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One missed call from Trace.
Rebecca would kill me if I stepped outside to call him. Plus, it would be a long phone call. A bar stool becomes available, so I take a seat.
Me: Rebecca dragged me to a club. Phone call may have to wait until tomorrow :(
Trace: That’s okay. I’m here, even if you want to call late tonight…I still can’t picture you in a club.
Me: Haha, it’s okay. Rebecca likes them and we have fun dancing together, so I come when she manages to make me.
Trace: Glad she gets you out. Can I have a short update please? You have me worried, Britt.
I’ve never even heard him call me Britt before, and yet my heart still pitter-patters when I see him text it.
Me: YOU have ME worried. I haven’t heard from you in forever.
Trace: I know, and I’m sorry. Just been busy. My update is long, so I’ll wait until we can talk over the phone.
Maybe it’s the miscommunication that comes with texting, but his message feels ominous. It only heightens my worries.
Me: But are you doing okay?
Trace: Yes. Are you?
His short answer doesn’t convince me.
Me: I’m okay.
“Put the phone away and come dance.” Rebecca plucks my phone from my hands and drops it into her purse. She holds out her hand expectantly. I sigh, but I take it.
My morning starts off just as crappy as yesterday. I wish I could call the grinch and not go to class. I am able to force myself out of bed, though. I feel like a numb zombie throughout my morning classes. My thoughts revolve around wishing I could talk to Trace already and wishing I could crawl into bed and pull the covers up over my head.
Afterward, I make an impulsive decision. My first semester here, Trace made me promise to locate the counselors’ offices, just in case. I have an hour and a half before my last class, so I begin my walk across campus.
Five minutes later, I’m pushing open the door. An elderly lady is sitting at the receptionist’s desk.
“Can I help you?”
“Is there a counselor available?” I absentmindedly squeeze my left wrist.
“I believe so. Second door on the right; he should be free.”
“Thanks.” I give her a small smile before going to the correct door down the hallway. I knock, hear a muffled ‘come in’, and step inside the office. At first, all I see is a giant of a man. Probably 6’5” with broad shoulders that give him a wide frame. His dirty blond hair looks to be a mess and when he turns around from where he stands at a filing cabinet, I quietly inhale sharply. “Trace?”
The hazel eyes of my old therapist widen with surprise. “Brittany? Hey, how are you?” He surprises me by closing the distance between us and giving me a hug. I’ve never hugged him before; it would have been inappropriate. But now? My body immediately relaxes into his as I return his hug. It doesn’t feel weird or odd. It’s quite the opposite; an overwhelming sense of calm washes over me. All too soon, Trace pulls away. The five-second hug feels as if it lasted longer. He gives me a once-over, and he frowns. My shoulders sag. I look like crap, he knows it, and he’s standing here looking gorgeous.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Have a seat.” He nods to the nearest chair and I sit down while he does the same, taking the empty chair next to me instead of sitting behind his desk. “Today is my second day. The opportunity came, I wanted a change, and I took it. I’ve been moving up here and getting settled in for the past few weeks, wh
ich is why I haven’t texted you. Things have been insane.”
Without thinking, my eyes fall to his left hand. The wedding ring that used to rest there has long since been removed, but this is the first time I’ve seen his ringless finger. He and his wife, Faith, divorced two years ago. I remember staring at the text message and feeling so bad for him, even though I had no clue why or who asked for it. When he was my therapist, Trace didn’t bring up his personal life a lot, but I had been seeing him for so long that sometimes it would trickle into our sessions, which is how I know his wife’s—ex-wife’s—name. Since then, I learned a little more about him with our texting, but not too much. He likes to walk the line between professional and friendly, I guess is the word for it.
“No wonder you said you were busy. Should I go? The receptionist said you were free.”
“I am. I was just getting a little more settled in here.” He looks around his office at his handiwork. It reminds me of his old office. Books line the shelves, his degrees are on the wall, and there’s even a plant in the corner. “How are you doing, Brittany? Not good if you’re here, and you look bad, too.” Trace frowns as he looks me over again.
“Thanks a lot, Trace,” I huff, folding my arms over my chest and leaning back into the chair.
