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In any case, yes. I am still okay.Justokay.

“Yes,” I say finally. “My father and I divided our businesses years ago, so there was less direct impact on me. I’m okay.”

Willa purses her lips, and a crease appears between her brows. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I shrug. “I did answer. I’m okay.”

“No, Archer,” she says. “You answered as though I asked if yourbusinessis okay. Or your money. What I asked is, how areyou? You, the man whose father is in jail. Are you okay, as a person?”

Willa is right. I didn’t even realize that my answers were exactly as she just pointed out—related to business and logistics, not myself.

But this question—the one she asked, the one I completely missed—is not one I feel like I can answer.

In fact, even trying to think about it, my hands begin sweating in my pockets, and the back of my neck starts to itch. I rub a finger along the edge of my mint tin.

Are you okay?

The kind of simple question Bellamy doesn’t even ask. Or, maybe he does, but in other ways. Because he knows I wouldn’t answer directly, just as I find myself edging out the door.

“I’m fine personally as well,” I say, the bitter tang of a lie making it hard to swallow.

I think she reads the lie in my face because her gaze drops. “Okay,” she says. “Well, I’m glad.”

“I’ve got to make some calls,” I tell her, though what Ireallyneed is some space. From her. “Are you all set?”

Willa lifts her clipboard and salutes me with it. “I’m good here, boss. I’ll have you up and running in no time. Possums: gone. Plumbing: plumbed. Office: organized. Trust me.”

I do. But I’m not sure why that fact makes me feel both exhilarated and deeply unsettled.

Chapter Thirteen

Willa

I glare at my therapist.

She stares beatifically back, with her pristine white hair and blue eyes.

I recross my legs, adjusting in my seat. Judith does the same.

I give an exasperated sigh, and she does the thing where she smiles without smiling. It’s faint and might not register to a stranger, but I’ve been coming here long enough to recognize the twinkle in her eyes and the slight twitch in the corner of her lips.

Go to therapy, they said.

It will be great, they said.

They’re all a bunch of dirty, dirty liars.

Fine—no one said it would be great, per se. They did say it might help me, and so far, I see no sign that it has done squat. I’m not sure I’ve made any progress at all in the year I’ve been seeing Judith. The other thing that hasn’t changed is my dread every week on therapy day.

Maybe to some, the experience of laying bare the most vulnerable parts of themselves to a stranger with a degree feels good. Healthy. Rewarding. Cathartic.

Forme, it’s like someone handed over a skimpy two-piece bathing suit and told me I’d be walking a mile-long runwayunder the most unflattering lights in subzero temperatures—in front of a football stadium of people who all have binoculars to examine my every flaw.

Actually, I might prefer that.

On therapy days, my hands start to sweat and tremble a few hours before my appointment. My stomach ties itself into a tight knot, and my thoughts turn into Formula 1 racecars.

The sessions all start the same: Judith and I engaged in a standoff to see who will break first and speak. She seems to enjoy it, while in me, it makes anger bubble and build. She says she wants to give me space tostart the conversation(her words), and every week, I prefer to see exactly how long we can sit in uncomfortable silence. The record so far is nine minutes and forty-seven seconds.