Page 8 of The Unraveling of Julia

Courtney’s eyes narrowed. “Can I ask you something? When was the last time you were out?”

“I don’t know,” Julia answered, hoping she sounded nonchalant. Courtney’s mother was a therapist, and Courtney was an Esther Perel wannabe with Sandler training.

“Was it since Mike’s funeral? That’s what Paul thinks, but I told him he’s wrong.”

Julia felt embarrassed they’d discussed her, even out of love. “Court, I go out.”

“Oh really? Well, remember when we gave each other Find My Phone? You were worried about me, because I was flying so much? Well, after Mike died, I was worried aboutyou, so I started checkingthe app.” Courtney got her phone, scrolled, then held it up. Its glowing screen showed Julia’s profile picture over a grayed-out map of Philadelphia. “Your lil’ face never moves from that spot. I never see you leave the house. As far as I can tell, you don’t goanywhere.”

Julia’s mouth went dry. “Youtrackme?”

“Yes. You can thank me anytime.”

Busted.“Look, I don’t go out that much, but whatever. I work at home, and the prosecutor told me not to, remember? And it was winter.”

“It’s been six months.”

“That’s not long.”In widow years.

“I think you’re self-isolating.”

Me, too.“I’m fine. I’m working.”

Courtney pursed her lips. “All the time?”

“I have to, I need the money, plus I’m a homebody. Typical Cancer.”

“Don’t start with that.” Courtney shot her a look. “Are you afraid to go out?”

“No.”I’m afraid of what could happen when I do.

“I’m worried you’re agoraphobic.”

“I get a little nervous on the street, after dark, that’s all.”Can you blame me?

Courtney cocked her head. “What does Susanna say?”

“She says it’s part of my ‘grief journey.’” Julia hated the expression, which sounded like a trip nobody wanted to go on. “You get twelve months before it’s ‘prolonged grief disorder,’ so I’m crushing it, mourning-wise.”

“Do you have a diagnosis?”

Julia’s cheeks warmed. She knew her DSM codes because she submitted them for insurance, which didn’t cover much anyway. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Situational depression and generalized anxiety, with a dash of PTSD. Season to taste.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” Courtney made a sad face.

“It’s okay not be okay, right?”Or is it?“I hate the ‘D’ in PTSD. I hate thinking I have a disorder. I’d rather just have stress like everybody else.”

Courtney smiled, sympathetic. “So make the ‘D’ stand for something good.”

“Deluxe?”

“Delightful, delicious, de-lovely?”

Julia chuckled. “Anyway, it’s not forever.”I hope.

“Agree, totally. Do you think Susanna’s helping you?”

“Yes,” Julia answered, though all she did was cry through the sessions, at $250 an hour. She could’ve cried alone for free.

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