AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A sudden unease halts my steps. I spin around, scanning the street lined with old houses turned into storefront businesses. The hair on the back of my neck stands even more upright, insisting that someone is watching me.
Just me.
This watchful gaze is different from Lyric’s. There’s a malevolence to it, a presence that thickens the air around me. I study every face I pass, but none of them seem to notice me, lost in their own worlds. Shaking off the sensation, I push forward, the faint squeak of my Chucks on the sidewalk echoing like a personal drumbeat.
I walk down the block until I reach an old green home. The Victorian architecture suggests it was built in the late 1800s, with spires reaching for the sky and tiles of a green reminiscent of dirty moss contrasting against the cream-colored door and railings. Peering upward, I notice the porch wrapping around the sides and a balcony above. Clouds as puffy as cotton candy roll overhead, casting a sense of magic upon the scene.
If not for the small sign near the door, I might have doubted if I’d found the right place. A shadow moves past an upstairs window, prompting me to scan the surroundings again. A majestic willow tree stands tall to the left of the house, adorned with a few tenacious leaves. It’s a scene of beauty and wonder, and I hope that stepping inside won’t dispel the enchantment.
Trudging up the steps, I scuff my shoes on the worn wood, my hesitance warring with my determination. I’m about to pivot and call to confirm the location when a woman wearing a vibrant yellow apron enters the hallway.
A warm smile stretches across her face as she wipes her hands, and her greeting is as inviting as it is genuine. “Charlotte Hart, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Am I at the right place?” I extend my hand as she does, gripping hers with a touch that’s perhaps too swift, and I retract mine a touch too abruptly.
“You’re definitely in the right place, and don’t worry, almost everyone has that moment of doubt when they first come here,” she assures me, withdrawing her hand and taking a step back. She appears youthful, likely in her early thirties, with rosy cheeks on a pale face and kind blue eyes that seem to exude warmth. There’s a deliberate effort in her demeanor to put me at ease like most therapists, putting people at ease so they reveal the deepest, darkest corners of their lives.
After all, isn’t that what therapy is about? Stepping into the uncomfortable and unraveling the layers of pretense?
“Your home is really beautiful,” I remark as she walks away, her figure disappearing into the kitchen. She modernized an old Victorian home with gleaming hardwood floors and crisp white paint. Clean lines with a touch of gray give the house an almost untouchable feel, as though I might smudge something with my dirty fingertips.
“Thank you,” she calls, her voice carrying an air of casual familiarity. “Yes, before you ask, I live here and run my practice out of this space. I dedicated this entire home to recovery.”
“Recovery?” I echo, realization dawning as I take in my surroundings more deeply—the mail shelf by the entrance, lined with multiple names, the hooks running along the hallway, and the expansive dining room with numerous chairs.
“It’s a halfway house,” she clarifies, her attention turning to the oven as she extracts a tray of oversized chocolate chip cookies. The scent fills the air, a comforting aroma that stirs memories of my mom’s baking.
Does she somehow know about my past? The thought lingers in my mind, a quiet curiosity that I’m not sure I’m ready to vocalize. She looks at me as though she already knows everything about me, making me slightly uneasy.
Baking had been my mom’s form of therapy. She didn’t find solace in dirt or yoga. Her relaxation came from her hands being buried in flour, crafting the most delectable cookies.
With caution, I move around the kitchen island and take a seat. “How many people live here?” I hadn’t known that Lenora had a halfway house, but it makes sense, considering the women’s shelter they operate.
“Six,” Sara replies, leaving the tray on the oven. “They are all at work right now. I’ve scheduled everyone from the diner during their work hours, so it’s just us here for now.”
Sara’s mess of baking supplies is spread out before me, and as she speaks, I run my finger through a pile of flour. The dry powder sifts across my fingertips, evoking memories I thought had long faded away.
“Would you prefer to stay in the kitchen for our session or move to the office?” she asks in her calm, friendly voice.
“Can I bake?” The question escapes my lips before I even fully register it. I’m no baker, despite my love for eating baked goods. I haven’t baked in six years, not since the last time I did it with my mom, so why is this urge bubbling up now?
“Of course. Do you have a specific recipe in mind? If you tell me the ingredients, I’ll gather them.” Her kindness and approach to therapy are unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
“Um, chocolate chips and pretzels?” I nervously lick my lips, my stomach fluttering with anticipation. “Maybe some peanut butter chips?”
“You’re in luck.” She removes her apron and places it on a stool before opening a cabinet in her spacious kitchen. It’s filled with baking supplies, a treasure trove for anyone who loves to bake.
“Impressive,” I whisper, and I can’t help but imagine how much my mom would have adored this cabinet.
Sara retrieves the ingredients I mentioned and places them on the table before taking a seat where I was just a moment ago. Her presence soothes my nerves as I try to process the uniqueness of this therapy session.
“So…” I grab two mixing bowls. I’m running on muscle memory with the recipe. My mom’s singing bubbles up at the back of my mind, a happy memory, as she dances around the kitchen, tossing ingredients into a bowl.
“Relax, Charlotte. We aren’t here to unravel years of trauma or to discuss anything other than the diner.” She smiles at me with a tilt of her head, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder.
I’d almost rather discuss my trauma and not the diner.
“All right,” I mumble and begin to line up my ingredients. “How does this work?”
