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“Aren’t we supposed to follow a schedule?”

“We can. I was just thinking that you could come in and sit.”

“Come in and sit.” She practically spits out the words.

“Have you heard that before?”

“Like every therapist says it.”

“Right.” I am careful not to cross my arms, and my hands fall limp at my sides because I’m wearing a long black skirt that doesn’t have pockets. “Well, I’m gonna sit.”

I stride over to one of the plush armchairs.

“Dad says you specialize in addiction and trauma.”

I scrunch up my face. “Eh, yes and no.”

“I’m not an addict.”

“I doubted you are.”

She strides into the room and props herself up on the wide armrest of the sofa. My mom would have yelled at me for sitting on a piece of furniture like that, but this furniture is hers, so she can sit on it however she likes. Besides, a lot of those life rules are complete crap.

“Someone drugged me. But I don’t crave it. I cringe when I think of needles. The only alcohol I’ve ever had to drink was wine with my family. You don’t need to be here.”

I tilt my head, sifting through the battery of information she unloaded. I hear anger and frustration. But Jack shared her medical records with me. She went through withdrawal. When I went through withdrawal, I sure as fuck knew what I craved. How did it work with her?

“No cravings at all?”

“It’s not like I want to jab a needle in my arm.

” She purses her lips and squints. “Do I wish I could return to that? The feeling of weightlessness? Where nothing matters? Nothing at all? Yeah.” Her voice falls to barely a whisper.

“I’d give anything to have that. But that doesn’t make me an addict. I wouldn’t ever poison myself.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I am a heroin addict.” I correct myself, because while that verbiage is coming under fire, it’s a habit that’s hard for me to break. “Recovered,” I amend. “But I’ll consider myself an addict until the day I die.”

“And you’re okay with that?” She looks disgusted by me. I’m familiar with the look. Way too familiar.

“What’s the alternative?” There. That defensive response is why I’m better at administration. I exhale. “Yes, I’m okay with it.” I look her in the eye. I could go on and tell her it took me a really long time to find self-acceptance, but this isn’t about me.

“Well, I’m not like you. I’m not an addict. My dad needs to get a grip.”

This girl’s got blue eyes, and damn if they aren’t dark and stormy. But, in all fairness, she came out of a terrible experience with people tossing an undeserved adjective at her. And her father crossed the brink of insanity and bought a therapist to live with her.

“He likes control, huh?”

“Oh. My. God. Does he ever.” I don’t even have to prompt her. The next half hour flies by. I mentally catalog his list of offenses and silently curse myself for not having a recording going.

To begin with, she’s got the earliest curfew of all her friends.

This point really offends her. He has crazy rules about the length of her skirts, and she’s not allowed to wear anything that shows her stomach even though all her friends wear clothes like that.

He doesn’t allow her to wear heels, nor is she allowed to date, not that that’s been an issue, but he finds it necessary to remind her at random times.

She’s not allowed on the phone after ten p.m. on school nights.

As evidence of his overbearing tendencies, she shares that he monitors everything on her electronics and has certain sites blocked.

The tyrant reads all of her texts. And, as if all that wasn’t enough, he still forces her to access only YouTube Kids.

A combination of exasperation and disbelief mixes in her expression when she shares he wouldn’t let her on TikTok or Snapchat until she turned fourteen. Fourteen!

She’s so animated I don’t want to stop her.

From what I’ve been told, she hasn’t spoken to any friends since the kidnapping.

It’s like someone allowed the teen girl in her to speak, and there’s an explosion of bottled-up words laced with emotion.

Linking back to that thing which I was so guilty of in my practice, countertransference occurs.

Countertransference is when the therapist comes to feel for the patient.

I always feel too much for my patients. And I can tell you, if I’d been living with all the rules he imposes, I would’ve rebelled like nobody’s business.

Hell, I did rebel like nobody’s business, and I had a fraction of her rules. Her dad does need to get a grip.

Bonding is the universal tendency for animals and humans to attach. This, right here, what’s going on between Sophia and me, is bonding. And it happened suspiciously easily. She needed this.

Fisher taps on the doorframe. We never closed the door. I didn’t get up to do it because I didn’t want to interrupt our flow. And to my knowledge, we were the only ones down in the basement, anyway.

“Dinner is ready. Chef asked that I come tell you.”

“Chef?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah. For now,” Sophia says, her conspiratorial tone fully present. “Dad goes through them like water. This one’s lasted about two weeks. Food is…” She waffles her hand.

Fisher disappears.

“Well, we had a good session. You think you’ll be up for more?”

Her eyes widen. “That was a session?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “You did good.” I get her surprise, since I, too, have experienced sessions in a clinical hospital setting. “Sessions don’t have to be painful. I mean, sure. It can be painful digging through uncomfortable emotions.” That’s the hope. “But it can be what we just did.”

She grows quiet. She transforms from open friend to suspicious girl.

It fully hits me at this moment what a bad idea this is.

I’m crossing lines by living with her. I shouldn’t eat dinner with her.

Where will I draw the line between therapist and friend?

But the idea isn’t that I will be her therapist. The idea is that by sharing with me, she’ll take those first steps, and be open to a therapeutic relationship with a therapist in the future.

“I’ll do more sessions. Twice a week. No more.”

She flits down the hall, her noiseless footsteps leaving me full of second guesses. One hour of listening, and she’s open to two therapy sessions a week. It’s been a long time since I joined in on a peer supervision group, but this is a situation where I could benefit from pointers from others.

Who am I kidding? Any rational therapist would tell me to end this arrangement immediately.

My phone rings, and I fish it out of my tote bag. Reid’s photo shows on the screen. It’s a photo from our early twenties. In hindsight, it’s the era that marked our slide downhill. I should update his profile photo. I slide to answer.

“Hey. I need to run up to dinner. Can I call you back?”

“Did you go home?”

“No, I’m… at someone else’s house. What’s up?”

“Will you be home later? I’ll swing by.”

“No, I’m…it’s a long story. I’m out of town. Everything okay?”

I glance at the doorway, cognizant I’m expected for dinner. At least, I think I am.

“I just…you know that money I mentioned?” I close my eyes and breathe deeply. “It’s not what you think. I owe someone. And he’s not really giving a shit that I’m making crap washing dishes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fucking dealers.

“How much do you owe?”

“Ten.”

“Thousand? Were you dealing?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. You know what it’s like. He wants to be reimbursed for what they seized when I was arrested.”

“Ava, you coming?” Sophia’s distant voice echoes through the house.

“I’ve got to run.”

“Ava, he’s not messing around.”

“Reid. I’ll get it to you on Tuesday. Stop by my group session.”

I end the call, drop my phone in the tote bag, and jog up the stairs.