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She put the tablet down, breathing in through her mouth, her eyes welling up. She wouldn’t be fucking suicidal if she had friends and family in the first place. All she had was him, and talking to him... she’d never really talked to him. Should she try? Forgetting the past, since this was her new reality, should she try for her own peace of mind?
Deciding she was going to do just that one day when she was ready, talk to the only person she could talk to freely, she turned to the now-boiling water. Blinking again, she turned the gas off and opened the search bar again.
‘How to make tea?’
Following the steps, in a few minutes, she had the drink steaming in a mug. Adding a spoonful of sugar, terrified for some reason, Lyla brought the rim of the mug to her lips, taking a tiny sip.
And she fell in love.
She had made herself good tea.
One thing at a time.
***
Dr. Manson was an old, wrinkled dark-skinned man with sharp but warm eyes. He came calling the next day and sat in the greenhouse, and Lyla froze because she didn't know what to do.
"Bessie," the older man smiled at the woman accompanying her. "Would you please bring us some tea while I get to know the lovely Mrs. Blackthorne?"
"Lyla," she automatically corrected him, and the man gave her a gentle smile, asking her to sit on the chair in front of him. The greenhouse was sunlit and beautiful, and warm enough in the cold to sit comfortably in.
Lyla sat down gingerly, not knowing what to do or say as Bessie left.
"I'm a retired psychologist," Dr. Manson broke the silence after a few minutes. "My wife and I moved to Bayfjord many years ago, and while I don't see clients anymore, Mr. Blackthorne was very persuasive."
Lyla stared at him for a second, biting her lip. "What… what do you do exactly?"
"I help people deal with their mental issues."
She had mental issues. She knew that. "What kind of issues?"
Dr. Manson tilted his head to the side. "Whatever kind you want help with. But only if you want my help. Do you want my help, Lyla?"
Hesitantly, she nodded.
The older man smiled. "Great. Then know, that going forward, whatever you tell me will remain between us. Even though Mr. Blackthorne employs me, he won't know anything we discuss. Is that alright with you?"
It felt odd to be asked so many questions, like her choice in them mattered. She nodded again.
"Good. Then tell me anything about yourself."
Taking a deep breath, she began to stutter her way through some of her trauma.
***
It took her a few days to recover from the after-effects of the drugs. She slept a lot, day and night, and mostly stayed in her room, or sat on the deck watching the view unless Dr. Manson called her to the greenhouse every afternoon. While she hadn't talked to him about everything, even talking a little was slowly making her feel better. She told him about the tea incident, and he told her it was most probably an anxiety attack, that she would probably have more of them randomly until she gradually healed. He told her to talk to Mr. Blackthorne too, to try and find some middle ground between them, since she clearly cared for him.
Except Mr. Blackthorne was giving her apace. He came to her with trays of food, made sure she ate, and let her be. And for some reason, she both appreciated and abhorred that.
She took that time to come to terms with the fact that she had actually done something to end her life, and in the hole she had been, she didn’t blame herself. But as the days passed, and she spent time alone in this beautiful place, somehow never feeling alone because she knew he was somewhere in the house, she also admitted that she didn’t want to stay in that hole. She wanted to come out of it and she wanted to live. She wanted to experience beauty and feel like she belonged. She wanted to have him hold her and promise that she would never be hurt again. And knowing him, despite the last six months, she would believe him because she had the evidence of the last few years.
For the first time in a few days, she ventured outside the bedroom to find him on the couch watching TV. Hesitating on the landing, she tentatively walked over to where he sat with one muscular arm on the back of the couch, the other holding the remote.
At the sight of her, he muted the sound, but a couple kept kissing on the screen.
Fascinated, her eyes glued to the visual as she took a seat in the corner of the couch, she watched the man hold the woman’s face in his hands, gently teasing her lips with his as airplanes flew in the background.
Throat dry, she asked. “What are you watching?”
