Page 129 of Windlass

Epilogue

Angie fiddled with her thumbs as she sat in the almost uncomfortably plush chair in a disconcertingly calming room across from the older woman dressed in elegant, if faded, linen and no adornment save a simple gold wedding band on her deeply tanned, wrinkled hands. Her short gray hair curled stylishly in a roguish way that probably got her lots of action wherever it was women her age went for action although the wedding band suggested she was past her bar days. Or maybe not. Angie never made assumptions. This woman’s generation had practiced free love, after all.

“Angela.”

“Hmm?” She snapped her eyes back to the woman’s calm brown ones.

“We were discussing how it felt to share that burden,” the therapist prompted. “Where did you go just now?”

“I was admiring your outfit,” Angie answered truthfully. “And thinking about assumptions.”

“Assumptions?”

She shrugged. This was her fourth session, and she was nowhere near used to the gentle probing that seemed to be this woman’s style, or the way she let any of Angie’s attempts to turn the conversation away from herself slide off her shoulders. It was infuriating. And professional. Angie hated it.

“People are complicated. Assumptions are dangerous.”

“I agree. Have you had any encounters with dangerous assumptions? You mentioned on your intake form some family struggles.”

“I never assume someone is safe.” She gave the woman an honest answer. One honest answer a session was enough to justify the cost of these visits to her insurance company, right?

The therapist, Vera, jotted down some notes, though her eyes remained on Angie.

“How do you determine if someone is safe? Stevie, your girlfriend, makes you feel safe. How long did it take you to trust her?”

“Stevie’s different.”

Vera waited. This was another of her strategies, and while Angiecouldwait her out, she was paying a copay for these visits. She wasn’t unreasonable.

“She’s . . .”

Vera took pity on her floundering. “How does Stevie compare to Lana?”

“She doesn’t. There isn’t a comparison. I never trusted Lana. Not like I trust Stevie. Lana wasn’t a partner, she was . . . doesn’t matter. Stevie cares about me. I know she wants me to be happy, and she knows how to talk to me.” And how to get Angie to talk, much like Vera.

“Have you told her that you love her yet?”

Angie regretted bringingthatup in session two.

“No. Not yet.”

“That was one of the goals we set last week,” Vera reminded her kindly. “But it isn’t something to rush. Are you still worried it will trigger your flight response?”

Angie shrugged. Vera waited. Angie contemplated the soft glow of the lamps and the seascapes on the walls. There were three small paintings behind Vera’s desk of lobster buoys done in expressive paint strokes that should have been kitschy, but weren’t. If she stared at them long enough, perhaps this conversation would end on its own.

“Angela? Is there another reason? Do you think she feels more strongly than you—”

“No.” Angie cut Vera off. “It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“Superstition.” Angie didn’t look up to see if Vera raised an eyebrow, and continued staring at the lobster buoys. “It’s stupid, but I feel like the minute I let myself be fully happy and comfortable, something bad is going to happen.”

“The other shoe,” said Vera. At Angie’s confused silence, she elaborated. “The feeling that the other shoe could drop at any minute even when there is no evidence of any such shoe.”

“I have a closet full of other shoes.”

Vera smiled at Angie’s dark pronouncement.

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