Page 8 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)
Amy
“I’ll call you from the car,” Kayla says, her eyes scanning me for the hundredth time in the past hour. “And when I get back to Bluebell Springs. And tomorrow morning. You will pick up the phone. Do you hear me?”
With her bag in hand, she hovers in my doorway, and I just know if I don’t kick her out now, she will never leave.
I don’t want her to leave. God, she’s been the only solid point in my life for the past four days, keeping the horrors of the real world at bay with buckets of Ben & Jerry's and endless Friends reruns. I wish she’d stay here forever, but I’m not selfish enough to ask her.
Kayla has a shiny career ahead in a job she’s passionate about.
She doesn’t need a pathetic excuse for a person like me holding her back.
“Yes, Mom,” I reply with an exaggerated eye roll and a fake grin.
Kayla narrows her eyes. “Do not make fun of me, Amy Hudges, or I’ll quit my job, unpack this bag, and squat in your apartment forever.”
Yes, please, I want to say, but hold it back.
I can’t guilt-trip her into staying. “I will pick up the phone,” I reply dutifully.
“The therapist probably won’t be happy if you call me during the session, though.
” I grimace as I think about the appointment Kayla forced me to make.
Talking to a stranger about my feelings seemed reasonable at the time, but now I’m not so sure.
What if this therapist thinks I’m crazy?
What if I tell her about my feelings, my real feelings, and she looks at me with disgust like I deserve?
What if she tells Kayla? They’re college friends, after all.
I can’t have Kayla hating me. She’s the only one I have left.
Sensing my growing distress, Kayla drops her bag and pulls me into a hug. “I don’t have to leave, Amy. Really. My job isn’t such a big deal. CPS departments everywhere are always looking for more social workers. I could easily transfer back here or find another job nearby. We could be roommates.”
My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away furiously.
I’d love nothing more, but I can’t impose on Kayla any more than I already have.
I need to stand up on my own feet, just like I have ever since I was a child.
Alone. I’ve done it before and I can do it again.
“I love you, Kay, but you’re a slob,” I tease.
“I like my place tidy, thank you very much. Just go, or you’ll get stuck in traffic. ”
“There’s always traffic,” Kayla replies with a slight shrug but lets go of me and picks up her bag again. “You will visit Miranda today,” she orders, as if knowing I’m thinking about skipping the dreaded appointment. “Please, Amy. It’s important. It’ll help, I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go. Just get out of here already.” I nudge her out the door. “You’re worse than a helicopter parent.” Not that I know what it is like to have a helicopter parent. My mother was the exact opposite. “Don’t worry about me, Kayla. I’ll be fine.”
Scrunching her brows as if she were about to cry, Kayla gives me another long look. “Promise you’ll call me if things get too much. Please, Ames. I love you. I can’t lose you. Swear you’ll talk to me.” Tears overflowing, Kayla extends her pinky finger toward me.
I’m rendered speechless. Lose me? Does she think that I’d hurt myself? Over losing Craig? I’d never do that. On the heels of that thought, doubts creep in. Wouldn’t a truly loving girlfriend consider it? What does that say about me?
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I grab Kayla’s pinkie with my own. “I swear. It’s not like you’ll give me a chance not to talk to you,” I add playfully.
“You bet, sister.” Kayla’s smile is wobbly as she wipes at the tears with the back of her hand. “I’ll call you.”
My eye roll is genuine this time. “You already said that. Shoo. Go save some children and make the world a better place. I’ll be fine.”
A few tearful hugs and goodbyes later, Kayla finally leaves.
The soft click of the closing door resonates in the empty apartment.
The sudden quiet is disconcerting and I rush to turn on the TV.
Fake laughter fills the silence as the actors on the screen say something silly, but I don’t hear what it is over the hiccuping sobs bursting through my throat.
The dam I’ve been building in my mind cracks, releasing a wave of emotions too strong for me to handle.
Grief lances through me, followed by debilitating fear.
Relief and even happiness dance on the fringes of my mind.
I don’t understand why they’re there, disrupting my grieving, but they’re impossible to squash.
I’m a terrible person.
