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Calder gave a curt shake of his head.
The therapist looked at Elle. “Please continue.”
Whereas before, when the words had seemed to form themselves, her thoughts were now too scattered to think. “That’s all today.”
“Very well.” Dr. Sinclair moved on to someone else. A few others spoke, including Dawn Whitley. She shared that her husband expected her to “resume relations” now that she was no longer on crutches. “I’m just not ready for that yet.” She asked if anyone else was having that particular problem, but if anyone else was, they didn’t speak up. Dr. Sinclair eased them on to another topic.
Elle listened attentively to everyone who spoke, but she was acutely aware of Calder sitting across the circle from her. Wearing a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt—the classy kind that had to be dry-cleaned—he was better dressed than anyone else there. If for no other reason, that made him conspicuous, and he seemed keenly aware of that.
Dr. Sinclair must have sensed his discomfort. As soon as she adjourned the meeting, she approached him and drew him off to the side of the room for a private chat.
As people began to drift out, a good number of them stopped to speak to Elle. She was given hugs, condolences, and encouraging words that sounded like platitudes but which she knew by now were sincere.
Then Elle found herself alone. Others were mingling. Dr. Sinclair was now speaking privately with the couple who’d lost their daughter. Calder was at the snack table, filling a Styrofoam cup with coffee from a thermal dispenser.
Elle walked over. “Hi.”
He turned to face her. “Hi.”
“You changed your mind.”
“Last-minute decision. That’s why I was late.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think you would ever come.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think I would, either.”
“Well, welcome.”
“Thanks.” He raised his cup in a mock toast, then took a sip. “Have you been coming regularly?”
“Yes, once I thought I could endure it. But this is the first time I’ve spoken. On my first visit, I dashed out as soon as it was over.”
He gave a wry grin. “I would have if Dr. Sinclair hadn’t waylaid me.”
“I believe she was genuinely pleased to have you.”
“She said she was.” He took another sip of coffee and glanced down at the table. “Would you like a cookie?”
She glanced at the platter of dried-out chocolate chip cookies. “They don’t look very tempting. How’s the coffee?”
He grimaced. “I’d pitch it, but I don’t want to be ungracious.” He did, however, set the cup down on the table and slide his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans.
“Oh,” she said. “I just realized. Your sling is gone.”
“For a couple of weeks now. I was glad to be shed of it.”
“Your arm is healing okay?”
“Not fast enough to suit me, but the doctors say it’s right on target.” The instant the words left his mouth, he hissed, “Oh, shit,” and ran his hand over his mouth and chin.
“No matter,” she said and instinctively reached out to touch his arm in anIt’s okaygesture. But she pulled her hand back before making contact. “It happens to me, too.”
“Really?”
“Um-huh. I catch myself making a gun-related analogy all the time.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one.” He looked down at the table again, then glanced over his shoulder toward the exit.
