Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
She nodded slowly. “I’d really appreciate the help.”
“All you ever have to do is ask.”
Then I picked up the hammer and destroyed what was left of her kitchen, knowing whatever she rebuilt in the space would be even better, and I didn’t think about the email I’d already fired off to my lawyer.
I didn’t think about it the rest of the night.
Chapter Sixteen
Morgan
God, I wish I’d had the chance to take you up with me. I wish you knew the way it feels up there with the clouds. It’s like you’re an inconsequential human and a god all at the same time. You would love it.
“This is good,” Dr. Circe said, looking over my list of less-than-awesome memories of Will. As much as the anniversary had taken me down a notch, it hadn’t thrown me backward as much as I’d prepared for. “How did you feel filling it out?”
“Guilty,” I answered honestly. “But lighter once I was done.”
“Excellent. We have a tendency to put our deceased loved ones up on a pedestal, as if we can only remember the good things about them instead of who they were as a whole person.” She leaned forward and put the worksheet on the coffee table. “We’re past the halfway point, and I’m incredibly pleased with your progress.”
“Thank you.” Heat rose in my cheeks.
“How is it going with the truck?”
My pulse kicked up. “Okay. I can open the door and stand on the running board now.”
She nodded, jotting something down on her notepad. “And the anxiety attacks?”
“I had one the first day that I stood on the running board,” I admitted quietly. “But Sam was there, and she talked me down. I didn’t have to use my rescue meds or anything.”
She smiled. “Good. That’s really good. And it might not feel like progress, but it is. See?” She opened my folder, flipped to a page in the back, made a mark, and then turned it around so I could see it. “These are your number of attacks a week.”
The graph was decreasing.
“And this”—she flipped another page—“is your reported level of grief. Look, you started up here at ten, and now you’re down here at five. It means the therapy is working. That’s fantastic!”
I stared at the graph and nodded as a lump filled my throat. It was working. I was getting better.
“So for this week, I want you to put one foot on the running board and the other foot inside the truck.”
I stilled, panic rising at the thought of getting in it. “For how long?”
Dr. Circe glanced at her notebook. “You don’t have to hold it. Just see if you can put your foot inside. Remember, this is a marathon, not a sprint. We want you to be successful but still make progress.”
“Right.” Maybe I should have left that damn thing in storage instead of having the flatbed deliver it.
“Also, it’s time to start talking about the interpersonal dynamics you’re struggling with. You’ve mentioned Paisley in most of our sessions. Are you feeling up to opening that dialogue yet?” She watched me carefully, but there was no judgment in her tone or gaze, which was one of the reasons I liked her so much.
“I was actually thinking about inviting her—everyone, really—for Memorial Day weekend. I think I might finally have the words I need to say to her.” Some of them had come flying out at Jackson that night in the kitchen, and others had trickled in while I filled out that worksheet. Bottom line was that I loved my best friend, and if I didn’t at least try to explain my feelings, I was going to lose her.
“That’s great to hear. And I know you’re not quite ready for the imagined conversation with Will yet, but maybe next week?” She smiled optimistically.
Right. No.
“Maybe,” I answered. “I do have one question, since I know we have to get to the story before I head home.”
“How can I help?” she asked.
“Jackson…” My mouth opened and shut a few times as I struggled to find the words. “Am I using him?”
“How?”
I shifted in my seat. “I really like him, and my feelings for him get bigger every time I see him, or talk to him, or get a text. But am I just throwing my feelings for Will at him? Am I getting better because I’m rebounding?”
Her eyes softened. “Are you in love with Jackson?”
I balked. “No. At least, I don’t think I am.” I was wild about the guy, but I wasn’t going to start throwing the L word in. “But I could see myself falling in love with him. In the future, that is.”
“That’s fair. Now tell me, do you still love Will?” Her voice softened.
My heart hurt. It wasn’t the same level of pain that it once had been, but the feelings were still there. “Yes,” I whispered. “It’s a little softer, though, like someone turned down the stereo in the car and now I can hear other sounds, too.”