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Kieran: Late lunch?
I frown, my thumbs swiping over the message, debating a response. It’s been over a week since he fucked me into a coma, and he’s only been back once since. And when he showed up, he was back to his old self, holding me and getting me off before we fell asleep, but not letting me return the favor. Not giving me what Ireallywant.
His dominance. That streak that simmers beneath the violence and the fear, the one that puts me in my place when I need it, that has me begging him to own me, to push me until I break apart.
That makes me forget everything haunting me, if only for a moment in time.
He’s walking on eggshells around me again instead, treating me like a delicate flower that’ll wilt away if he plucks it, and not like he’s replanting me somewhere with better access to sunshine and rain. Sustenance.
And if that’s the way he wants to act, putting distance between us, I’m not going to stop him.
Ican’tstop him, not when I know it’s probably for the best.
Me: Can’t. Doctor appt.
Kieran: Everything ok?
No, everything is most decidedly not okay. But I’m not gonna tell him that. I don’t even want to tell this therapist that.
Me: Peachy.
Someone at reception calls my name, and I startle hearing it combined with my surname for the first time in forever. Caroline smiles up at me, encouraging, and I swallow down the knot in my throat as I get to my feet, forcing the wobble from my knees.
Kieran: Dinner then?
Making my way to where a petite woman with black hair and almond eyes stands at a white door with a keypad, I swipe up my keyboard as I walk, typing out my final response.
Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Holding the button down on the side of my phone, I wait for the screen to fade and slip it inside my pocket, following the tall woman through the door and down a softly lit hall. She stops in front of an open door at the very end, using her elbow to erase the writing on a marker board tacked to the wall. She writes JULIET: IN PROGRESS in big, block letters, recaps the marker, and gestures for me to enter.
The office is tiny and smells like Caroline’s bakery. There’s a large cherry wood desk catty-cornered on one side, an overstuffed armchair situated on an angle in front, and a dying plant beneath the windowsill.
“Have a seat,” the woman says as she settles in behind the desk, pulling a pen and paper to the forefront of the disorganized mess of folders and papers scattered about. I flop into the armchair, feeling small inside its embrace. “What brings you to my office today, Juliet?”
* * *
We head to Care’s Crazy Cakes after the appointment and I help Caroline make three different batches of scones, recounting the bare bones of the session with Dr. Zhang—who insists I call her Hana. Caroline tells me about the progress she’s made at the clinic, happiness pouring from her as she mixes batter.
Evidently, she’s been seeing Hana since Poppy’s birth, although back then she was attending far more frequently than she is now. Their early meetings involved breaking down Caroline’s deep-seated repressive nature, chipping away slowly at the hard exterior she’d erected as a defense mechanism against the abuse she suffered at the hands of our father.
I don’t tell her that I didn’t talk much today, or that I don’t plan on talking much at all in the future. After getting tongue-tied more than once, I’d buckled and clammed up, only offering one-word answers to each follow-up question.
What Caroline doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and I don’t want to disappoint her more than I already have. She clearly believes in therapy; I just don’t think it’s for me.
Elia meets us at the bakery not long after we’ve finished the scones and arranged them for display, a large manilla envelope tucked under his arm; he ducks in the kitchen as my sister pulls a three-tiered cake from the oven, then returns to the storefront and settles onto the stool beside me. He slides the envelope across the counter.
I quirk an eyebrow, swiping a peach scone from the glass display case and pinching a bite off, stuffing it into my mouth. “What’s that?”
“What do you think?” Without waiting for me to open it myself, he slides his finger beneath the seal, tearing it in one fell swoop, and shakes out the papers inside. Flyers and pamphlets fall to the counter, the UNE logo stamped on the front making my heart rate skyrocket.
The last sheet, a plain piece of printer paper with an official-looking seal, lands on top; I lean in to inspect it, noting that familiar, envious header at the top.‘Congratulations! On behalf of the University of New England, I am pleased to announce your admission into our summer program.’
My mouth drops, crumbs tumbling over my lips. “What the fuck?”
He pulls another smaller envelope from inside his suit jacket and hands it over, a smile splitting his face. It grows so wide, I think it might crack. “Tuition.”
“Elia—”
