Page 28

Ava

Sophia sits on the sofa without adjusting any of the throw pillows and pulls her knees up to her chest, bringing her sandy sandals onto the sofa cushion. “I wish Dad would stop this.”

This is a good start. I press record on my phone. This is our fourth session, so she’s familiar with how I work and that I don’t like to sit and take notes while she’s talking.

“Stop what, exactly?”

“Forcing this.” She splays her hand out. “I don’t have a problem with you. I like you. You’re worlds better than the geezers from the hospital.”

Jack shared her medical records with me, and I saw the list of well-respected therapists who struck out with Sophia.

All of them highly trained and well-respected professionals with decades of experience.

One of the side effects of decades of experience is age, and I suspect Sophia might suffer from a bit of ageism.

But, truthfully, it’s hard to blame a fifteen-year-old girl for not wanting to discuss sexual trauma with someone she might see as more of a grandparent.

In our society, sex isn’t a grandparent-safe topic.

Sophia chews at the corner of her lip. We’ve already been over the benefits of therapy, and instead of rehashing the basics, I employ a valued therapist’s technique, and wait silently to see if she moves on from this original point of contention.

“But I do like you.” Her gaze lifts from the spot on the carpet to me.

“I like you, too. Your opinions about therapy don’t insult me.

Nothing you say in here will hurt me or offend me.

And, like we discussed, this is an unorthodox situation.

First, I rarely handle cases like yours.

And I’m a family friend.” Her gaze has fallen to the carpet again, but based on the tilt of her head, with her right ear angled in my direction, I am fairly certain she’s listening to every word.

“Our goal in these talking sessions isn’t to complete your therapy, but to get you to where you are ready to talk to a therapist. Your father is hoping—”

“He wants to cure me. But unless you have some magic pill that eliminates my memory, he can’t just swipe his credit card and cure me.”

This is more than she’s said before. It’s an acknowledgement that something horrible happened and it changed her. She doesn’t move. She’s frozen, maybe from the realization that she’s shared more than she wanted.

“Did you ever see the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind ?”

Her gaze lifts and her shoulders relax. “No.”

“I saw it years ago. Maybe we could watch it in your fab media room sometime?” She studies me.

She might be suspicious of my abrupt change of conversation.

“I can’t remember the specifics of the movie, but if I recall correctly, the basic premise is that the magic pill you speak of exists.

So people have the option of never living with terrible memories.

” Her gaze falls to the floor. “Or pain. Or heartbreak.”

“The pill doesn’t exist, so it’s not worth talking about.”

“Well, I don’t remember specifically, but I think the moral of the film is that we wouldn’t want the pill even if it existed.”

“I would.”

“Would you?”

Her eyelashes flutter, and her blue gaze fills with scorn.

“I’ve had bad things happen to me.” I pointedly look her straight in the eye, letting her see my truth.

“If I could wipe out those horrific experiences, I don’t think I would.

” I mirror her position, pulling my legs up onto the sofa, shoes and all, aiming for conversational.

“I’m a big believer that I’m stronger because of my past.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lines around her eyes form as she squints. Her fingernails dig into the polish on one of her toenails.

“Maybe. The notion might feel ridiculous at the darkest moment. When the pain is so intense, the body sometimes becomes numb to create a protective cocoon. But…” I let my feet fall to the floor and lean forward, arms resting on my thighs.

“Once a woman finds her inner strength, and mends, she discovers the power of recovery.”

“You say it like glue or tape is all you need.”

“I don’t mean to imply it’s easy. But when you look back in history, over some of humanity’s darkest times, during wars or famines, women soldier on.

And we do so because after recovering from a tragedy, we learn.

” She inserts her thumb into her mouth, and I pause until her nail finds its way between her teeth.

“We learn we possess the power to survive. Anything. No matter what gets thrown our way, we can buckle down, dig in, and survive. There is no might like a woman mended.”

“You don’t know what happened to me.”

“No,” I agree. She’s made it clear to a litany of law enforcement and medical professionals that she doesn’t wish to relive it. I don’t blame her. I understand. And that’s probably a reason I sit here in this chair, agreeing to this unorthodox approach. There’s a terrified child inside Sophia.

Those bastards drugged her with heroin, and I suspect what she’s most terrified of is that the flashes of memory haunting her really happened.

Having been a heroin addict, I have a good idea of what those flashes of memory might be like.

How there’s a haze and a long expanse of black with no memory at all.

But a sliver of experience strikes the forefront, like a far too vivid film flickering in one’s mind.

Silence prevails. Through the glass, the distant sound of waves breaking on the shore filters into the room, lifting the weighted silence.

“Dad should back off,” she says quietly with an undertone of frustration.

