Page 13 of Catch Me (Townsend Legacy #4)

I vy

“How is everything going?” Dr. King asks.

After I got in yesterday from my time out with Andreas, I decided to make a virtual appointment with my therapist. The panic that I felt yesterday as he left scared me enough to make the appointment I’d been putting off for weeks now.

I lucked out because a patient of hers canceled this morning. Dr. King rarely takes appointment on Sundays, but she made an exception for me because it’s been a while. Plus, my current insurance hasn’t yet kicked in, so I’m paying out of pocket.

“Honestly?” I sigh. “Things are going … well.”

Dr. King tips her head sideways, the long braid she keeps her locks in shifting over her shoulder.

“And that scares you,” she says in a tone completely devoid of judgement.

“So much,” I admit. “Part of me is on the lookout for the other shoe to drop. Or thinking maybe it has. After Ms. Baldwin’s death, I started thinking ‘see this was a mistake defying my parents and moving out here.’”

Groaning, I cover my face with my hands. “Now I’m making that poor woman’s death about me.”

“Ivy, do you feel some guilt or blame for your landlord’s death?”

I drop my hands to my lap, balling them into fists. Dr. King has me pegged.

“In the beginning, yes, I did think that maybe if I’d been there, I could’ve saved her. Maybe I would’ve seen or smelled the smoke and could have called for help sooner or?—”

“Or maybe you would’ve been another casualty,” Dr. King says.

My shoulders sink.

Ms. Shelby’s purring catches my attention. She’s perched right by my leg. The moment I make room for her, she leaps up onto my lap, meowing softly. I give her the head scratches and petting she clearly wants.

“I know what happened to Ms. Baldwin wasn’t my fault,” I tell Dr. King a minute later. “It’s just that sometimes my mind goes to the what-ifs. Especially when things are going well.”

“Tell me more,” Dr. King requests.

After a year and a half of working off-and-on with her, she’s attuned to my needs.

“The job is going well. It’s not perfect since it seems like my boss doesn’t like me that much, but all of my coworkers have said she’s like that with everyone.

I love the work we’re doing. Sometimes I go in and just stand in the room surrounded by clothes and think, ‘This is what I’ve always wanted. How did I get this lucky?’”

“Do you feel like you don’t deserve it?”

I look down at Ms. Shelby, who’s now laying on her back, giving me her belly to rub.

“At times. Then there’s …” I trail off.

“There’s …” Dr. King drags out the question.

“I’ve met someone. He’s an actor.”

I give Dr. King enough information to let her know what’s going on without telling her Andreas’ name.

“He bought me a magazine and gave it to me when he dropped me off yesterday.” I hold up the vintage Ebony magazine. “He saw me staring at it and bought it for me.”

“That’s nice of him. Why were you staring at it?”

“It’s one of the publications my aunt gave me that started my collection.”

“The collection you lost?” she asks.

“Yes.”

I’ve never told Dr. King how I ended up losing my magazine collection.

I push out a heavy breath and tell her that I started to feel panic as soon as I started to walk away from Andreas.

“What if I’m making a mistake catching feelings for someone like him? Dr. King, you more than anyone know about my aversion to attention these days, and he’s in the middle of filming a major motion picture. His life is the spotlight.”

“I see now,” she replies. “This new, budding relationship is bringing up your fears of being overwhelmed?”

“Yes. I mean, not that we can call it a relationship,” I say. “It’s new.” But even as I say that, the look in Andreas’ eyes comes back to mind and my pulse quickens. I want him to continue looking at me like that.

And that scares me the most.

“Every time I’ve gotten close to something I want, like really wanted, I’ve lost it,” I say. “My magazine collection, my fashion design degree …” I push out a harsh breath. Whenever I’ve pursued my own passions, I’d get close only for it to be stomped out.

“And what about your new job? That’s still going well,” Dr. King points out.

I think back to the moment Rebecca came close to firing me. “I’m still in my trial period,” I reply. “It’s not a sure thing.”

“Nothing’s a sure thing, Ivy,” Dr. King replies. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth going after.”

I don’t say anything in response. All I can do is nod as I try to let her words sink in.

“Have you had any panic attacks lately? Since the last time we spoke?”

It’s been almost two months since I’ve had a session with Dr. King. Between the fire, starting my new job, and settling into my new life in L.A. I just haven’t made the time.

“I had one the day after Ms. Baldwin died.”

Ms. Shelby meows, requesting for more belly rubs.

“What about your routines? Do you think they’re helping?” Dr. King asks a little later.

She’s never forced the issue of medication for my panic attacks. Initially, after what happened at my graduation ceremony and my short stint in the hospital, I was on meds. But after a year or so, under her care, I was weaned off of them.

“Let’s schedule an appointment for four weeks from today,” she suggests at the end of our session.

Dr. King reminds me to continue with the morning routine and journaling notebook that’s helped when my mind starts to become overloaded or weighed down by my worries.

Once I disconnect the call with Dr. King, I’m feeling much lighter. It’s a reminder that sometimes speaking my worries out loud, instead of keeping them in my head, helps them lose their power over me.

That’s not always the case when it comes to my panic disorder, but regular sessions with my therapist, journaling, and healthy routines go a long way to decreasing the amount of panic attacks that occur.

I look over at the magazine I’ve barely touched and excitement courses through me. I decide to take my magazine to a local coffee shop to sit, read, and do some journaling. Mya’s over at Jason’s for the rest of the weekend, probably, so it’s just me today.

Fifteen minutes later I enter the café and order a green smoothie instead of something with caffeine in it.

