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All these years I’ve chased her trust. The relentless pursuit of control over my body, my space, my work, my reputation, has culminated in this moment. I’ve served in combat, killed people, saved lives, nursed wounds, and put my own broken hull of a body and soul back together with duct tape and grit.
The moment I’ve been waiting for is now.
And all I can do is feel a massive wave of guilt.
Because the man Lindsay finally trusts isn’t the person she thinks I am.
Which means she’s trusting a lie.
Marshall walks in, gives us a disgusted look, and addresses Lindsay as she pulls out of my arms and retrieves her coffee.
“Your father needs you for a short briefing.”
“I’m about to go for a run.”
“It’ll have to wait.”
“You don’t control my schedule,” she announces, gulping down the rest of the coffee.
She flounces out of the room like it’s an Olympic event and she’s a gold medalist in Condescension, pointedly going outside for a run.
Leaving me shredded.
Chapter 14
“Drew! Good to see you, though the circumstances sound intense.” Dr. Salma Diamante’s office is California Fresh, with turquoise walls, creamy sandy-colored carpets, and seashell-themed design elements conveying the feel of the beach. It’s serene, stark --
And all too familiar.
“Dr. Diamante.” I sit in my normal spot. Habit. You spend nearly two years coming for once-a-week sessions and you pick a spot that’s safe. You pick the same damn seat every week because that’s one less decision you have to make.
When your mind is like Swiss cheese at the center of a napalm tornado, the less complexity, the better.
“You booked a two-hour session, I see,” she comments, eyes intent, studying me calmly. Her body language is relaxed.
She has all the time in the world.
Good. She’ll need it for my problem.
“Yes. Figured I’d get it all out of the way in two hours and then I won’t have to come back.”
She doesn’t laugh.
Instead, she takes a deep breath, her way of controlling her responses. Kind eyes meet mine. They’re the color of deep brown, the shade a mixture like German Shepherd’s fur, reddish-gold flickers along the edges. Salma is my mother’s age, but tall and thin. If she were a teenager, I’d call her lanky.
She’s in her fifties, so I won’t.
Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, streaked with gray here and there. No makeup. No manicure. I know very little about her. Does she have kids? Grandkids? A husband?
Hell, a wife?
Don’t know. I came here for more than a hundred sessions and all the information is a one-way street.
That’s the point of therapy, though.
Right?
“Drew.” My name rings out in the small room. A seagull makes a strangled sound outside the window. “Drew, why don’t you start with the newspaper?”
