Page 61 of Falling Like Stars

“ROWAN?”

I look up from an old magazine in the waiting room, where I’d been staring at photos of Zachary Butler and Eva Dean leaving a restaurant in New York City. The issue is three years old, but it somehow still stings to see them hand-in-hand. Neither is smiling; Zach looks particularly distraught—clenched jaw, eyes heavy. Deeply frustrated. The expression of a man for whom things are falling apart and there’s nothing he can do about it.

At the door to the office is a middle-aged woman in professional but relaxed attire: loose linen pants, blouse, chunky jewelry, her hair a mane of full, soft curls settling on her shoulders. She reminds me of Angela Bassett, though Dr. Kaya Baldwin is plumper with softer features.

She looks as if she’d give the most amazing hugs.

The therapist wears a gentle, welcoming expression, likely meant to be a calming influence on her patients. It’s no match for my nerves that flare up anyway. I set the magazine down and follow her into her office.

Like her, it’s elegant but warm, with potted plants and two plush beige chairs with a small table between them. Dr. Baldwin’s office is in Pacific Palisades, a swanky part of town; this visit is costing me a small fortune, but I have a deep hope unfurling in my heart that it’s worth it.

“Please. Sit.” Dr. Baldwin takes one chair, and I take the other, my hands fidgeting in my lap.

This was a mistake.

Already, howling grief and guilt wants to pour out of me. The blackest demon pain I’m scared to let out for fear it’ll tear me apart.

Dr. Baldwin cocks her head. “You seem very uncomfortable. It’s a big first step, isn’t it?’

I nod.

“I call that the ‘crying chair’ for a reason,” she says. “Feel free to make good use of it.”

“Wouldn’t that be a terrible first impression?”

“It wouldn’t be out of bounds.” Dr. Baldwin smiles. “If you’re more comfortable, you can start by telling me what brings you here.”

I like that option better and take a steadying breath. “Well, um…my dad died when I was thirteen, and that sort of ruined my mom. And when I was fifteen…” I swallow hard. “My boyfriend was hit by a car right in front of me. And since that time, I’ve put myself in bad situations, and I’m here because I’d like to not do that anymore.”

Dr. Baldwin holds my gaze intently. She has no notepad but rests her arms on her thighs, leaning in. If listening were an Olympic sport, she’d take gold.

“I’m so sorry, Rowan,” she says, her tone compassionate but not pitying. “That is a lot to carry. But tell me a little bit more. What do you mean by putting yourself in bad situations?”

“With men,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I have bad taste, to put it mildly. The scuzzier the better.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“Because Josh, my boyfriend, was a really good guy. One of the best, and I thought we’d be together forever. And then he died, and it was my fault, so I don’t really try anymore.”

Dr. Baldwin’s face knits with concern. “Can you say more about why you believe Josh’s death was your fault?”

I tell her an abridged, just-the-facts-ma’am version of events from that horrible night, keeping my emotions in check. When I’m finished, she sits straighter, thinking for a moment. I brace myself for her to tell me it’s not my fault and leave me stuck in the same place I’ve been for ten years. But she doesn’t.

“How has this feeling of responsibility impacted your other relationships?”

Zachary Butler floats across my thoughts. “I don’t have any. Not real ones.”

“And what about other areas of your life? Schooling? Career?”

“I wanted to be a costumer for Hollywood,” I say, marveling at how readily the truth rolls out of me with this woman. “But I gave that up. I work as a PA—a production assistant—instead.”

“Because…?”

“Because it just hurts too much,” I say. “I was going to have a whole life with Josh, and it’s gone, and I can’t get away from that night. I feel like I’m still on that street where I watched it all fall apart and did nothing to stop it.”

She nods. “You have a remarkably clear understanding of your situation, Rowan. As if it were a math problem that you’ve worked to a final, unalterable conclusion.”

I shrug one shoulder. “Isn’t that what death is?”

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