“Your father is concerned,” I say. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. I halfway expect her to place her palms over her ears. “As any parent would be. You’ve been through something horrific, something no woman or child should have to endure.”

Jack carries a fierce love for his daughter. Her pain renders him helpless. He’s desperate to cure her. To protect her. One day, she’ll appreciate his love and love him for it.

“I’m fine,” she says in a whiny, small voice, and I suspect she intended her defense to come out differently.

“You will be.” Her body falls against the back of the chair, and she curls into a fetal position. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to visit with any of your friends? Lauren, Celeste, Zane… they’ve all come by checking on you.”

I suspect if she’d simply spent time with her friends, her dad wouldn’t have pushed so hard for therapy. He might have willfully bought into her claim of being fine.

“I’m not ready.”

Her eyes are closed and at a glance, she could be mistaken as sleeping. I wait. If we sit here in silence for the rest of our hour, that’s okay. If she’s not ready to share, then she’s simply not ready. Rehabilitation, like so much in our universe, doesn’t happen in one day.

The second hand on the clock on the wall ticks the seconds. I pick the minute marker that will end our session and wait. Tick. Tick. Tick .

Two minutes remaining. Tick. Tick. Tick .

One minute remaining. Tick .

She lifts her head, but her eyes remain closed.

“My friends will want to know.” She swipes the side of her cheek, eyes closed, lips puckered.

“You don’t have to tell anyone anything. ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ is a perfectly acceptable statement.”

“They know I was raped.” Her head falls to her knees, and blonde waves fall around her like a damaged halo.

My first instinct is to argue with her, but I stop myself. She’s read the news articles.

I’ve been raped before, too, but I always viewed it as my fault, because I put myself in a precarious situation by getting drunk or doing drugs. I’d always thought it would be worlds better to not be responsible for my shitty experiences. But maybe there’s just no good way to be assaulted.

“The rape wasn’t your fault.” Her shoulders quiver and the most incredible urge to get up and hug her befalls on me. But right now, she needs more than a hug. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s gross.”

“The men who assaulted you are gross. What happened is horrific. But you, Sophia, are not gross. You, Sophia, are as beautiful as ever. Inside and out. What those men did to you, their actions didn’t take away your beauty.

Yes, it’s true. They stole your innocence.

You saw firsthand the horrible, ugly things men can do.

But they did not steal your beauty. They did not steal your soul.

If anything, your soul shines brighter.”

She raises her head. Golden strands cling to the side of her damp, splotched face. She glances at the clock.

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” When her feet hit the ground, she bends, stretching, shakes one foot, sniffles, and exits the room without looking my way again.

After she leaves, I close the door and return to my desk. The session audio plays, and I type away, taking notes. I screwed that up. I should have asked her to tell me how she felt. A good therapist doesn’t talk over a person or attempt to tell them how to feel.

But still, even so, she made progress. A step forward is a good thing.

My phone vibrates with a text.

Mr. Sullivan

The chef doesn’t work on Saturday. We’re ordering in. Any preference?

The two of them should eat dinner together, without me. And I’ve been in this house all week. I need to get out.

You two eat. I’ll get my own dinner.

Mr. Sullivan

If you’re going out, Fisher’s on duty. He can join you.

Thanks, but that’s unnecessary.

Mr. Sullivan

I insist.

I toss my phone down. I don’t have it in me to argue. All things considered, it’s been a good day, and I want to leave it there.

A handful of beachfront restaurants exist about a mile down the beach. The fresh air will do me good. If I’m lucky, I can get a small table outside in the sand and watch the sunset.

I’m halfway down the side path when a deep, masculine voice asks, “Where are you going?”

“For a walk on the beach. I’ll probably pick up some fish tacos from the Baja Taco stand.

” Jack narrows his eyes. Somehow, even in board shorts, a black t-shirt, and leather flip-flops, the man intimidates with a boardroom stance.

Or maybe it’s just that he bought me, and the idea makes me uneasy.

He crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a powerful position, but it’s also defensive.

This isn’t personal, so I explain. “You should have dinner with Sophia. She may need you. It will be good for the two of you to have dinner together.”

The man obviously loves his daughter. Eating dinner with her should be a part of his daily routine.

His stern expression softens, and he angles one foot in the house's direction and gives a quick nod of agreement.

My foot sinks into the sand, and I place one hand on the gate.

“I’ll see you later. Let me know when you’re back.”

Yes, sir is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. He might miss the sarcasm. So, I simply open the gate.

I’m about half a mile down the beach when my senses pique. I scan the beach behind me. Fisher, identifiable by his crew cut and trimmed beard, follows from a distance.

Un-fucking-believable .