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Then she turns her head, dropping her cheek to her knee, and resumes her gentle rocking.
I pull the door closed and wait, hoping to hear her lock the door. I realize it’s no longer night, but threats exist during the day. And if the despicable human on the line knows she lives here? I lay my palm on the closed door and bring my mouth as close to the seam as possible.
“Scarlett, I’ll go, but I need to hear you lock the door.” I don’t know why it’s become important to me that she’s safe, or why after years of nothingness and depression, I’m hyper fixating on her.
The lock twists, and my core unclenches, settling back down. I take the stairs two by two and get into my car, frozen behind the wheel.
Who the fuck was the on the phone?
I drive to Crave, and tell myself I don’t need to know who was calling her. I wanted to make sure she’s fine and she is. Because knowing anything about her… that’s none of my business.
seven
scarlett
He waited to hear the door lock.
When I have therapy, I usually go after work, or on my lunch break. But today, I had to come in the morning since Dr. Evans is going out of town this afternoon, and she didn’t want to miss our appointment. Truthfully, as much as I dragged my feet to get into therapy, I now look forward to it.
Because it is helping. I am feeling better. Slowly. But Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that.
My phone vibrates in my purse, sitting between my feet, and I peer down to see those same ten digits dance across the screen. I look up and find Dr. Evans’ eyebrows have risen high on her forehead, and she’s tapping her pencil against her notepad.
“He’sstillcalling?” She shakes her head, disapproval and disdain rolling off her in waves. “Have you revisited the idea of a restraining order like Augustus suggested?”
I assume Dr. Evans sees Aug, too, as she’s the Crave & Cure staff therapist. But she mentions him now because I’ve told her about everything Aug has done for me. And that he knows about Pete and Jizzabelle. That he’s the only one at Crave I told.
I snarl one nostril as I shake my head. “No point. If I did that, he’d only get angrier.”
She jots something down on her notepad.
“And I still believe he will stop calling,” I tell her, resting my arms on the chair.
Dr. Evans bobs her head. “And how have your interactions with Cohen been since the morning you asked him to leave?”
I let out a sigh. I hate that I pushed him away when he was only trying to help, and even though I’ve already apologized, I still feel shitty. “Well,” I exhale, nudging the purse under the chair to mask the unending vibrations of Pete. “I’m interested in him, but… I don’t mean that the way you’re thinking. I just... I don’t know. He’s a gentleman, and it’s intriguing.” I shrug, picking invisible lint from my thigh. “It’s been so long since I’ve been intrigued, in any way.”
Finally I wager a glance up at Dr. Evans whose lips are tipped up on the edge in a curious little smile. “I think it’s a good idea to have a friend.” She glances at her notes then looks back up at me, determination in her eyes. “Cohen seems kind, and you’re platonically intrigued, so why don’t you make Cohen your first new friend?” She leans over her lap, narrowing her eyes at me. “And I mean real friend. Not the way you are with your new colleagues. I want you to actually befriend Cohen, and for the two of you to get to know each other. I think talking through things with someone not holding a notepad would be good for you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “How?” I’m not just skeptical, but I also would rather do anal without lube than tell that handsome man just how fucked up and broken I really am.
At one point in my life, I was happy. I had goals. I even dared to dream a little. I was going to be a computer programmer and then I was going to marry a man I love and become a mother.
Now I’m being advised to make a friend so I don’t have a mental breakdown and the stark contrast between then and now sets off a painful ache in my bones, one that radiates through every nerve ending, infecting me from the inside out.
“Human connection,” she says as I sit and silently ache. “And not just from coworkers. You need human connection, and since you’re not ready to date, you need a friend. Cohen clearly wants to be your friend.”
I study my cuticles as the collar of my sweater heats. “I wouldn’t sayclearly.”
“He walked home after driving you and came back in the morning to check on you. You know who does that? A friend,” she says simply, reaching back to drop her pen back in the holder on her desk.
“And don’t be afraid to share with your friend. Sharing helps us work through residual trauma,” she advises, scooting to the end of her seat to better peer at the clock on the table behind me. I veer away from it and she nods. “And since we’re out of time, I’d like to leave you with this.”
My stomach clenches into a tight ball. I hate final thoughts and assignments from Dr. Evans. Because while she’s always right and they have whatever effect she’d intended, they’re always challenging and uncomfortable. That’s how growth always is.
“If you tell him about Pete, make sure you tell him everything. Without all the details, it’s hard to understand why a sharp, beautiful woman like yourself would’ve stayed with Pete,” she says softly, wrapping up her point in tissue so as to not upset me.
I know she’s right. I know I was a fucking idiot to stay with Pete, but I was a confused, lost, heartbroken and abused idiot. One that desperately, utterly, completely, with every ounce of energy in her soul—wantedone thingabove them all.
