Page 4

Two

Past

F or years, on trips from home to the city for various social engagements, I’ve been able to pass Exit Forty-two without anxiety. Hold my breath as it blurs past, leaving it safely behind me. The exit to my alma mater.

Not this time.

College should have been the best four years of my life.

I’d waited, patiently, through high school, begging my parents to let me go out of state.

I needed to get away from home. I needed to start fresh somewhere I wasn’t surrounded by the judging eyes of people I’d known my whole life.

People who’d deemed me a variety of lackluster adjectives by the time I’d reached ninth grade.

I wanted to be adventurous, fun, academic, and I couldn’t do that at a state school alongside the same kids who’d shared a classroom with me since first grade.

I’d forever be dubbed the nerd. So I’d applied to one out-of-state school.

Waiting for that acceptance letter had been torture, but after months of praying every night that I would get in, that my parents would let me attend, that financial aid would come through, the package arrived.

And it was as if a genie had granted a wish for me.

My college roommate, Amelia, was my best friend.

Easy going, free-spirited, gorgeous, and everything that I wasn’t.

I could barely buy into the fact that she wanted to be my friend.

Even though she was a year younger than I was, she seemed so much more grand than I could ever hope to be.

Fate threw us together freshman year, but sophomore year, we chose each other.

She went missing four months after classes started that year.

I saw her seven months after she went missing. I was so elated and shocked to see her, I almost didn’t notice her swollen belly. She stood outside the men’s room at an interstate gas station looking the happiest I’d ever seen her.

She practically glowed.

When she saw me, all the joy drained from her face, weariness replacing it.

It stung. I’d thought we were friends. I’d been an anxiety-riddled mess for months.

I’d grieved her. Helped her parents put up flyers.

Stood on corners waving her picture at anyone who would look.

Have you seen her? I’d talked to the police.

I’d done everything I thought I could at the time.

But at that gas station, she begged me to not tell anyone. To let her stay. That she wasn’t kidnapped but with her boyfriend and happy. She protectively cradled her belly as the pleas flew from her mouth. As if I were the danger to her.

“Please Robin, for the baby. My parents will never understand.”

Her eyes darted between me and the bathroom door. I wanted to stay, to meet this boyfriend I didn’t know…had never known. I wanted to let her know there was an investigation. To tell her that her parents were distraught. She begged me to let her go. Nearly pushed me away from her.

Confused, and if I’m honest, hurt, I agreed to keep her secret.

For a moment, I felt a special sense of purpose knowing I would carry this secret with her, for her.

I followed her rules. I’d promised her. I couldn’t betray her trust. I also cried the entire drive back to campus, upset and uncertain I’d made the right decision.

It wasn’t.

I had the chance to save her life, the baby’s life, and I didn’t. I broke the rules and broke any chance Amelia had at a normal life. When a professor ran into her at a grocery store another seven months later, she was recovered safely.

Danny, the man who’d taken her, was tried and sent to prison. Amelia’s parents couldn’t stand the sight of the baby.

An abomination, they said. Amelia was deemed unfit due to her mental state and the baby was taken away. Amelia was brainwashed. So distraught and heartbroken that she tried to kill herself—a few times.

Out of options, her parents committed her. We were still young. Barely old enough to legally drink. I became hyper-focused on trying to fix Amelia—changed my major to psychology, put all my energy into trying to learn how to bring her back to the world.

I was driven by the secret I’d kept. Spurred on by the guilt that consumed me. I watched her fall apart. Watched her parents crumble. Her family disintegrated, knowing the outcome could have been very different if I had only said something. It was my fault because I knew where Amelia was.

I could have saved her.

I blink rapidly, shaking my inner thoughts away as I sit up in my chair, stretching my back.

I’ve had back-to-back appointments for the last three hours, and sitting in the chair is taking its toll on my back.

Middle age has its downfalls. I suppress the urge to stand and move around.

He needs my complete attention right now.

Without it, I lose the trust I’ve built over the last three weeks.

He’s a nervous one.

Reserved.

Skittish.

“I fantasize about killing her,” he whispers shamefully.