Miranda Grant’s office looks just like any therapist’s office I’ve seen on TV, minus the leather upholstery. Instead, the couch and the chairs are covered in a soft yellow fabric. Despite wanting to hate the place, I kinda like it here.
I do my best to keep an indifferent expression as Miranda greets me. I’m only here to get Kayla off my back, not because I actually need therapy. Therapy is for people who are crazy, or for the bored rich folk who don’t know what to do with their time. I’m neither .
Sitting stiffly on the surprisingly comfortable couch, I try to prepare myself for the slew of questions that will probably follow the cordial introduction, but Miranda only smiles at me.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Ms. Hudges.
This isn’t an exam or an interrogation. If you don’t feel like it, you don’t have to talk at all. ”
That sounds a little silly. “I don’t want to waste your time,” I say quietly. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m not crazy.”
Miranda’s smile widens. “I never said you were. And you’re not wasting my time. This time is yours. Even if you don’t feel like talking, just being here gives you space to process things at your own pace. It’s a chance to sort out your thoughts and feelings.”
“I’ve done a lot of sitting in silence and it never helped.” My words come out sharper than I intended and my first instinct is to apologize. I smother it only because Miranda’s smile doesn’t falter.
“Then perhaps we can just talk. I know people are sometimes intimidated by the thought of sharing their feelings with a stranger, but I can assure you I won’t judge you and whatever you say will stay just between the two of us.”
“You won’t tell Kayla anything?”
“Of course not,” Miranda assures me, not even sounding affronted.
“Unless you committed a crime against a child, elderly, or a dependent adult, or you’re a danger to yourself or the others, I’m not even mandated to report you to the police.
If I talked about my patients with other people, I’d lose my licence before you could say ‘breach of confidentiality’. ”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” God, I probably sound like a paranoid idiot. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Miranda waves her hand. “No offense taken. You’re not the first to have such worries.
In fact, it’s quite common for people to be afraid to share their deepest thoughts without knowing if they can trust them.
Natural, too, if you think about it, so don’t worry about it.
Also, I’m not a doctor. Psychiatrists go to medical schools and are able to prescribe medication.
They are the doctors, and they’re quite prickly about us ‘couch professionals’ assuming that title,” Miranda adds, grinning. “You can just call me Miranda.”
“Okay. I’m Amy.” And just like that, a good portion of my nervousness vanishes.
I expected a stern doctor frowning down at me over the rim of her glasses, but Miranda is too friendly to fit that image.
With her casual attitude and a warm smile, she reminds me of Kayla, which instinctively makes it easier to trust her.
“So,” I clear my throat, “you’re going to ask me about my mother, right?
” That’s what they always do on TV, don’t they?
Talk about their messed-up childhood. Well, they got nothing on mine.
Miranda raises a brow. “That depends. Does your mother come to mind when you think about what’s been going on?”
“Uh, not really, I just thought…” Dammit, I’m really making an idiot of myself.
Perhaps I should stop watching TV and start reading or something.
It’s just so dull. The books they had us read in high school were dreadfully boring and I could never focus on them for too long.
Even if I found one that I thought might be interesting, I struggled to get through the pages.
The letters always jump around, seemingly switching places despite being printed on the damned paper, and my stupid brain has trouble sorting them out and deciphering their meaning.
I’m not illiterate! I just find reading hard, so I don’t do it often.
That’s all. Unfortunately, as a result, my brain is filled with tons of crappy TV shows and movies and it seems that I don’t even know how to act like a competent human being anymore.
Damn, perhaps I really ought to be locked up somewhere.
“Amy?” Miranda’s soft voice pulls me out of my reverie. I look up to find her smiling again. She must think I’m completely nuts. “We can talk about anything you’d like, Amy, but you’ve been through something very traumatic recently. Perhaps you’d like to start with that?”
My hand flies up on a reflex, touching my tender temple.
The swelling has gone down, but the bruises are vivid purple, making me look like a domestic abuse victim.
Which I am, I guess? Then I realize that Miranda doesn’t mean my little fight with Craig.
She means his death. Right. That’s the major traumatic event I should be thinking about, not a few minor bruises.
“I…” What am I supposed to say? “It’s terrible. I loved Craig. I don’t know how I’ll go on without him.” That’s what a grief-stricken girlfriend would say, right?