Page 34 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)
Twenty-Two
“Why do you seem more nervous than me?” Wren glances up from the clipboard of paperwork she’s filling out, effectively stilling my knee that’s been bouncing like a basketball. “I’m the one that has to go back there and spill my guts to a stranger.”
I look around the waiting room, mindlessly snapping the rubber band on my wrist. What I assume is a mom and son sit in chairs across from us, the woman flipping through a magazine.
Around us, motivational posters cover the walls, making me feel like a fraud—a crazy person with a kid I don’t own.
“I don’t know. I’m worried your dad is going to kill me, I guess.
Like he should be here and not me. God, I sound like such a girl and we’re not even sleeping together. ”
She groans. “Scotty—gross!”
I wave her away as she pinches her insurance card between the paperwork and the blade of the clip before handing it to the receptionist .
“You’re bringing me to therapy, not a cockfight,” she says, sitting back down.
I smirk. “You said cock.”
“My point,” she says, with an annoyed pause, “is that he’s not going to care. He’d probably be happy.”
I have no way in hell of knowing if she’s right.
“Wren Callahan,” a woman calls, opening the door that leads to a hallway. Wren lets out a reluctant breath, stands, and pinches her sleeves in her hands.
I give her a tight smile. “Tell them everything, okay?”
She nods, then she’s gone, leaving me with a ball of guilt in the waiting room for the next hour.
I snap my rubber band the entire time.
“What about this one?” Wren asks as she drops onto a couch. “It’s funky.”
I shake my head. “It’s white—not happening. No. I want leather so when Molly does something destructive to it I can yell about the cost and say, ‘Hey! That’s leather! ’ You know, something cliché. Or ‘Do you have any idea how much that couch set me back, dog? ’”
Wren reluctantly stands, continuing our meander through the furniture store. I promised I wouldn’t pry, but I can’t stop thinking about therapy. What the therapist said. If I screwed the rest of her life up by bringing her there to begin with .
“How about this one?”
“You’ve already sat on that one three times,” she says.
Right.
I can’t focus.
“What happened in there?” I blurt.
“I was wondering how long you’d hold out,” she says with a triumphant grin, dropping into a recliner. “Yes, I told her everything.” I open my mouth; she talks over me. “And I showed her my arms. We talked about my triggers and what I can do.”
Do not push. Do not push. Do not push.
“And what are they? What can we do?” I push.
“Maybe my mom in general. When I feel guilty for things she did. Basically when anything feels like my fault. Apparently we aren’t supposed to take responsibility for other people’s choices.” She gives me a look I ignore as I sit on a recliner and kick my legs up.
“What can you do?” I ask.
“Not cut myself,” she deadpans.
“Earth-shattering advice,” I say flatly. “What else? What am I supposed to do? Put cameras in the bathroom or something?”
“Creepy.” She looks at me like she’s trying to make sure I do not go that route and drags her hand across a puffy bedspread. “Just talk to me, I guess. Keep being annoying.” I blink; she smirks. “She said the rubber band was good. And she suggested exercise.”
We both make a face at that, but I instantly think of Ford, telling me about boxing and the relief it gave him.
I stand and move to a sectional couch .
“Your dad boxes, maybe that? There’s hitting. I know from experience how therapeutic that can be.”
“No.” She tilts her head as she eyes a hideous marble coffee table. “I thought maybe running.”
“Running?” I ask, disgusted at the thought.
“What’s wrong with running? Lots of people do it.”
“Lots of people are ignorant sluts.” I squeeze the cushion of an overstuffed corduroy ottoman. “I made you another appointment for next month.”
She shrugs but doesn’t argue. “Fine. How about this one?”
“Plaid?” I frown. “Gross!”
She chuckles, moving to the next one. “Why are you so worried about the furniture if you’re just going to sell it?”
We stop at a brown leather sofa, sleek enough to look clean but pillowy enough to be comfortable. “Because I have to live with it for a couple more months, and I want to enjoy it.” We sit at the same time; I grin. “Perfect.”
She doesn’t move off the couch when I stand. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine.”
Translation: not fine.
“Well?” I demand. “What the fu—” Her eyebrows raise. “—dge shop is going on now?”
“There’s this boy at school.”
Every cell in my body goes into high alert. I sit on the couch. “Give me a name and I’ll burn his di—” Another look. “—ll pickle.”
She laughs softly. “No, Scotty. Not that kind of boy. Like, a boy boy.” My face softens as hers goes pink. “And, I don’t know. My dad is . . . great . . . but . . . I don’t know if I can . . . I guess.” She blows out a breath. “Can you help?”
I surprise us both by screeching.
She winces, and I pull out my phone, grinning as I assemble the troops. “You bet your ass I can.”
“Which one is he?” Wanda asks between chomps of her gum from the back seat of the minivan.
“The one with the long hair.”
We all stare through the windshield toward the group of kids on the other side of the fence, all wearing weird short shorts and tank tops, bouncing around like they have springs in their shoes.
“Oooh!” June says from the driver’s seat. “He’s a cutie. A man bun, very on-trend.” She gives Wren a look in the back seat. “Bet Scotty could tell you some stories about watching your dad on the football field when she was your age.”
“Pass,” Wren says.
I give her a look as she watches him lift one leg to stretch his quads on the track. “Him being on cross country explains your inclination to run.”
She rolls her eyes .
Wanda looks at Wren’s chunky sweater. “Maybe start by showing some skin.”
In unison, Wren, June, and I shout, “No!”
“Yikes, okay, just a thought. The girls always bring me what I need,” Wanda says with a shimmy and arched brow. Even with the cooler fall temps, she leaves nothing to the imagination.
“What’s his name?” June asks.
“Luke.”
“Luke. Luuuuke. Lukey,” Wanda says, trying the name on. “I like it, honey.”
“Joo, Camp tell you what the schedule is? Any fundraisers or events going on at school?” June’s husband, Camp, is the athletic director of the high school, making him all-knowing in times such as these.
She shrugs. “The usual. Homecoming is November, just before Thanksgiving. I could get a cross country schedule from him . . .” She twirls a red curly strand of her hair around her finger, thinking. “Oh! Oh! Orchard Fest.”
I whip my head toward her. “At Ford’s parents’?” Just the thought makes my stomach flip. I haven’t been out to his family’s orchard since high school.
June nods enthusiastically. “Event of the season, and all the sports teams have booths to raise money. Pie eating or apple bobbing. Something like that. Anyway—that’s perfect.
It’s casual enough not to be a big deal, but there’s music and a mood that makes it just a little bit romantic.
Dancing.” She sways side to side. “It’s the first weekend in October—only a couple weeks away.
That gives you time to talk to him at school. ”
Wren looks out the windshield to the boys, now running short sprints, then back to us. “I don’t even know what to say . . .”
All at once:
“Start with hi.”
“Ask him to sit by you at lunch.”
“Scotty gave Camp a letter threatening to knee him in the nuts if he didn’t go out with me.”
Her eyes widen at our shouted advice.
I hold up a hand to silence the van. “Okay, do you have any classes with him?”
She nods. “Art.”
I clap my hands. “Perfect! Tell him you want to draw his”—June clears her throat and gives me a warning look—“face,” I say with a sweet smile.
Wren nods, like this isn’t the worst idea.
“I’ll do your makeup for the festival,” Wanda declares. “You’ll be the prettiest apple in the peck.”
“Yeah,” Wren says like she’s summoning courage from the energy of the minivan. “Okay.”
When we all start clapping and squealing, she rolls her eyes. “Hags are so weird.”
We fall silent, Wanda, June, and I looking at one other.
And then, we laugh.