AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hey, you know how it works with us. Complete honesty even if it hurts and we don’t want to hear it.”
“Yeah, but I already knew I looked bad. You didn’t have to tell me.”
He’s quiet, so I glance at him. “How bad?”
“Worse than ever. Do you have a minute?”
Trace nods. “Of course.”
“By ‘a minute’, I mean an hour.”
“I have time, Brittany,” he says with a smile. “Tell me what’s been going on. Last we really talked, you were doing fine and you were excited about your last year.”
I sink further into the chair. Here I am, back in a therapist’s office, about to spill my guts. My heart sinks. Even worse, Trace no longer feels like my therapist. I don’t like the idea of him resuming his role.
“What’s wrong?” Trace asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Can we grab a coffee or lunch? I’m using my break to see you and I’m hungry.” Maybe if I get him away from here, then I can pretend for a while longer.
Trace hesitates. “Sessions don’t work that way.”
He might as well have stabbed me in the heart. We’ve been talking ever since I stopped seeing him. At first, it was an email here and there before I told him emails sucked and gave him my number for us to text. Sessions don’t happen like that either. He’s not even my freaking therapist anymore! I squeeze my wrist and don’t miss that Trace notices the action. Frustrated, I hold up my cell phone. “But texting and phone calls are okay? C’mon, Trace. This is me we’re talking about. I wouldn’t have asked if I had gotten another person. I got you, though, and I’d rather do lunch.” Swallowing hard, I glance down at my lap and whisper, “I don’t want a session with you.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry; it was an automatic response. I was about to take my lunch anyway.” He stands. “Let’s go.”
We leave his office and he informs the receptionist that he’s going on his lunch break. We walk to the cafeteria in comfortable silence. Once we have our food, we sit down at a table in the far back corner. It hits me that while Trace isn’t my therapist and hasn’t been in a long time, he is an employee of the university and I’m a student.
“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?”
He shakes his head. “No. I informed them of our relationship during the interview because I knew they would need to be aware of it.”
I raise a brow at him. “Relationship?”
“Oh. Well, I, um, you know.” I’ve never seen Trace stammer with his words before. He shakes his head when I grin and laugh. “You know what I mean.” After taking a sip from his drink, he dampens the mood. “Tell me what’s been going on, Brittany.”
“You first. Why didn’t you tell me you were moving here? I could’ve helped you unpack or showed you around or something.”
“I was going to tell you when I called. Besides, I haven’t exactly been in the best of shapes either.”
It’s then I notice the slightly dark skin under his eyes and the tiredness in his face. Trace is amazing in what he does because he gets it. He doesn’t talk about it often, though. If I had to guess, Trace is struggling as much as I am.
With a deep breath, I begin. “Things were fine to start with, you know this, but then things just started falling apart. Over the summer, my attacks started coming back. They’ve taken control of my life.” The words start to flow faster as I stare at my food, dropping my fork to start squeezing my wrist. “I vomit every morning. I only sleep a few hours a night. I have at least three attacks a day. I’m making C’s, Trace. I’m failing and I don’t know how to make it stop. All of my techniques no longer work.
“My parents aren’t helping either, even though I know they mean well. I think I overloaded myself this semester, too. I don’t want to drop any of my courses, though. I redo my assignments like ten times before I finally turn them in to make sure it’s the best I can do and that I’ll earn an A, but it’s not always happening. I just want my normal life back.”
“Okay, I can help you,” Trace reassures in his calm, controlled, soothing voice. “Keep eating.” He waits until I take another bite before he continues. “Who’s your support system here? Rebecca still? Anyone else?”
“Just Rebecca. She doesn’t really understand, but she’s supportive. She’s the one who urged me to come see a counselor. I wasn’t going to, but then I hadn’t been able to talk to you yet, so I decided to go.”
“Good. I’m glad you have someone. How many classes are you taking?”
“Six, because I slacked off one semester.”
“No wonder you feel overloaded. You are.” He shakes his head at me. “How long have you been squeezing your wrist?”
I glare at him. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. You and your wrist is just like someone bouncing their legs or shifting their weight when they’re standing. It’s a nervous habit and I want to know when yours returned.”
