The intoxicating scent grows even stronger when he crouches down in front of my chair.
I’m just opening my mouth to speak—I have no idea what I’m going to say—when I hear the faint sound of a throat clearing.
Phoenix and I whip our heads toward the sound at the same time, only to see a very stressed-looking Wyatt—pressed up against the wall as though he’s attempting to make himself smaller—and clearly in the process of trying to inch past us unnoticed.
“Please let me leave the room before you continue,” he says, looking supremely uncomfortable.
I blink at him, surprised; I forgot he was here. He’s soquiet.
“Of course,” I say, my voice faint. “Sorry, of course. But you know—you don’t have to sneak around,” I add with a little frown. “Speak up if you’re uncomfortable. We’re not going to get mad at you.”
“It felt like the kind of conversation that should be allowed to play out,” he says, ducking his head apologetically. “But thank you. I’ll take my leave.”
And I’ve never seen him walk as quickly as he does leaving this study. He scurries past both of us, his folder tucked under one arm, and slips out the door in a flash.
I stare at the office door as it closes behind him, and then I look at Phoenix, just as he’s looking back at me.
I don’t know who cracks first, but it happens—first we’re smiling, and then we’re laughing, the electric spell between us lifted and replaced by something light and free. Phoenix’s laugh is deep and pleasant andrare, so rare; you’re more likely to get a snort and a grin. I let myself bask in the sound, just for a moment, taking in the genuine smile spread over his face and the bright shine in his eyes.
Somewhere inside, that warmth stirs—warmth and a little jolt of something I can’t identify. So I’m glad for Wyatt’s interruption, because honestly, I don’t know if I can handle a conversation about what Phoenix said last night.
I change the subject before he can return to his previous question, letting my laughter die. “I’ll stay married to you,” I say, still smiling. “But…” Then I shake my head. “I don’t know. I think I should maybe get a therapist or something.”
Phoenix’s smile vanishes, and he blinks at me. “Are you serious?” he says.
“Why?” I say. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I don’t know what else to do about the issues I’m having.
“No,” he says quickly, his eyes widening. “No, I think you should do it. Absolutely. Our insurance covers mental health care.”
“It might be good for you too,” I say. I lean forward, closer to him. “To see someone.”
“I do,” he admits, surprising me completely. “Once a month now, but I went every week for years.”
Huh. I’m…impressed.
“I’m not going to lie,” I say. “My opinion of you just went up. Just a little tiny bit.”
“Yeah?” he says, his lips twitching. “A man in therapy really does it for you, huh?”
I grin. “I guess so.”
My grin vanishes two seconds later, though, when I realize what’s happening. I shrink back in my chair, slapping my hand over my mouth.
Flirting. We’reflirting.
I stare at Phoenix, my eyes wide, my hand still over my mouth, but he doesn’t even question it. He just flashes a brief smile—amused, like he knows what I’m thinking—and then stands up.
“Don’t you have work today?” he says.
I check the time, squawk, and then dash out of the study.
One week later,I attend my first therapy session. The woman—Dr. Samson—is maybe in her sixties, with a soothing voice and bright green eyes. I feel weird walking in and dumping all my trauma on her, but that’s why I’m here, so after I fill out the questionnaire she gives me, I get down to the meat and potatoes.
“I’m here because my brother died,” I tell her when she asks what prompted me to seek help. “In a car crash. We went over the side of a bridge.” I swallow past the knot in my throat and then lay bare my deepest shame to this complete stranger: “I was the one driving.”
Nine Years Ago
Holland
