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“You’re good,” I say. “Me?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t see anything.”
“You got me good,” I say.
“You’re blaming me?”
“Yes,” I say. She is sort of to blame, after all; if her leg hadn’t cramped then we wouldn’t have been so close ... then I wouldn’t have thought about ... damn. That was close.
“Are you okay to climb up the ladder now, Price?” I say, massaging my still-painful nose with my fingertips.
Yes, that’s good, Graham. Get yourself back to the friend zone. You’re friends with Lucy. Friends. A friend that you just nearly kissed. You definitely have never thought of doing that with a guy friend, you monster.
“I’m good,” she says, and I move out of the way of the ladder as she hoists herself up and out of the pool.
I give myself a second, taking in a deep breath, before climbing out.
LATER THAT MORNING, WORKING AT the spa, I’m sitting in the break room between appointments, drinking some coffee, wondering how I can be such a weak loser of a person. Shame is sticking to me like a proverbial Kick Me sign.
The employee space at the spa is a lot different than the room at the hospital. It’s thoughtfully decorated, with a fridge full of sodas, one of those coffee machines that uses pods—with a rack full of options—and a basket full of various snacks. A stark contrast to the sterile room at Aspen General with its uncomfortable chairs and noisy vending machine.
“Dr. Shackwell,” a female voice says, and I look up to see Jenna Peterson walking into the room, a soft smile on her attractive face. She’s one of the aestheticians at this touristy spa.
“Hey,” I say in response.
She goes over to the refrigerator and grabs something before taking a seat in one of the matching white chairs at the table where I’m seated. She sets the cold Coke on the table, popping the tab, the can making a distinctive fizzing sound as it opens.
I look off into the distance, still working through my shame cycle. I can feel her looking at me.
Once upon a time, I flirted with this woman. It was actually she who started me down this journey of self-discovery, one that made me recognize the person I’d become and that I didn’t like him all that much. She saw through all my BS. It was honestly a pivotal moment. And clearly, I still have a lot to work through.
“You look sullen,” she says before taking a drink. “What’s got you feeling down today, Graham?”
The woman is a wizard. Although, I’m sure I’m giving off some low-key self-hatred vibes right now. Probably anyone would pick up on it.
Regardless, I’m glad she called me by my first name. For a minute, I tried going by my middle name—Kal-El, after Superman, a name I have my dad to thank for. But I realized quickly it was a stupid idea. I think subconsciously I had already been looking for a change when I started trying out the name. Jenna has been known to call me by my first, middle, or last name. Whatever she’s feeling in the moment.
I look away from my coffee cup, where I’d been mindlessly moving my thumb over the spa’s logo, and at the woman sitting across from me. The large diamond on her finger with a band of diamonds underneath—a newish accessory—sparkles under the overhead recessed lighting. She got married at the end of October. Apparently, it was at the pumpkin farm her family owns.
“You ever thought about being a therapist?” I ask her.
“I did, for a brief moment, before I realized it was me who needed the therapy,” she says, giving me a smile. “I go to a good one—do you need her info?” She places an elbow on the table and props her chin up with her hand.
I chuckle. “I’m already seeing someone; thanks, though,” I say.
“Are you?” She looks pleasantly surprised.
I nod. Too bad the challenge today isn’t to tell someone a secret, because I just nailed that. Jenna is now the second person who knows about my leap into counseling. Instead, I’m to cook a meal for myself that I’ve never made before. Something I’d pictured Lucy doing with me, and I’d planned to ask her, but after this morning’s events, it’s probably better if I don’t.
“Impressive,” she says, her expression congruent with her words.
“I’m not sure it’s helping,” I say. “I ... it is, I just feel like I have a long way to go.”
“Don’t we all,” she says. “Do you ... want to talk about it?”
I lift a shoulder. I don’t really want to talk about it. But I give in because Jenna will get it out of me somehow. She’s good at that.
I cross one leg over the other, leaning farther back in my chair. “I think I sort of failed an assignment from my therapist,” I tell her.
