Page 81 of How to Walk Away

“With pleasure,” Ian said, turning away.

“Did he delete your name from the email list?” I whispered, after Myles was gone.

“No comment.”

“How are you going to make it to the next one if he doesn’t tell you about it?”

Ian met my eyes. “I’ve alerted my network of spies.”

***

AFTER PT, Iwas so tired I could barely transfer back to the bed.

I took a coma-like nap, and when I woke, around the time Kitty usually arrived for supper, I was ravenously hungry. I was also ready to report on how I’d both stood up to our mom and rocked it out in PT—and then psychoanalyze how those two things might be related.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Kitty.

It was Ian.

My first thought: He was quitting. He couldn’t take me—or Myles—anymore.

He walked close to the bed and stood there, a bit uncomfortable.

I decided to jump the gun. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately,” I said.

“Your situation is difficult,” he said then. “Not you.”

That was nice of him.

“I think you’re coping remarkably well, actually,” he said.

“You do?”

He nodded. “You worked hard today.”

“I did?”

“Could you feel the difference?”

The question sparked a realization. This might have been the first time in my life that I did something difficult not for how it would matter to somebody else, but for how it would matter to me.

It was a strange, new feeling, but it felt like a little nudge in the right direction.

“It was different,” I agreed. “But I’m not sure why.”

“You’ve got a lot of strength, Maggie,” Ian said then. Such a serious face. Practicallymournful. “Much more than you realize.”

“I hope so. I’m going to need it.”

“And I think we could be doing more.”

Where was he going with this? “Okay.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Here now, you mean?”

“Your father hired me for extra sessions in the evenings.”

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