We eat in companionable silence for a while, and I find myself relaxing in a way I haven’t in months. There’s something about being out of Sorrowville, away from the constant pressure of expectations and watchful eyes, that makes breathing easier.
“You’re different out here,” Gisele says eventually.
“Different how?”
“Lighter. Less guarded.” She gestures at me with her fork. “You’ve laughed three times since we sat down. I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve laughed in my salon.”
“The salon has Post-it notes and forced emotional exercises.”
“The salon is trying to help you.”
“I know.” I push a piece of pancake around my plate. “But it’s also work. This is just...” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“This is just us,” she says quietly. “Without the structure.”
The words land in my chest and settle there, warm and uncomfortable.
“I want more of it. Is that bad?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She sets down her fork. “I designed the program to give you something to push against. Rules, exercises, measurable goals. Things your control-obsessed brain could latch onto.”
“It’s working.”
“Is it?” Her eyes meet mine. “Or are you just getting better at performing the exercises while avoiding the actual point?”
The question cuts deeper than she probably intends. Because she’s right—I have been treating this like a game. Checking boxes, completing squares, learning the right things to say.
But right now, sitting in this rundown diner with pancake syrup on my fingers and no audience to perform for, I don’t feel like I’m performing anything.
I feel like myself. Not the captain. Not the son trying to outrun his father’s ghost. Just Bennett. And I don’t know what to do with that.
The realization hits like a check into the boards—sudden, disorienting, leaving me scrambling to regain my footing.
“We should go.” I flag down Carol for the check. “The supplies.”
Gisele watches me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods.
“Sure. The supplies.”
We pay—I insist, she argues, I win—and head back to the car. The clicking noise is still there, mocking me with its insignificance.
The drive to the supply store is quieter than the drive to the diner. I keep catching myself watching her, cataloging small details I’ve apparently been noticing for years without admitting it. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’sthinking. The way her hands move on the steering wheel. The way her voice changes when she’s talking about something she cares about.
This is dangerous.
This is exactly the kind of thinking I’ve been avoiding for three years, and now it’s flooding in. I’m in trouble. Real trouble.
“You’re spiraling,” Gisele says.
“What?”
“You’re spiraling.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. “I can see it happening. Your jaw’s doing the thing, and you haven’t said anything for nine minutes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re retreating.” Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “Something happened in that diner that scared you, and now you’re trying to put the walls back up.”
How does this woman see me so clearly? Even better than my brothers. Even better than my own mother.
