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She couldn’t go on like this. Nash wouldn’t want her to live this way. He’d be the first to tell her it wasn’t living.
When she got back to her bike and picked up her thermos, which had rolled into the grass, she called out of work. She needed a day to herself, not to drink but to heal. To open herself up to the grief and truly mourn her husband. She needed a dark day.
She had people she could go to, but none of them would understand. They all watched it happen from their safe positions on the outside of her and Nash’s world. They grieved and moved on, but their grief had never been gutting like hers. Theirs was simply sympathy. Pity. Sorrow that something so traumatic would forever change her from the daughter, sister, and friend she had once been.
She often caught hope in her friends’ eyes, awareness that Nash’s death complicated the simplicity of their easy going relationships, and often, they decided some friendships weren’t worth that sort of work. For most of her friends, her grief was too real. They waited for her to return to the girl she used to be, but that girl died with Nash. She was gone as permanently as he, and eventually people stopped waiting around for things to go back to the way they were before.
So in times like this, when she felt the truth stabbing in and sanity slipping away, the last people she wanted to call were those who could measure all the ways she’d changed. All the ways she was less now than she’d been before. Half. Fractured. Broken.
If she didn’t do something soon, she’d be ringing in the third, tenth, and twentieth anniversary cursing her lost life all the more. She did a quick online search and held her breath as she made the call she’d been putting off.
She couldn’t go on like this. She didn’t want to. Calling for help somehow seemed less complicated than checking out completely. Less tears maybe.
A female answered and Maggie choked on her words. “Hi. I, um, was wondering if it would be possible to make an appointment to speak to someone.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No.”
“Dr. Devereux has an opening today at four. Would you be able to make that? You would have to arrive fifteen minutes early to fill out the necessary paperwork.”
Was she really doing this? On autopilot, her words agreed before her mind could form any sort of judgement. “Yes, I can be there.”
She answered a few more questions and ended the call. Perrin would be proud. She should be proud. This was a big step. But all she could muster was numb acceptance.
Now she just had to make it to four o’clock—sober.
Chapter 10
“He can see you now.”
Maggie moved like a fish out of water through the small waiting room. Everything inside of her wanted to bolt out the door, but some buried remainder of hope pushed her in the opposite direction into the therapist’s office.
A tall, trim man with silver hair stood and greeted her. “Maggie?” He extended a hand and she shook it.
Ah, the famous Dr. Devereux. She offered a tight-lipped smile, trying to bank her skepticism until the end. “Thanks for fitting me in.”
He waved a hand at the empty chair across from his, inviting her to sit. “Of course. This was unexpected, but it’s nice to see you again.”
He spoke with an eloquent British accent that put her at ease, until his words sank in. “Again?”
“We met at O’Malley’s yesterday. You were with Sammy.”
The blood rushed from her face and her knees softened. She abruptly released his hand and dropped into the empty chair. “You’re one of them?”
His expression blanked, but she noted the trace of a smile. “Not quite. My wife is a McCullough. I’m not sure you met her yesterday. Sheilagh.”
She’d met a woman named Sheilagh, but that woman was young, and this guy was… Well, he was attractive, but his hair was silver. He had to be at least fifteen years older than the girl he claimed as his wife. And now he was staring at her expectantly.
Say something to make this less awkward! “I think I met her.”
Thankfully, he let the uncomfortable family talk drop. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
She shook her head and eyed the office. “No couch?”
“I find most clients are more comfortable speaking face-to-face—as equals.”
She thought there would be a couch. Her fingers traced over the brown leather upholstery of the chair. This was weird. She folded her hands on her lap and stared at her knees.
The doctor sat to her right and collected a leather bound portfolio with what looked like an expensive pen. “Have you ever gone to counseling before?”
“No.”
“I prefer to let my clients lead the dialogue. What brings you in today?”
