Page 30 of Wes

Instead, she deadpans, without lifting her eyes to me, “I’m sure you’ve got a busy schedule. I don’t want to hold you.”

Despite my confusion as to the reasons for her turnabout, I recognize a dismissal when I hear one.

I stand up and drag my feet to the door, where I toss a goodbye over my shoulder. “See you in a couple of days.”

She nods, holding a page in the air and reading it.

I keep my cool as I greet Trish with a silent mock-salute and find my way out of the place. But my heart falls to pieces as I go. What has just happened? What the fuck have I done this time?

11

MARIA

After Wes leaves, I let the paper I was pretending to read fall on the desk. I sink into the softness of the leather chair and swirl around to gaze out of the windows overlooking the garden. Kids and volunteers wander around tending the flower beds and I let my eyes follow their movements. This takes my mind off my real issues for a few beats until it doesn’t anymore.

I can’t handle this roller coaster of emotions in the long run. And the man doesn’t deserve being dragged onto this ride from hell just because I keep sending mixed signals. My indecision is punishing us both.

Like what happened just now. Wes’s head must be spinning from my sudden change in mood. One minute, I’m having a good time in his company. He makes one comment, blinks, and I switch to insensitive bitch mode. I’m sure that’s how he must have seen this, and I can’t blame him.

I unfold from the chair and begin to pace the length of my desk, still watching the people outside my office’s bay windows. Despite the record-high temperatures this summer, the garden offers cool shades because it’s shielded from the afternoon sun by the main building.

Not much different than the way I raised stonewalls around my heart just now when the subject of Ken’s murder came up. After years of therapy, I got to the point where remembering our ordeal became bearable. I didn’t need the appointments anymore. Until Wes Baron barged into my life.

I spin around, snatch my purse from the table, and march out of the office. “Heading out for my appointment. Please call Dr. Abbess and let her know I’ll be half an hour early. I’d appreciate it if she could see me then.”

“On it,” Trish replies, holding the phone and punching in the numbers.

* * *

Dr. Peggy Abbess doesn’t take notes as we talk, which used to bother me when I first started seeing her ten years ago. After a few sessions back then, I realized she didn’t need them to tackle the issues I used to bring up in our conversations. To this day, she remembers details about my stories, past and present, as well as all the connections between me and the people I mention. Her sharp mind never fails.

“Hold on a second,” without raising her voice nor hand, she interrupts the ranting about recent events I’ve been on since I arrived. “What do you mean when you say Wes messes up with your mental health?”

I take a deep breath buying time to arrange my thoughts into coherent sentences.

“First off, I only felt I needed to return to your office after I met him.” I study her green eyes for signs of her personal opinion on this subject. She gives off none, as always. I don’t know why I keep looking for them. “I had come to turns with Ken’s death and my assault until Wes showed up and began stirring up all these feelings.” I wave my hand in circles in front of my chest.

Her brown hair brushes her shoulders as she tilts her head to the right. “Which are?”

I watch the way the short sleeves of her green silk top move with the gushes of air coming out of the AC unit above the door. Her slender fingers smooth the denim of her skirt as she waits for me to speak.

“I don’t know how to label them.” I pause as flashes of the last thirty days play out in my mind’s eye like a high-speed presentation. I add, “Since I met Wes, thinking about the events of that fatal day shreds my heart all over again. And I fear I won’t be able to glue it back together.”

“Why do you think he has this effect on you?”

“I don’t know.” My snappy reply reaps an arched eyebrow from my therapist. I swallow a bratty comeback, hang my head, and cover my face with my fingers. Looking at her through them, I mumble, “You keep saying people know their reasons when they bring something up in a session.” I lean back and shrug. “Maybe you’re right. Suppose I know, in some level, what bothers me about Wes,” I admit the truth out loud, as its ugly head rears in the corner of my mind. I have to pause until my ears stop ringing. “I’m not ready to dissect it yet.”

“Fair enough. We’ll discuss this topic when you’re comfortable. Remember, psychotherapy might be a winding road, but it’s a forward path, no returns available.”

It takes a couple of beats for her meaning to sink in. “We may revisit issues, but we’re never the same person when we do so.”

“Exactly.” She grins. “You’ve mentioned being afraid of getting hurt. What do you do when fear strikes?”

“When Wes is around, my sense of self-preservation kicks in and I push him away.”

I don’t elaborate.

She states a fact, “Keeping your distance will likely become harder now that you two must work in the same space.”

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