Page 13 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“So, why don’t we start with you telling me a little about yourself. Who is Colton Marshall?” My new, court appointed therapist, Liv asks me with a warm smile.

I knew she was a student going into this, but she looks much younger than I’d expected—twenty-one, maybe twenty-two years old and has to be fresh out of college.

It’s clear she’s trying to look more professional by the way she's dressed today. She’s wearing an oversized, pale-blue suit jacket with matching pants and brown tortoiseshell glasses.

Her chestnut brown hair is swept into a low bun, slick and neatly tucked away and she’s holding a clipboard in her hand.

But it’s the lack of any wrinkles or lines and nervous twitch of her hands that gives her actual age away.

“You can call me Colt,” I say.

“Oh, sure, of course.” She scribbles a note on what I assume is the paperwork that the courts sent over to her when they mandated this.

I’m sure it’s full of details regarding the night that changed my life forever and my subsequent four and a half years spent behind bars, but it’ll tell her nothing about what she really wants to know about me.

“Well, I’m sure you already know why I’m here,” I start.

She nods. “I do, so let’s focus on who you are and not what you’ve done in the past. What you’ve done doesn’t define you. Who are you today?”

“Uh… okay.”

Who am I?

I’m not sure I know the answer to that.

“I’m the youngest of five kids. Just turned twenty-nine years old. I work at my family’s distillery. I…” My voice trails off because I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t identify myself by my job or my birth order in my family. At least, I didn't use to.

I like my alone time. I love my family and my dog.

I’m a loyal friend. I enjoy working with my hands, and I've always appreciated the simple things in life.

When I was younger, I envisioned a life managing the distillery, expanding it into new avenues, building a home on Whitewood Creek, and maybe one day, starting a family there.

And now, those are all things I plan on doing soon.

She smiles encouragingly. “Okay. That’s a good start.” She makes more notes, though I can’t imagine what she’s jotting down from the nothing I just gave her. “So, tell me, what do you hope to get out of therapy with me over the next eight weeks?”

I chuckle deeply. “Well, I’m not doing this willingly.”

She smiles again, unfazed by my tone. “I know. Sometimes we’re forced into things we don’t want to do but they end up helping us anyways, even if we’re resistant. Is there anything you think you could get out of us working together?”

She pauses and, to my surprise, moves to stand and switch off the overhead lights. It dims the room until she flicks on an old-fashioned, green desk lamp nearby. The light gives off a cozier vibe from how things had been previously, and takes down the harshness of the session a notch.

“Actually, let’s not think of this as court mandated therapy.

Pretend I’m just a third party—a neutral voice you can bounce ideas off.

Some of the thoughts you’ve had since your release and transitioning back to the outside world.

It’s been five days now, right? What’s been on your mind?

How does it feel to be out? I bet it must feel strange to not be under constant surveillance anymore.

To wake whenever you want. Eat whatever you please. ”

I lean back on the couch, appreciating the more relaxed vibe.

I know everything I say is confidential, even with my record, but I’ve never been one to dive into feelings and emotions.

I’ve let other people come to me with those and been a listening ear.

It’s become even more difficult since being released to put words around how I’ve been feeling mostly because it’s been empty inside my head.

Still, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should try to get something out of these sessions if I’m required to be here.

“I haven’t been feeling much lately.”

She nods and rests her head back in her chair, eyes close as she lets out a deep breath. “I get that. It’s a huge shift to go from having every aspect of your life monitored to having a semblance of freedom.”

I grunt, though I wouldn’t exactly call this freedom. Freedom wouldn’t mean sitting in therapy with someone younger than me using me as a case study for her degree. Freedom wouldn’t mean being confined to only driving a certain distance.

“It’s normal to struggle with emotions after a traumatic experience,” she says, unruffled.

“Sometimes, that manifests as anger or acting out. For others, it might mean indulging in certain impulses to an extreme. And yet for some, it means shutting down entirely. If you’re open to it, I’d encourage you to look for opportunities this week—just moments to feel anything . That’s usually a good place to start.”

“I’ve been trying that. I’ve been trying to find instances to feel something.”

She opens her eyes, meeting mine with a calm, steady look. “That’s good, Colt. So how about we do an exercise? Would you be open to a small assignment you can work on until we meet again next week?”

I shrug. Do I have a choice? Choices feel pretty rare these days and I know the answer to that is no, so I don’t even ask the question.

“Great,” she responds even though I didn’t reply. She tears a page from her notepad, scribbles a few things down on it then hands it to me. “I want you to seek out moments to experience these twelve emotions. Really try to focus on these ones.”

I glance down at the list. The words she’s written stare back at me: Anger, excitement, desire, passion, fear, joy, disgust, guilt, contentment, curiosity, shame, relief, love and hope…

“You want me to try to feel all twelve of these emotions in a week?”

She nods, eagerly. “You’d be surprised. Prior to your incarceration, you may have felt them all in a single day and never realized it.

You don’t have to fit them all into one week but as we work together, let’s discuss how you’ve found ways to incorporate them into your life.

I’d like you to at least attempt it and we can go from there. ”

I look down at the list again. That feels impossible.

“If you try to feel one, let’s say… hope, for example, and no matter what you expose yourself to, it proves unsuccessful, we’ll talk about it in your next session and discuss your feelings and emotions around that and the circumstances that lead you to becoming interested in feeling hope again.”

I grunt and shake my head before folding up the paper and stuffing it into my pocket.

“Okay.” Because what else is there to say to this overly excited woman who thinks she can fix me?

I hate to disappoint her, but I feel like I’m a lost cause.

I wonder if she’ll draft a paper about the emotionless formerly incarcerated man she couldn’t get through to someday.

“Okay,” she nods with a smile. “Well, I think that’s it for today. This was a great first session. I’m looking forward to meeting you at the same time next week and seeing how you’ve progressed on the list.”

She moves to stand, opening the door to her small office and ushering me back outside into the reception area with a small wave. I grumble goodbye under my breath and stalk to my car, feeling like this entire situation is some sort of joke.

Hope? Joy? Passion? Desire?

Those are emotions and feelings that people like me don’t get the pleasure of experiencing anymore.

And love?

I scoff as I slam my door shut, feeling the roar of the truck rumble beneath my thighs, grounding me and reminding me where I am.

No matter how much I’d like to feel that it feels unattainable.