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“Is that a trick question, Dr. Reynolds?”

The maternal smile returns. “Not in the least. I’d simply like to determine your opinion of your progress.”

With a reflexive sigh, I look past her and out the nearby window. “You’re pursuing the sociopath angle,” I tell her tiredly. “You think I deceived Chastain into believing I was changing. That I’ve manufactured the emotions and responses expected of me.”

She doesn’t respond. I glance at her to see her eyebrows lifted in expectation. I gotta hand it to her, she’s working the hardass-therapist archetype pretty flawlessly. Trying to get a rise out of me. To see if I’ll break, reveal my own true colors.

I may have changed somewhat—but not that much. She won’t get what she wants from me.

“I tried in the beginning,” I murmur. “He saw right through it. You want to know why I trusted Chastain? He didn’t give me a choice. He kept pushing and pushing from every conceivable direction. He was… easy to talk to. Before I knew it, I forgot how to lie and told the truth instead.”

“How did that feel?”

I cock a brow. “Fucking alarming. It felt like he had power over me. I didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t, or still don’t?”

Ah, there it is. She’s not stupid and clearly picked up on my desperate, lovesick vibe when I burst into his office Saturday.

Undaunted, I look her in the eye. “Chastain taught me that relationships—even client and therapist ones—don’t have to be a power struggle. That when two people let their guards down, magic happens. Trust happens. Did he cross the professional boundary with me in this office? No, he did not. As for whether I crossed it, I’m sure he left detailed notes, as well as his opinion that I was trying to assume control of the ‘relationship’ by using my sexuality to undermine his authority.”

Dr. Reynolds doesn’t bother to hide either her surprise or her lingering doubt. Can’t say I blame her.

“Well, Mia,” she says finally, “that’s a very insightful response. Thank you for your candor. You should feel very proud of the hard work you’ve done. How would you describe your overall state of mind at this stage?”

My heart rate finally begins to slow. To my astonishment, I don’t consider lying to her. Whether or not she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I need some fucking guidance.

“I’m scared.”

“Why’s that?”

I look at the ceiling to avoid her stare. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“I think that’s a perfectly natural response to the trauma you’ve endured, as well as the therapy process here at Oasis. Let me ask you something else, Mia. Have you considered that not knowing who you are means you can be whoever you want to be?”

My gaze drops to her face. “That’s a little abstract.”

She smiles like I just told a joke. “Yes, it can be, but we can narrow it down.” She pauses to scratch something on the notepad, then looks back up. “There are two primary tasks I want to accomplish with you in your remaining time. May I share?”

I stuff down a sarcastic quip. “By all means.”

“First, I want to utilize a method popular in Twelve-Step programs, that of compiling a list of people we’ve harmed and making a plan for amends or restitution. Then I want to tackle the issue you just brought up, that of identity. We’ll talk about what your ideal life looks like—vocation, love, friendship, family, et cetera. We’ll also discuss the first steps you’ll take toward those goals, as well as determine whether you’ll benefit from ongoing therapy.”

I sink back into my chair and force a smile.

“Sounds like a plan.”

26

COUNTDOWN TO FREEDOM

DAY 22

Kinsey’s goodbye party is a more subdued affair than Nix’s, Leo’s absence an almost palpable undercurrent. I’m certainly not helping elevate the mood—I’ve spent the last half hour sitting in a chair in the corner, watching but not really seeing the celebration. I’m mostly left alone.

Everyone thinks I’m bummed about Kinsey leaving. And surprisingly, I am. I’m going to miss her… for exactly six days. She lives in L.A., too, and already demanded my phone number and a promise to meet for coffee. Also surprisingly, I’m looking forward to it. I can’t recall the last period of my life when I had any close, female friends. Or any friends, really.

God, I’m such a loser.