Page 26 of What's Left of Us

She smiles a full-blown smile, not one of those small teases that I like pulling from her. It’s pretty—brightens her face. I like it. “No. I could never do what you do. I’ve always been a behind-the-scenes kind of gal.”

“I’m sure the people you deal with aren’t always easy,” I comment. “It’s probably not as different as you think.”

God only knows what goes on in her clients’ lives. I’ve dealt with some interesting people in my time—people who make a lot of dumb decisions that hurt them and others. At least I can do something about it by getting them help or walking away if they refuse. I can’t imagine having to sit here and listen to people drone on about things that I can’t change unless they’re willing to put the effort in to make a difference.

She shakes her head. “No, they certainly aren’t always easy. In fact, most of my clients are quite…stubborn.” Those lipstwitch upward as she looks at me. “But I wouldn’t want to do anything else. This is what I worked hard for, and I’m proud to be here.”

“Even on days you’re with people who don’t want to be?” I doubt, brows arching in genuine curiosity.

The good doctor smiles. “Especially then. I’ve found that everybody is seeking help in their own ways. Even my most cynical clients get something from these sessions. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a person to talk to. That makes a big difference when people least expect it.”

I think about that as I study the room to avoid looking at her. I can feel her eyes on me as I examine the walls and decorations she put out at the start of fall.

Scraping a palm down my jeans, I say, “I didn’t open up to her right away.”

She silently stares at me.

“Georgia,” I elaborate. “Our relationship started on…unique circumstances. I wanted to help her because I was the reason her world seemed to flip upside down. I never thought…”

I never thought she’d go and turn mine upside down.

Her pen reappears in her hand. “Tell me about it,” she replies softly.

I drop my head back on the top couch cushion and stare up at the drop ceiling. “Where do I begin?”

“How about you start off where you ended things last time?” she suggests.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lincoln/ Seven Years Ago

Istare atthe letter my mother passed me as soon as I walked into their house for Saturday brunch, rereading it three different times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“I got in,” I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief at the academy invitation. Slowly, I peel my eyes away from the letter to where my parents are waiting with eager expressions across the kitchen.

My mother’s blue eyes brighten as she clasps her hands together, and pride illuminates my father’s familiar face that he all but cloned when they had me. He says, “We knew you would, son. When do you leave?”

Scanning the paper, I blow out a breath. The next academy is soon. “Three weeks.”

Less than a month to get my affairs in order, including putting in my notice for work. Maybe they’ll let me take leave just in case the academy doesn’t work out. Not everybody makes it through. I work with a couple of people who barely got past the first month of the grueling physical training the instructors put them through. Then again, they weren’t in the military, being punched in the gut and run ragged for doing dumb shit the way I was for four years.

Mom walks over and wraps her lean arms around me. “I’m so happy for you, Lincoln. You’ve always wanted this.”

I wrap an arm around her back, encasing the small woman who put up with my shit despite probably wanting to put me up for adoption a time or two.

Dad joins us, patting my shoulder with a smile that matches Mom’s. “Let’s skip brunch and go somewhere to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” my little sister asks, walking into the room, staring at her phone. The dark-haired, blue-eyed girl is a perfect mixture of our mother and father, unlike me, who looks like my father’s brown-haired, brown-eyed doppelgänger. Mom used to say we looked like the decedents of Humphrey Bogart, but I think that’s just because her favorite movie isCasablanca.

Dad and I have the same masculine, gruff features, whereas Hannah has the softness of my mother, which makes Dad nervous about her getting older. He says I’ll have to instill the fear of God into the teenage boys she goes to school with down the line, but I think he’s more than capable of doing that himself. His gun case is on full display in the living room, and he’s already told her he’s not afraid to use them on pimply-faced preteens.

“Your brother got accepted into the police academy,” our mother chimes.

Hannah finishes texting somebody on the flip phone she convinced Dad to buy her before sliding it into her pocket. “Cool. Does that mean I can have your apartment while you’re gone?”

I snort at the eleven-year-old. “No chance, pipsqueak.”

“But you won’t even be there!” she points out, getting a soft chuckle from our dad and a disapproving sigh from our mother.

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