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We’ve had this conversation before. Hell, Leo said almost the same thing to me at one point.

“You still don’t get it,” I say tiredly. “I don’t trust the things that make me happy. Except for surfing. And sushi. All the other shit landed me in a world of pain.”

“You don’t trust yourself yet,” she replies gently. “That’s okay, Amelia. There’s no finish line here. We have to wrap up, but I want you to think about something for me when you do your journaling tonight.”

“What’s that?”

“Perhaps all the skydiving, base-jumping, reckless driving, et cetera, wasn’t so much a mission to feel close to your mother and brother, but a search for something else. An aftereffect, if you will.”

I stare blankly at her. “Not picking up what you’re putting down, Doc.”

“How did you feel when you landed on the ground after jumping out of a plane?”

“Invincible,” I murmur.

Dr. Wilson smiles. “You never needed fear, Amelia. You just needed to feel safe.”

When I get home, Ferdi isn’t there to greet me. He loves prowling in the early evening, so I’m not surprised so much as pathetically lonely without him.

To stave off my therapy hangover and imminent consumption of an entire frozen pizza, I light a few candles and put on a Miles Davis record before wandering into my bedroom. I trade my casual, wraparound dress for ripped jeans and a navy sweater, then throw my hair into a messy topknot. For exactly 3.2 seconds, I also consider dealing with the pile of laundry on my closet’s floor.

Yeah, no.

While the oven preheats, I take my phone to the couch and browse Facebook. Grateful people. Sad people. Angry people. Drooling babies. Cute dogs. Same old, same old.

Then I see a status update from my brother, which is equivalent to a UFO sighting.

Jameson Sloan

Today at 5:04 p.m.

Come support Ice Holes hockey tonight @ Ice Arena, 8:00 p.m. It’s the playoffs and we need support!

The fact that he didn’t text me to invite me means one of two things. Either he remembers my overt condemnation of grown men beating each other up with sticks and pucks, or Kevin is playing tonight.

My bones start itching. When I told Dr. Wilson about the sensation, she said it means my instincts are trying to talk to me. If that’s the case, then right now they’re screaming, “Stop procrastinating on making amends, asshole! Talk to Kevin after the game, then you never have to see him again!”

Fuck.

I haul myself off the couch and turn off the oven, then impulsively call my dad. He picks up on the second ring.

“Mia! Jessica and I were just talking about you. Are you going to Jameson’s game tonight?”

I’m still not used to how happy he sounds when he hears from me now. But damn, it’s nice.

“Uh, are you?” I hedge.

“Yep. We’re leaving in a few minutes. Can we pick you up?”

In the background, I hear Jessica say, “Come with us!”

What do they call it when the universe conspires to make something happen? Oh, right.

Bad luck.

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BARN BURNER