Page 29 of Lose You to Find Me

Stopping myself before I can saythe divorce, I close my eyes and regroup. I have no idea whose feelings I’m trying to save by brushing off the topic at this point—mine or Dad’s. Seeing him brings back a lot of memories of when the three of us were a family. Even if those picture-perfect moments were rare, they existed. And it gave me hope for my own future because I knew whatnotto do in my relationship.

Yet here I am anyway, learning how to move forward from the person who could have given me that.

I’d hardly call that smart at all.

“Mom doesn’t have a lot of people in her life is all I mean. I’d hate for her to get into a fight with the one person who’s always been there. Tiffany seemed really happy at the cabin this summer.”

He simply answers, “I get it. I do. I don’t want that for her either. All I’m asking is for you to think about this. For your mother. It’s not a done deal or anything. We’re simply discussing it as a possibility.”

I sit back in the booth and absorb all this. “You really do love her still, huh?”

His fingers graze his jaw. “It takes a long time to unlove somebody, kiddo.”

Swallowing my words, I glance down at the table and the little scratches people have made into the wood with their initials.

When the waitress comes over a few minutes later, she’s not surprised at what we order. And as soon as the milkshakes are delivered, Dad reaches over and plucks off the cherry from mine with a smile and asks, “So how is everything going with you?”

For a moment, I debate what to tell him. The truth or a lie?

When I say “Things have been fine,” it’s obvious he hasn’t learned anything from all the times Mom has said that same four-letter word when it was far from the truth.

All the oblivious man in front of me responds with is “That’s good, princess.”

Chapter Twelve

RAINE

Sliding into myusual seat for my first class the next day, I groan at the pain-induced nausea twisting my stomach. I raided Mom’s medicine cabinet this morning to take anything I thought could help before school, but it hasn’t helped.

“You look like you’re either hungover or ate the mystery meat the dining hall served yesterday,” Charity, one of my longtime classmates, comments, studying the way I wrap my fingers around the ginger ale. “Should I be worried? Because you’re a little paler than usual, and I swore to myself I wasnotgoing to get sick this year.”

Charity has always been worried about catching colds when the school year starts. During freshman year, she got so sick she had to miss two weeks of school.

I hold my hands up. “I woke up feeling a little queasy.” I want to blame the food from the diner, but I know it isn’t that. “It’s not contagious, so don’t get your Lysol out. I know you carry it.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “How do you—”

“Junior year adolescent psychology. Remember what you did to poor Josie? She was terrified of you after that. She literally dropped the class so she didn’t have to see you again.”

Charity blows a raspberry with her lips in exasperation. “I didn’t mean to get anything in her eyes. She’d been sneezing without covering her mouth, and I wanted to clean the air around me. It was innocent.”

The noise escaping me is abrupt and unattractive, but I don’t care. Just like I don’t care about the scathing look Charity gives me for being amused by her germaphobia.

“You probably shouldn’t Lysol anyone in the first place, Char,” I remind her, knowing she’ll more than likely do it again. I refuse to be victim number two.

When I bend down to grab my things from my bag, I suck in a breath at the sharp pain tugging at my lower abdomen and try breathing through it without giving anything away.

If Charity notices, she doesn’t say anything about it for the rest of the fifty-minute lecture. It gives me a chance to suffer in silence, praying for the day to pass in a blur so I can curl up in the fetal position hugging my heating pad and a waste basket.

Before we’re dismissed, Professor Wild starts going around the room with a glass bowl full of paper. “I want each of you to select one prompt from the bowl. This will be the subject of your final project at the end of the term. You’ll be asked not only to conduct interviews with at least two different people as if they’re your client but to write a detailed paper on how your subject is vital to the study of psychotherapy. While youareallowed to pair up with your peers, I will offer extra credit to those who use outside sources to complete this project so long as they sign off by the deadline printed on your syllabus.”

When the middle-aged woman gets to me, I reach into the bowl and pull out one of the few pieces of paper left. Unfolding it, I gape at what’s written along the middle and wonder what kind of cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

The psychology of romantic relationships.

Blinking slowly, I look up at the professor, who’s moved on to the next section of students. “You’re going to take on an angle of your topic as you see fit. Preferably one that you’re most likely to see during a counseling session. Get creative. Use your imagination and, of course, some of the material laid out in your textbooks as resources to guide you. Remember, this is essentially practice for the future. What are you most likely to encounter? What advice would you give to them?”

Charity shows me hers.

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