especially him, and doesn’t want him to suffer. The way Dr. Reynolds is looking at me—with sympathy and compassion—makes me want to vomit. She clearly thinks I’m wigging out because I’m some wacko in love with my therapist.

She’s right, but still… fuck her and her sympathy.

I swallow past a dry throat. “Okay. Well, take care. Thank you for everything.” I stammer on the last word. To my horror, tears fill my eyes. Waving at the man who isn’t even looking at me, I blurt, “Have a safe trip!”

I hightail it out of there, my sneakers squeaking rapidly over tile. I make it out the back door and as far as the pool. Without a second thought, I jump. Cool water takes me into its embrace, flowing around me, above me, inside me. It dulls the jagged edges of my pain.

Leo regrets what happened. I don’t. He’s running from the shame of it. I’m content to relive it in dreams for years to come. He surrendered to physical desire.

I surrendered my heart.

Does losing Leo hurt worse than the revelation of losing my child? Oddly, it doesn’t. At least not in the same way. After all, you can’t lose something you never truly had.

25

STEP TO THE EDGE

DAY 22

Tuesday. 10:25 a.m. Eight more days of this place, then I’ll be free to live my life. I don’t know what that looks like yet, but I do know that whatever direction I go, it’s a different trajectory than it was twenty-one days ago. So that’s something, I guess.

The door to Dr. Reynold’s office—his office—is open. I pause outside, then blink at what I see. The layout is the same. So are the desk, bookshelves, filing cabinets, and the several quality art reproductions on the walls. But the weathered leather armchairs are gone, replaced by wingback chairs upholstered in an attractive taupe. Between them is a small coffee table with a succulent and a box of tissues. An electric oil warmer sits on a side table, shooting small geysers of lavender-scented vapor into the air.

All the changes, coupled with the addition of fresh flowers on the desk and a potted ficus in a corner, erase Leo almost entirely. I can’t decide whether it’s a relief or a new level of torture.

“Come on in, Mia.”

Dr. Reynolds sits in one of the new chairs, smiling at me, a blank notepad on her lap. A small part of me wants to correct her—my name is Amelia—but a larger part likes that the name belongs to him.

“Morning,” I mumble, then make my way to the chair opposite hers and sit.

“I heard you weren’t feeling well yesterday. How are you doing today?”

“Better, thank you. Guess it was one of those twelve-hour bugs.”

Yeah, if there’s a twelve-hour bug that makes you cry until your eyes swell closed. I spent the majority of Sunday and Monday curled in my bathtub with a pillow and blanket, as the bathroom is the only area in our cabins not wired for sound. Tiffany and Kinsey brought me smoothies, snacks, and contraband chocolate at intervals. I’m not sure if Kinsey knows what went down or not; if she does, she’s keeping quiet.

“I’m glad to hear you’ve recovered.” Dr. Reynolds has a warm, clear voice, the kind that makes me think of kindergarten teachers. A trustworthy voice. “Let’s jump right in, shall we? I’d like to talk about the relationship between you and Dr. Chastain.”

The blood drains from my head, leaving me momentarily dizzy. “Excuse me?”

She smiles softly. “His notes made it clear that the two of you formed a close bond in a short period of time. It’s remarkable, the progress you made together.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod like I do. “I guess so.”

“To be perfectly honest, Mia, I’m wondering what he did to earn your trust. I read your case file and…” She shrugs delicately.

I almost smile. “You’re shocked.”

She nods with a guilty smile, though it rings false. “With the kind of trauma you experienced as a child and again two years ago, as well as long-standing behavior patterns including recklessness and narcissistic tendencies, I’m both amazed and baffled by your headway.” Losing the smile, she reveals her true self—a sharp, cunning mind that wants to pull me apart and pick at the pieces. “Tell me, what do you think of Dr. Chastain’s assessment that you’ve exhibited increased empathy for others and decreased antagonism since you arrived?”