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I signed myself out in the main office at 2:45 p.m., and as I was walking to my truck in the student parking lot, I looked up when I heard a vehicle start in the next lot over, stopping to watch when I saw Evie back her little car out of the parking space. She must not have seen me, because she didn’t stop to wave or anything on her way toward the exit, and then her car disappeared onto the main road. I picked up my pace, tossing my backpack into the passenger seat on my way in through the driver side, cranking my truck and connecting my phone to Bluetooth. I turned on Submersed, still stuck on the same album I’ve been listening to all week, since every time I hear the opening notes of “Hollow,” I’m immediately filled with the memories of what took place the night I drove to Evelyn’s house an hour away.
Which leads to this moment, and I’m trying my damnedest not to speed when I know my destination is far enough away from everyone we know that I’ll be able to touch and kiss Evie without worrying we’ll be caught. I’m a little nervous about the appointment. I’ve always been a little wary of therapists, knowing I’ll have to spill my guts only for them to try to give me advice and pills to try to control my disorder. But this time, the feeling is different. There’s a… hope inside me that’s never been there before, something telling me that this really could be the key to helping me understand what and who I am inside.
Fifty-two minutes later, I pull into the parking lot behind Evie and park next to her, hopping out of the truck and beeping it locked before hurrying to her door to open it for her. Unlike last time, I don’t have to coerce her out. I just hold out my hand, and she places her delicate little fingers in my palm. I haul her out of her seat and into my arms, my mouth landing on hers before she’s even able to finish her squeak, and she melts against me as I dip my tongue inside her mouth.
She sighs when I finally pull back and let her slide down my body until her feet touch the ground. I glance at my watch, seeing we have a little more than fifteen minutes before our appointment. “Perfect timing,” I tell her, and she gives me a small smile with understanding in her eyes. She must already have picked up on the fact that one of my quirks is always being early. “On time” registers as “late” in my mind. She bends to reach in and grab her purse, and I fight the urge to grab her ass, but only because I know it would probably lead to things that would cause us to be late. When she stands, I close the door for her and she locks her car, and I take her hand, loving the feel of how small it is in mine. I’ve never held hands with anyone but my parents when I was little, so the act feels new and intimate somehow.
When we enter the office, I instantly relax, the waiting room neat and orderly. It’s not clinical like a lot of therapist offices. Even out here, there’s a diffuser sending up steam that smells like eucalyptus, and the chairs look comfortable instead of stiff. Evie releases my hand to walk up to the woman behind the window who stood up when we entered and greets her with a smile.
“Good evening, Ms. Richards. How are you today?” the woman asks.
“I’m wonderful, Silvia,” she tells her, and I take a seat in one of the chairs.
“You’re all good for paperwork unless your insurance or address has changed. But if you’ll have your partner fill out everything on this clipboard… and here’s a pen,” I hear Silvia say, and it makes me realize….
I lift my hand to my ear, and sure enough, there’s no pencil. I’d been so excited to pack up and leave school that for the first time in… God, five? Six years? That I didn’t have a pencil readily available, when normally one is there behind my ear until the moment I get undressed at home. Even on swim practice days, when I get dressed in the locker room afterward, the pencil is added almost like an accessory, and stays there until I’m hopping in my shower.
“You okay?” Evie asks softly, sitting beside me and handing me the clipboard and pen.
I turn my astounded look toward her and point to my ear. Her brow furrows, her eyes searching where I’m pointing, and then recognition masks her face and her expression goes soft when she smiles. She lifts her hand to my cheek, her thumb stroking my jaw.