I find a cozy high back chair in the corner reading section of the café and pull out my magazine.

I’ll never get over how stunning this cover is.

I wonder how revolutionary this and covers like these must’ve been for Black women in the 1960s.

I read some of the articles in the magazine, to gain a sense of what was going on during the time period and try to reflect on how the fashion trends speak to it.

Before I know it, I pull out my sketch pad and sketch a design of a look I would put together if I were designing a costume for a film or show set in the 60s.

That thought has me packing up and heading to another local consignment store that’s not too far from my apartment.

This store is bigger than the one I went to the day before. There’s an array of pieces I could imagine buying for a movie or series.

“Come out, Mom. Let me see it!” a woman behind me, by the fitting room, calls out while I’m looking at the belts.

“It’s terrible. I’m not coming out,” her mother yells back from behind one of the fitting room doors.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Get out here.”

A beat passes before the wooden door creeps open and an older Black woman, who looks to be in her fifties, comes out. Her head is down and her shoulders are slouched as she inches toward her daughter.

“It makes me appear huge. It’s horrible!” the woman says, gesturing to the dress.

“That yellow looks beautiful on you.”

Both women turn to me. The older woman doesn’t smile but a light enters her brown eyes.

“You think so?”

“Yes, have a look for yourself.” Something takes over me, and I go to the woman, gesturing toward the mirror next to her. “It truly accentuates the golden undertones of your skin.”

“But it’s baggy.” She holds out her arms for emphasis. “Is it too oversized? Doesn’t it make me look bigger than I actually am?”

“It’s supposed to be like that, Mom. It’ll allow you to move more comfortably, and you don’t look big at all,” her daughter says and then peers at me.

“It’s been years since my mom bought anything new for herself. I told her when she came out to visit me, we were going shopping.”

My smile widens. “You chose the right place. This store has something for everyone.”

“That’s what I told her. I love it here,” her daughter agrees.

“If you want the fit of the dress to be a smidge better, you could …” I trail off as I look back to the belt rack. “This.” I grab a couple of belts and two silk scarves that I think would look great on her.

“These will help give the dress more of a waistline.”

“Wow,” her daughter and I say at the same time once she cinches the black belt around her waist.

“A pair of gold earrings and this outfit is fantastic for going out in the evening, or day depending on the event. And here.” I hand her the scarves I’ve chosen.

After fiddling with the first scarf for a bit, she tosses her hand up in frustration.

“May I?” I ask.

She nods, and I place the scarf loosely around her neck so that it falls around her shoulders, and then make a side knot to keep it in place.

“It’s so pretty, Mom. You could wear this to that conference you’re going to in a couple of weeks. Maybe even find a date while there.” Her daughter wags her eyebrows, and her mom laughs as if the idea is preposterous.

“I can totally see it,” I agree.

“See?” her daughter adds, and then holds up her hand.

I high-five it, making the three of us laugh.

“You know, I would say you’re being nice just for your commission, but I do like it,” the older woman says, eyeing herself in the mirror. She’s coming out of her shell little by little.

“I don’t work here.”

Both women look at me with wide eyes.

“Do you want a job?”

I turn to see the clerk who greeted me earlier staring at me with a grin.

“From what I’ve seen, you’d be a great fit here.” She turns to the woman I’ve been helping. “And she’s right, that is your color. The belt is to die for as well.”

“Alright, alright,” she holds up her hands in surrender, “I’ll buy it all.”

“Yes!” Her daughter cheers, clapping, then clasps a hand around my shoulder. “Seriously, you don’t know how difficult it is to get this woman to treat herself. Thank you for helping out. Do you work in fashion or something?”

“I do, actually. I’m the assistant to the assistant in the design department of a major studio here in L.A.”

Pride washes over me as I square my shoulders.

“That’s so cool. You must love it.”

I nod. “It’s new, but yeah, I kinda do.”

Her eyes sparkle. “I’m Stacey, by the way. This is my mom, Linda Grieves.”

“A pleasure to meet you Ms. Grieves and Stacey.”

After selecting a few more pieces for Stacey’s mom, the three of us exit the store.

“Are you going to take her up on the offer?” Stacey asks, gesturing toward the business card in my hand.

Turns out the store clerk wasn’t only the clerk, but a co-owner of the business. She offered me a part-time position at the store. I chose to take her business card to reach out in the near future.

“Probably not. I already have a part-time gig styling online.” Then I get an idea. “Ms. Grieves, you should check out Style Box.” I briefly explain what the company is and how we can help style her even from the comfort of her own home.

“Can I request you specifically?”

“Yes.” I pull out my phone and show her the app for the business and how to request a specific stylist.

“Hey, we were just going to have lunch at a restaurant nearby,” Ms. Grieves says. “Would you like to join us? It’s on me.”

“I couldn’t intrude.”

“No, it wouldn’t be an intrusion,” Stacey insists. “Honestly, we can drive in my car, and we’ll swing back here to drop you off to pick up your car afterwards.”

“Oh, I didn’t drive. I don’t live too far from here, actually.”

“Even better,” Stacey says.

“I wouldn’t be a burden to you?” I ask out of habit, but then correct my question. “To drop me off after lunch?”

Stacey waves me off. “Not at all. We’re not in a rush to do anything, are we, Mom?”

Ms. Grieves wags her head. “This is my vacation. My break from being on the go.”

My smile spreads because Ms. Grieves shared with me earlier that she worked as a surgical nurse for almost two decades before rising up the ranks into hospital administration, a decade ago.

In other words, she’s constantly busy.

“In that case, I would love to join you two. Thank you.”