Page 62 of What's Left of Us

Mom’s hand comes down on my arm. “I don’t like that look.”

“What look?” I ask coyly.

Wariness settles into her aging face. “The same one you had when you told me you would be fine when you and Matty went to that house.”

My stomach drops, and suddenly, I don’t want the half-eaten pepperoni roll in my hand.

*

The good doctorwatches me with one hand curled around the edge of the notebook she’s already written in once since I sat down ten minutes ago. “How was your holiday?”

Small talk. I haven’t been very talkative today because I’ve barely slept the last few nights. I wake up after three hours and give up when the nightmares take over. Instead, I sit in the living room with a glass of whiskey in one hand and the file Conklin put together in the other. He’d told me he needed to talk to me about something he’d found, but he never got the chance to.

The answers are in that file.

“They were…interesting,” I finally answer, mind still lingering on my nightly read. Names, addresses, and phone numbers circulate in my head, leaving me far from the therapy office.

She tilts her head. “How so?”

“My mom wanted to set me up with their neighbor’s daughter,” I explain, rolling my eyes.

I managed to talk her out of it before the Colemans got there, but it was obvious she was still trying to get me to talk to her when she conveniently decided to assign seating at the dining table and put me beside Opal rather than at my usual spot I’ve had for years next to Dad.

Thankfully, Opal was oblivious. Or maybe she chose not to notice how many times my mother would bring up my accomplishments for the sake of both our sanities. Hannah would cut in and remind her friend that I’ve had my fair share of problems too, bringing up my divorce and getting scolded by our parents.

But I didn’t mind.

I didn’t want my mother to make me sound like the golden child. Sure, I’m decent-looking. I work out. I take care of myself. But I have baggage. A lot of it. And being with me wouldn’t be any easier than it was the first time around, so I didn’t want mymom to sell it like I was a prize to be won. If anything, I’d be the defective toy someone would return after a few days of trying to make it work.

“How did that make you feel?”

“Uncomfortable.” I pause, thinking about it while stretching my legs out in front of me. “And like a loser, if I’m being honest. I don’t need my mother’s help to get dates.”

She studies me, touching the pen but not picking it up. “Have you dated since your divorce?”

I’ve had a lot of opportunities to, but I never bit the bait. “No. I haven’t gone on a date since asking Georgia on one all those years ago.”

“Why is that?”

Where do I begin? “Because I don’t want to rush it. Now isn’t a good time in my life. If I bring somebody into it, it won’t last. I can’t give anybody what they would need for a healthy relationship to work because I have to be selfish right now. I need to focus on getting better and getting back to work and—”Finishing what Conklin and I started.

I stop myself from adding that part.

“I just need to be the best version of myself before I can bring anybody into my life,” I conclude.

A thoughtful noise comes from her. “I can respect that. In fact, it’s admirable. Some people move on too quickly and find themselves in uncomfortable situations.”

I know a few people who’ve done that, but I don’t want it to be me. “I know my mom means well, but the last thing I need is somebody new coming into my life and pulling focus away from what’s important.”

“And that is…?”

I offer her the short answer. “Being normal.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Do you think you’d be ready to move on even if you were approved to return to work? To getback to whatever you deem as ‘normal’ life? Or do you feel like there would be something, or someone, holding you back?”

I know who she’s referring to without her saying Georgia’s name. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

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