I catch his gaze. “When do you notice these fantasies happening?” I ask.

“After visitations with her.” He looks down and away from me.

I uncross my legs and lean forward.

“You have the control here. You can choose not to visit her.” My voice is soft and firm.

“She’s my sister,” he says, still staring at the carpet. His shoulders are rounded, making his appearance smaller, more fragile. A true victim’s mindset manifesting physically.

“She molested you. Violated your trust.” My voice is even—gentle. He needs the affirmation.

His head snaps up, eyes meeting mine. “She saved me too. I owe her.” His voice is an angry whisper shout.

I give him a pointed look.

“That’s your guilt talking. She killed your mother,” I remind him.

His eyes go stormy. “I killed my mother.”

“Not alone and at her command. Keep reminding yourself that this is not black and white. Your sister is mentally ill. You were young and impressionable and she used that to her advantage. You don’t owe her anything simply because you share blood.

” I look at the clock and notice our time is up.

“Let’s work on that for next week. I want you to make a list of the people in your life you can look up to, the people who don’t want anything from you in return for maintaining a relationship with them. ”

He nods at me vigorously. I smile and stand, sending him the cue that our time is up.

“JJ, I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget to do your homework,” I say, heading to my desk.

He nods at me and slips out the office door.

I make a note in his file to discuss his mother next week.

I need to get him to accept responsibility for his part in his sister’s actions and his mother is the key to that vault.

The kid is being tried as an adult, but his mental capacity is that of a prepubescent boy, which is exactly when the bulk of his trauma happened.

I unlock my desk drawer and file his notes away in the appropriate folder before sliding the drawer shut and locking it again.

I blow out a sigh and arch my back over the back of my desk chair; the pop, pop, popping of my spine releases the pressure between my vertebrae and feels good.

I should really use the word-a-day calendar Nora gave me; the third one over, and learn some alternatives for good .

“Dr. Richardson?” The voice has my head snapping up.

His voice is smoky, a whiskey voice. The sort of voice that stirs the emotions in your belly. Pure testosterone. He stands in the doorway like a vampire waiting to be invited in. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’m not prone to such visceral reactions generally.

“Yes.”

“I’m your four o’clock.” He stands tall, shoulders rigid. “Cooper.” He raises a brow at me.

I stare a beat longer before remembering to gesture for him to enter.

“Yes, hi. Come in.”

I shake his hand. The grip of his hand on mine isn’t lost on me.

He shakes my hand as if we’re old friends, tenderly.

One entwined with mine, the other resting over the back of my clasped hand.

Not at all like a stranger. I make a mental note as he settles into a chair, draping his coat over the back of another chair.

I can feel his eyes move down my body, then back up.

It’s not uncommon for my patients to give me a thorough once-over during their first two visits. I cross my legs and rest my notebook on my knee, the page blank except for his name and the date.

He’s a new patient.

It’s impossible not to notice how attractive he is, but I tuck those thoughts aside. He’s fifteen years younger than me and, judging by his appearance, is probably swimming in women.

Taking him in, it occurs to me that he is the polar opposite of what I attract. Especially if last weekend’s twentieth college reunion one-night stand is any indicator.

I school my disappointment at the memory of lackluster sex and subpar conversation the next morning before packing my belongings and high-tailing it home before he could ask for my number.

It’d been a stunningly pathetic show that I’d suppressed for the last three days through Basset hound snuggles and copious amounts of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

I clear my throat and look at him. I’m surprised at his expression. It feels like he’s conveying that we have unfinished business, which is atypical of new patients. Generally, their body language screams insecure and nervous.

The air feels electric around me. “So, why are you here?”

“My therapist said you’re a miracle worker.” His voice is even, which surprises me. The statement doesn’t match his tone.

“I’m not. This is hard work. The goal of this room is to focus on you and how to make you happy. But it doesn’t work unless you do all the hard parts. So, tell me a little about yourself and what you’d like to accomplish here.”

His gaze is intense and focused on me. I lift my pad slightly and doodle a flower on the bottom corner—a coping mechanism I often practice when I feel control slipping.