Page 31 of Out of the Dark

I nod in agreement, wondering why my admission caused such a significant shift in his attitude. I don’t claim to beexperienced or knowledgeable in relationships, but it was my understanding that guys liked women to be less experienced. Apparently not in this case.

"You’re right. It’s late," I say.

"Goodnight, Claire." He’s walking down the hallway to his bedroom before I can even answer, and just like that, one of the most memorable moments of my life has been tainted by confusion and worry.

Maybe I’m just not good enough for him after all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CLAIRE

The library at the community college has become my sanctuary. Unlike the oppressive quiet of my childhood home, where silence often meant shame or fear, this quiet is purposeful and peaceful. The afternoon sunlight beams down on the wooden table I’m sitting at, and the smells of old paper and coffee from the small café near the entrance mingle in the air.

I adjust my laptop screen, attempting to focus on the essay I'm writing for my English class. Once again, Mark’s generosity came in handy; he let me borrow his old laptop for schoolwork. We haven’t spoken about what happened on New Year’s even though two weeks have passed now. I’ve thoroughly convinced myself that he thinks it was a mistake, because he’s been friendly but noticeably avoiding any deep conversations or opportunities to spend extra time together.

He’s been going into work more often rather thanworking from his home office, and I’m not sure if it’s out of necessity or avoidance. Either way, I’ve been keeping up with cleaning and random household tasks, and he’s been leaving a paycheck on the counter for me every two weeks now.

Even despite his distance, I can’t stop thinking about him. About our kiss. The way he wrapped his arms around me and held me like I was the only thing that mattered.

A notification pops up on my phone—a reminder about my evening class in two hours. As I gather my things, Perla from my psychology class waves me over from a nearby table. We're not quite friends, but there's a comfort in these casual interactions that I never had before. Here, no one knows about my past. I'm just another student trying to figure things out.

When I walk over to her, she asks me if she can interview me for an article for the school newspaper. Apparently she’s doing an piece about non-traditional students, so I sit and answer a couple of her questions before heading to class.

Class flies by, as it always seems to, and I’m making a mental list of things I’ll do tomorrow when I walk into the apartment and find Mark sitting at the kitchen counter.

He looks up when I walk through the door, and his expression is serious but soft, as if he has bad news.

My stomach drops.

"Claire," he says in a gentle voice. "Can we talk for a minute?"

I set my bag down, my hands shaking. What is he about to say? Does he want me to leave soon? That’s probably it. "Sure. Is everything okay?"

He gestures for me to sit beside him. "Everything's fine. I just wanted to suggest something." He pauses, choosing his words carefully as I slip into the chair beside him. "I think itmight be good for you to see a therapist."

My chest tightens. "Oh." The word comes out small, wounded. "You think something's wrong with me?"

"No. God, no, Claire. That's not it at all." His hand reaches for mine, then stops, hovering awkwardly before dropping back to his side. "It just seems like you've been through a lot, and talking to a professional—someone who knows how to help you process everything—could be really good for you."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I hate myself for being so emotional. "You think something’s wrong with me?"

His expression softens. "Of course not." He stands and pulls me into a hug, one hand smoothing over my hair. The gesture is so tender it makes my heart ache. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says. "You're incredibly strong. This is just... support. Therapy is a good way to work through feelings and what you’ve gone through. It’s a healthy thing."

I let myself lean into him for a moment, breathing in his familiar scent. It's the closest we've been since New Year’s, and it makes me dizzy in a way I can't blame on wine this time.

"I guess I can try it."

Two weeks later, I'm sitting in a cozy office, perched on the edge of the seat of an oversized armchair. Dr. Savannah Lawrence is smaller than I expected her to be. Her dark skin crinkles around her eyes with smile lines, and she has a voice that somehow manages to be simultaneously professional and kind.

Her office is inviting, with soft lighting and plants carefully placed on various surfaces. Dr. Lawrence sits across from me with her legs crossed and her fingers threaded together over her knee. I try to ground myself by focusing on the texture ofthe fabric beneath my fingers and not on how nervous I feel.

After explaining that this first session is mostly just about getting to know each other and figuring out what I need, she says, "So, let’s talk about why you’re here. Is there something specific you’d like to focus on in our sessions?"

I fidget with the hem of my sweater, gathering my courage. "I, um, grew up in a really restrictive religious community. I finally got the courage to leave, but I had to run away without anyone knowing. Someone I met here took me in and helped me, and he encouraged me to come here to see you."

She nods, her expression neutral but encouraging. There's no judgment in her eyes, no shock or pity. "That must have taken a lot of courage to leave home. How are you adjusting to life in this new environment?"

The question opens a floodgate. "It's overwhelming sometimes," I admit. "Everything is so different. I lived in my car at first, which was terrifying. Then this man—Mark—took me in as a total stranger. He's been helping me get started with school and everything."

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