I search his face to see if he’s kidding, but as his green eyes bore into my gray ones, I know he’s being serious.
Unrealized childhood trauma? I mean… maybe? My childhood was chaotic but it was also amazing and idyllic.
“Fine. My mom got pregnant with me during a one-night stand. She was a groupie and the band was stationed in Nashville for the night. She doesn’t even remember his name. After she gave birth to me, we toured with bands for the first two years of my life before she decided she wanted to be an artist. We put down roots in San Diego, though I was originally born in Tennessee. She rented a one-bedroom apartment in Encinitas and eventually started being able to sell her work. We moved into her current house when I was ten, and she’s now a successful artist and a complete pain in my ass,” I finish. “I love her, but she’s unreliable and hard to get a hold of sometimes.”
Dr. Kincaid’s eyes narrow as they rove over my face. “Children need stability. Routine. I’d be curious to learn more about the two years you lived in Tennessee,” he starts, his voice low and gentle. “For example, if you didn’t have a home, where did you sleep? Did you have toys? Money for diapers?”
I swallow. For some reason, thinking of that time—a time I can’t even remember—makes my throat catch.
“She was a single mom. I’m sure she did the best she could.”
“I have no doubt she did. But that doesn’t mean it was ideal for a baby in any way.”
“And lots of families move around. For example, Ari bounced around between bases because her dad was a lieutenant in the army.”
Even saying it out loud makes it sound different. Yes, we both had instability, but at least Ari had a mother, a father, a proper house with a proper crib, and older siblings she could learn from.
He sits back and rubs his mouth, ignoring my statement. “Do you think the instability in your childhood is why you crave a family so badly? So that you can provide the secure, safe childhood you always wanted?”
My breathing stutters and my eyes begin to sting. “I think wanting a family is a perfectly normal thing,” I tell him a little too loudly.
“Of course it is.”
How does he do that?How the hell does he break down the very fiber of my being in two minutes, and still come off as caring and interested?
My hands grip the edge of the table. “Good job. You really sized me up,” I add, feeling my eyes well with tears.
Not because he’s wrong.
Because I’m just now realizing he’sright.
Growing up, I was obsessed with dollhouses. I’d beg for the fancy ones every Christmas, and when I was five, my mom saved the money from her art and bought me a large, vintage Victorian dollhouse. It must’ve cost her a fortune. I played with that dollhouse every day for years. She still has it—it’s sitting in my old room in her house. It came with a mom, a dad, and two babies that I had to take care of. I spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours rearranging the furniture. Making sure everything was in its place. Feeding and taking care of the babies. Bathing the babies. Sometimes one of my Barbies was the other mom, and sometimes the babies had two Ken dolls asdads. The point is, Iwantedto live in that house with the dining room, the art on the walls, the piano, the small yet cozy kitchen…
I can’t even remember what my bedroom looked like in the apartment I spent my early childhood in.
I wanted the four-poster bed with two doting parents who would tuck me in every night, but instead I got my mom, who was gone several nights a week in her studio and left me with a babysitter.
I wanted the kitchen with fresh fruit, but instead I got moldy bread and hard cheese, because despite having the money for it, my mom would forget to go grocery shopping.
I wanted the bedtime stories, but instead I got told that they’re just fairy tales and they weren’t realistic. She wasn’t mean about it—none of it was done maliciously. But she was a free thinker and wanted me to be one, too.
Dr. Kincaid must sense my emotional turmoil, because he reaches out for my hands. “I wasn’t trying to size you up, Francesca?—”
Something inside of me snaps.
The events of the entire week slam into me, rushing through my mind in a whirlwind of anxiety and tension.
Whatever just happened dislodged some sort of emotional block, because now I’m crying and I feel soangrywith him.
“For the love of God, call meFrankie,” I hiss, pulling my hands out of his grasp.
I stand up, grab my things, and walk out of the restaurant. Dr. Kincaid calls after me, but I keep going as I turn right. Wrapping my arms around myself, I continue walking past a busy intersection, hiccupping and trying to calm my sniffling. He sized me upsoeasily—and in less than five minutes. My whole childhood flashes before my eyes, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
He’s good.
And I hate that.
I hear him call out for me from a few feet behind, so I make a snap decision to cross the street when the light turns green at the crosswalk. My foot barely touches the asphalt when a strong hand pulls me back, and a man on a bike whirs past me, cursing at me as he speeds off.
