Page 25 of What's Left of Us

His eyes are full of unspoken sympathy that’s clear in his tone, like he thinks I’m making the wrong decision. He knows it’s not his place to say one way or another. He also knows I wouldn’t listen to him even if he told me what I should do.

So, he doesn’t bother. “If you have any questions or concerns, you know how to reach me.”

I know he’s doing his job, but I can’t help the irritated feeling that creeps under my skin the entire rest of my day. Especially when the next available appointment I can get isn’t until January.

GoddamnJanuary.

That’s another three months of sitting around with my thumb up my ass waiting to get my life back together.

Normally, when my bad mood strikes, I go to Georgia. She also distracts me enough to get me past it. I hate to admit it, but she still grounds me.

And no matter how badly I want to turn when I pass her road, I keep driving.

And driving.

And driving.

Until I get to the place where we first met.

“Your usual?” the bartender of The Barrel asks as I slide into my regular spot at the counter.

My eyes go from the stool where the brown-haired girl who changed my life had once sat over to the shelf of liquor. “Give me a glass of Johnnie Walker,” I tell her, pulling out my credit card.

Her eyebrows raise at the request, then the corners of her lips. She used to serve Georgia too, so she knows where the order comes from.

“That kind of day, huh?” she guesses, setting the glass in front of me.

I take a sip. “You have no idea, Shelly.”

*

My mood isstill shitty days later when I sit down on the green suede couch. Arms crossed, I wait silently for the brunette to sit across from me and adjust her glasses.

“Where did we leave off?” the good doctor asks, setting her notebook on her lap. I’m sure if she looked at it, she could remember exactly where we stopped the last time.

Leaning back, I say, “I believe you were picking at old wounds.”

The softest chuckle comes from her, a welcoming sound that perks my ears up. “I do have a tendency to do that.”

Draping an ankle over one of my bent legs, I settle into the cushions. “Don’t you know wounds will scar if you keep touching them?”

One corner of her lips pulls up. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this profession, it’s that everybody has scars in some form. Whether they’re visible or not.”

“Deep.”

Her eyebrows go up expectantly, as if I’m just supposed to spill my guts to her without any type of foreplay. When she realizes she’s not getting anything, she breaks the silence.“There’s nothing wrong with being divorced or feeling a certain way about it.”

My eyes briefly go back to her ring finger before I look up again. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“We’re not here to discuss me.”

Evasive. A thoughtful noise rises up my throat. “I’ve never been good at opening up to people either,” I tell her, lifting my good shoulder. “My first girlfriend said I was emotionally unavailable. I believe she also used the word cold.”

My therapist stares at me for a moment before jotting down another note. “You must have felt comfortable enough to open up to your ex-wife.”

The non-question makes me smirk. She’s smart. Not asking me directly what made me open up to Georgia, but still keeping the door open for discussion. I’ve used that tactic before when I’ve questioned perps at the station. The trick is getting them to offer you the information without having to ask anything at all.

“You ever think of becoming a cop?”

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