Page 19 of The County Line
The silence settles between us again. It’s not us. It’s never been us. I don’t want this awkwardness between us anymore.
“Maybe we can…” I hesitate, then push forward. “Maybe we can do one of our family dinners. You and I can cook, and we can have everyone over.”
Her eyes brighten, a real smile breaking through this time. “Really? I’d love that. Like a coming-home dinner?”
I nod. “Yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“It does.”
I push hard on my knees and move to stand, opening my arms for her. She rushes into them without hesitation, and I wrap her up tight. I still feel the numbness, that ache in my chest that hasn’t let up since I walked out of that prison, but somewhere inside it, there’s a flicker of relief. Relief that we’re going to be okay. That we’re going to work on this. That maybe, someday, things will feel normal again.
She pulls back, smiling at me as she wipes at her eyes one last time.
“Hey, Colt?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
I force a smile, my throat tightening. “It’s good to be back.”
Chapter 9 – Colt
“So, why don’t we start with you telling me a little about yourself. WhoisColton Marshall?” My new, court appointed therapist, Liv asks me with a warm smile.
I knew she was a student going into this, but she looks much younger than I’d expected—twenty-one, maybe twenty-two years old and has to be fresh out of college. It’s clear she’s trying to look more professional by the way she's dressed today. She’s wearing an oversized, pale-blue suit jacket with matching pants and brown tortoiseshell glasses. Her chestnut brown hair is swept into a low bun, slick and neatly tucked away and she’s holding a clipboard in her hand. But it’s the lack of any wrinkles or lines and nervous twitch of her hands that gives her actual age away.
If she’s aiming for the therapist look from every 90s movie I’ve ever seen, she’s nailed it.
“You can call me Colt,” I say.
“Oh, sure, of course.” She scribbles a note on what I assume is the paperwork that the courts sent over to her when they mandated this. I’m sure it’s full of details regarding the nightthat changed my life forever and my subsequent four and a half years spent behind bars, but it’ll tell her nothing about what she really wants to know about me.
“Well, I’m sure you already know why I’m here,” I start.
She nods. “I do, so let’s focus onwhoyou are and notwhatyou’ve done in the past. What you’ve done doesn’t define you. Who are you today?”
“Uh… okay.”
Who am I?
I’m not sure I know the answer to that.
“I’m the youngest of five kids. Just turned twenty-nine years old. I work at my family’s distillery. I…” My voice trails off because I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t identify myself by my job or my birth order in my family. At least, I didn't use to.
I like my alone time. I love my family and my dog. I’m a loyal friend. I enjoy working with my hands, and I've always appreciated the simple things in life. When I was younger, I envisioned a life managing the distillery, expanding it into new avenues, building a home on Whitewood Creek, and maybe one day, starting a family there. And now, those are all things I plan on doing soon.
She smiles encouragingly. “Okay. That’s a good start.” She makes more notes, though I can’t imagine what she’s jotting down from the nothing I just gave her. “So, tell me, what do you hope to get out of therapy with me over the next eight weeks?”
I chuckle deeply. “Well, I’m not doing this willingly.”
She smiles again, unfazed by my tone. “I know. Sometimes we’re forced into things we don’t want to do but they end up helping us anyways, even if we’re resistant. Is there anything you think youcouldget out of us working together?”
She pauses and, to my surprise, moves to stand and switch off the overhead lights. It dims the room until she flicks on an old-fashioned, green desk lamp nearby. The light gives off a cozier vibe from how things had been previously, and takes down the harshness of the session a notch.
“Actually, let’s not think of this as court mandated therapy. Pretend I’m just a third party—a neutral voice you can bounce ideas off. Some of the thoughts you’ve had since your release and transitioning back to the outside world. It’s been five days now, right? What’s been on your mind? How does it feel to be out? I bet it must feel strange to not be under constant surveillance anymore. To wake whenever you want. Eat whatever you please.”
I lean back on the couch, appreciating the more relaxed vibe. I know everything I say is confidential, even with my record, but I’ve never been one to dive into feelings and emotions. I’ve let other people come to me with those and been a listening ear. It’s become even more difficult since being released to put words around how I’ve been feeling mostly because it’s been empty inside my head. Still, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should try to get something out of these sessions if I’m required to be here.
