Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
She laughs, but it’s the indulgent kind like she’s used to dealing with me at full volume.
She lets me hold on for far longer than socially acceptable, her arms tightening around me at just the right moment before finally pulling back.
“I’m so sorry you had a bad night, Moira.”
I swallow hard. My throat’s gone tight, and I hate it. I hate how easily she gets past my defenses. How she doesn’t even have to try.
When we let go, she holds onto my forearms, pinning me down with one of those therapist looks I can already tell are her secret weapon.
“You know, over the phone, you asked me for help. I’m happy for that help to extend as far as this car ride, but I can also connect you with people who could do more than that. We could get you actual help.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “I’m not going back to one of those fucking… uh, places.”
“No, no,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. Just a therapist. Everybody does therapy these days. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
I squint at her, suspicious. “Everybody? Even serial killers? Even billionaires? Even… Batman?”
“Probably Batman needs it the most.”
I consider this, then squeeze her forearms back. “I’ll do it if the therapist is you. You just started your practice, right?”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Well… there are some ethical considerations. I can’t take on close friends as clients.”
“Perfect. We’re not close friends yet. I just met you.”
“Thanks. Love your bluntness.”
Her eyes flick up and to the left, obviously thinking. I hold my breath without meaning to, already bracing for rejection, for the gentle letdown—
“I can’t be your therapist, per se,” she says, finally, “but there is some wiggle room if we consider me a life coach.”
I exhale. “Fucking perfect. I like the sound of that way better, anyway. Life coach me, babe.”
“I’m happy to help you get on the right track.”
Then her expression softens, turning serious. “But part of that track might be…” She hesitates again. “As your friend, I can’t ethically diagnose you, but have you noticed certain… um… ups and downs in your moods?”
The Texas heat beats down on us, but her words make my skin go cold. A bead of sweat slides down my spine. Fuck.
“You noticed.” I swallow hard.
I try so hard for no one to ever notice.
“Well, yeah,” she says with maximum side-eye energy.
My mouth drops open.
“Fuck, does everyone know?”
“I mean, I think most people have noticed something. Did you think it was a secret?”
I scrub my hands down my face, groaning. “Well, that’s just fucking fantastic. Might as well put it on a billboard. ‘Welcome to Dallas, home of the Cowboys, the best barbecue, and Moira’s Fucking Unstable Brain Chemistry.’”
“Moira…”
“No, no, it’s fine. I love being predictable. It’s my favorite.”
Kira sighs. “You want to get in the car and talk about it on the way home?”
“Maybe,” I whine.
She grins. “You can do this, Moira. You’re the strongest person I know.”
The only other person to ever tell me that was—Bane. I swallow hard against the grief that makes me want to crumple to the ground at even thinking his name, then blink at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says. Then she tips her head slightly back and forth. “Well, it’s a toss-up between you and MadAnna.” She holds her hands up. “She told me to call her that.”
I give the window of her car a couple of raps before heading to the passenger seat.
“Fair,” I call back as I point over the car at her. “Very fair.”
FIFTY-SIX
Two Weeks Later
BANE
The phone rings again and again. I ignore it.
It’s only Rotterdam, my father’s lawyer. I’ve been ignoring his calls and texts all week, just like I’ve been ignoring the letter that landed in my mailbox last week from my father. He’s the last fucking person I want to deal with right now. The man doesn’t understand the concept of going no contact.
So I continue to stonewall him. If you give an inch, he’ll take a mile. He’ll take a hundred miles. And try to drag me back into his orbit, where love is a transaction. No, thank you.
I block Rotterdam’s number. He keeps calling from different ones within the firm, and I keep blocking them as soon as they come in.
I’m trying to focus on this week’s sermon, and the constant interruptions are a fucking annoyance. My modus operandi for the past two weeks has been to bury myself in work. I’ve spent more days doing prison visits and checked back with Silas. Took communion to parish members who were too elderly and ill to make it into service and let them chat my ear off all afternoon.
Anything to fill the time so the clawing chasm of grief at her absence is numbed. Besides my self-destructive vices, that is. Which I’ve avoided every day except last Sunday after service when I gave in and drank an entire bottle of Glenlivet Twenty-five and spent the night violently vomiting and regretting my entire life.