Page 1 of Trial Run

Chapter 1

The woman on Ben’s laptop screen dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, but today’s tears were a good sign. For one thing, Penny had her camera on. On bad days, she’d leave it off, and he’d spend the hour speaking to a black square. Ben had rarely seen his patient’s face on camera, and it had never looked this relaxed. The usual lines of stress creasing her brow had disappeared, and her eyes were softer.

Penny smoothed a hand over her silver bob and gave him a watery smile.

“I’m ruining my makeup. And I actually put on makeup the last three days. I also got dressed in real clothes this morning. No more pajamas. You can’t see, but I’m wearing jeans with a zipper—and a button.”

“Impressive.” Ben gave her an answering smile, something he only did for patients these days. He was still good at helping clients, but that fact wasn’t all that comforting when he was utterly failing at everything else in life right now.

“When you told me three months ago I’d feel like getting out of bed in the morning again, I didn’t believe you. But I think I might be getting past this.” She hesitated for a moment before speaking again, her voice revealing a hint of uncertainty. “Don’t you?”

“I think you already know the answer. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Penny squared her shoulders. “I am better. I don’t know how else to describe it other than it feels like … like I was under a heavy blanket, and now it’s lifted off me.”

“That’s exactly right. That’s what it feels like.” Ben swallowed, his eyes ticking to the window of his office before returning to the screen. He cleared his throat and grounded himself in his office chair by connecting to his surroundings. The smooth black leather armrests were familiar under his palms, his home office quiet and lit with a soft yellow light bulb. The crisp cotton of his dress shirt was free of wrinkles, and his tie was neat and straight. In this space, at least, he was in control.

“Depression might always be a part of you,” he told her. “But you’ve learned techniques to help you deal with it, including your new medication. And if it ever gets worse again, you’ll know what to do, and where to go for help.”

“I will.” Penny beamed at him. “And I appreciate you taking the extra time with me today,” she went on, dabbing her eyes one last time with her tissue. “I never feel rushed with you. But I hope I’m not making you late.”

“Of course not. I build extra time into my schedule for times like this. Let’s go over your breathing exercises one more time, then I’ll email you the written instructions afterward.”

Five minutes later, Ben clicked off the call, pulled off his reading glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. His life had been reduced to this—a series of video calls.

He shoved his chair away from the desk, stood, and paced the small space. He had to move, before this restless energy swallowed him whole.

On the desktop, sandwiched between two half-geode bookends, stood his personal copies of each of the three psychology books he’d authored. His framed doctorate degree hung on the wall, alongside his license to practice psychology, clearly visible during his video calls.

To outsiders, he probably appeared to be at the peak of his career. But people weren’t what they seemed a lot of the time. People were good at pretending. In fifteen years of practice, he’d learned that much.

The calendar app flashed a reminder at him from his laptop screen, notifying him of his next meeting. He had one hour, then it was back to this new normal, a reality in which he spent his days in this tiny home office because he hadn’t been able to drive himself to work for almost a month.

He closed the laptop with a snap and jogged downstairs to the kitchen, where the early spring sunshine streamed in the windows on the front side of the house. On a day like today, most people in the neighborhood would have their windows open.

A flash of white caught his eye as the mailman pulled up to the curb in front of his brick townhome, and his gut clenched. The mail carrier loaded the mail into the cluster of shared mailboxes at the end of the walkway and sped off.

The walk to the mailbox took twenty-six steps there and back, a ridiculous piece of knowledge to have, much less need.

He smoothed a hand down the front of his tailored vest and put a hand to the doorknob. He drew in a slow inhale, using one of the many breathing techniques he’d written about and coached patients through, techniques he shouldn’t need to walk to the curb and get the damn mail.

He’d let this get too bad, given in to the anxiety’s demands one too many times, and this was where it had gotten him. The longer he went without going out, the worse it felt, everything too bright, too loud. Today might be different, but it probably wouldn’t. As soon as he cracked open the door and the warm April morning breezed in, his stomach tightened further.

Leah would laugh her ass off at him if she could see him now, barely able to take a few steps out of his own house. He’d always been the strong one, the one who took care of everything. Butshe wasn’t here to laugh at him now, which was too bad, because it might have snapped him out of this.

He hurried to the mailbox, counting the twenty-six steps, and by the third one, all breathing techniques fled his brain. A woman walking her dog yanked on the chain and the animal yelped. A car rushed around the corner, too fast. Two toddlers chattered and played on a neighbor’s lawn.

With a shaking hand, Ben yanked open the mailbox, pulled out the stack of letters, and rushed back inside with a few long strides. He slammed the door shut behind him and sagged against the frame.

It shouldn’t be this way, but it was. He’d had it under control before, and it would be again.

He slid the mail onto the counter without looking at it and crossed the room to his treadmill. A quick walk to bring down the tension a notch—not enough to break a sweat in his suit—and then he’d be ready for afternoon appointments. Later, he’d go for a longer run. Five, six, or eight miles to burn away the bad thoughts.

By next week, he’d go back to the office. He’d push past this last terrible month, because he had to. The clinic and his patients demanded it from him.

He’d set up The Well Space ten years ago in a three-story Victorian house in downtown Kansas City, rather than renting a traditional office space. The quirky building’s comfortable furniture and old-fashioned feel helped destigmatize therapy, which many patients resisted at first. The clinic had skyrocketed in popularity the last few years, as word spread on social media about the velvet couches, kitchen with endless hot chocolate, and family atmosphere.

And they needed him back, stat. That feeling of being needed had always been enough to get him over himself and his own issues in the past, so why wasn’t it working now?

---