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She looks up at me with a mix of gratitude and sadness in her eyes.
“What if I want to change for myself?” she whispers. “What if I’ve never really known who I am, and it’s taken the untimely death of my father for me to realize how pitifully unhappy I am with my life?”
“At least you figured it out and you aren’t pretending to be okay with it when you aren’t, because that’s the majority of people.”
“Are you happy with your life, Wyatt?”
I look at her, the way she looks in my sweatshirt, curled up in the passenger seat of my truck. I think about Alex and Taylor, my two best friends in the world . . . probably my only friends. I think about Willa, my sister, and my dad.
“I think right now, at this moment, I am happy. But I also think that happiness isn’t a destination. If you tell yourself you’ll be happy when you get a new job, a new car, or when you fall in love—if you spend your life linking your happiness to events or goals, I don’t think you will ever be happy. But if you can find a way to be happy where you are, even if you work a crap job and go home alone, then you’ll probably be the happiest person in the world. I have a great dad, and a sister who loves me, most of the time. I have two amazing friends who would probably commit murder if I asked them to. And if that’s all I get in life? Then I would count myself a lucky man.”
“Is it all you want though? Out of your life?”
I rub a hand on the back of my neck looking away from her. I don’t know how to tell her the truth, so I just shrug.
“I’m happy with my life the way it is, and I’ve stopped trying to make it into something it’s not ever going to be.”
Lucy turns a little in her seat, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”
I force a smile on my lips and ask, “Weren’t we just talking about you? I feel like we were just talking about you.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs her purse. “You should really start taking your own advice, Wyatt. Thank you for tonight, and for always listening and understanding what I’m trying to say.”
“Anytime. Hey, before you go, give me your phone.”
I like that she just hands it to me, no questions asked. I type my name and number into her phone and hand it back to her, making her smile.
“Give me yours.” She holds out her hand.
I do, and she puts her number in. She puts my phone on the center console when she’s done and opens the door, hopping out. She shuts the door behind her and walks a few steps before turning around and walking back to the door. The window is still rolled down, and she leans against it and hits me with those deep, contemplative green eyes.
“Wyatt?”
“Yes, Lucy?”
“You’re able to take my mind off the pain for a while, without pretending that it’s not there in the first place. Thank you for that.”
I blink slowly before nodding. “Uh, yeah, you’re welcome.”
And I just sit in my truck and watch her, as if she didn’t just crack open a door I’ve had shut and locked for years.
Chapter Seven
Lucy
Mytherapist’sofficealwaysreminds me of the ocean. She has it painted a pale blue, and it’s mixed with cream and tan accents. There are a few plants staged around the office too, although I haven’t figured out if they’re real or fake. The reception desk is white, and the girl who sits behind it is always tan and reminds me of a Hollywood actress with her pencil skirts and perfect ponytails. The office, and the receptionist, are neat, pristine, and in perfect condition—unlike most of the clients.
“Lucy?” My therapist, Dr. Anne Marsh, steps out of her office and into the waiting room.
I stand up and shoulder my purse, smiling. I walk past the receptionist, but she doesn’t look at me. We’re probably around the same age, but you wouldn’t guess it if we were standing next to each other. Something about her looks professional, put together. And I just look tired and a little pale.
I sit down in a chair across from where Dr. Marsh sits and crosses her legs, pulling out her notebook and clicking her pen. She’s in her mid-forties, with brown hair that’s graying on the sides. I like that she doesn’t try to keep her hair colored, she accepts her age with grace. I think I’ll be like that when I’m her age.
“So, how’s your job going?” she asks me.
“I’m actually really enjoying it. At first, I was worried it would bring up a lot of emotions, and I would hate it, but it’s not so bad. Dr. Fitz and his partner are nice, and the nurses in the office are sweet. It’s a busy office, so my days are busy, which is good—keeps my mind off things.”
“What kinds of things do you need to take your mind off of?”
