Page 20 of The County Line
“I haven’t been feeling much lately.”
She nods and rests her head back in her chair, eyes close as she lets out a deep breath. “I get that. It’s a huge shift to go from having every aspect of your life monitored to having a semblance of freedom.”
I grunt, though I wouldn’t exactly call this freedom. Freedom wouldn’t mean sitting in therapy with someone younger than me using me as a case study for her degree. Freedom wouldn’t mean being confined to only driving a certain distance.
“It’s normal to struggle with emotions after a traumatic experience,” she says, unruffled. “Sometimes, that manifests as anger or acting out. For others, it might mean indulging in certain impulses to an extreme. And yet for some, it means shutting down entirely. If you’re open to it, I’d encourage you to look for opportunities this week—just moments to feelanything. That’s usually a good place to start.”
“I’ve been trying that. I’ve been trying to find instances to feel something.”
She opens her eyes, meeting mine with a calm, steady look. “That’s good, Colt. So how about we do an exercise? Would you be open to a small assignment you can work on until we meet again next week?”
I shrug. Do I have a choice? Choices feel pretty rare these days and I know the answer to that isno,so I don’t even ask the question.
“Great,” she responds even though I didn’t reply. She tears a page from her notepad, scribbles a few things down on it then hands it to me. “I want you to seek out moments to experience these twelve emotions. Really try to focus on these ones.”
I glance down at the list. The words she’s written stare back at me:Anger, excitement, desire, passion, fear, joy, disgust, guilt, contentment, curiosity, shame, relief, love and hope…
“You want me to try to feel all twelve of these emotions in a week?”
She nods, eagerly. “You’d be surprised. Prior to your incarceration, you may have felt them all in a single day and never realized it. You don’t have to fit them all into one week but as we work together, let’s discuss how you’ve found ways to incorporate them into your life. I’d like you to at least attempt it and we can go from there.”
I look down at the list again. That feels impossible.
“If you try to feel one, let’s say… hope, for example, and no matter what you expose yourself to, it proves unsuccessful, we’ll talk about it in your next session and discuss your feelings and emotions around that and the circumstances that lead you to becoming interested in feeling hope again.”
I grunt and shake my head before folding up the paper and stuffing it into my pocket. “Okay.” Because what else is there to say to this overly excited woman who thinks she can fix me? I hate to disappoint her, but I feel like I’m a lost cause. I wonder if she’ll draft a paper about the emotionless formerly incarcerated man she couldn’t get through to someday.
“Okay,” she nods with a smile. “Well, I think that’s it for today. This was a great first session. I’m looking forward to meeting you at the same time next week and seeing how you’ve progressed on the list.”
She moves to stand, opening the door to her small office and ushering me back outside into the reception area with a small wave. I grumble goodbye under my breath and stalk to my car, feeling like this entire situation is some sort of joke.
Hope? Joy? Passion? Desire?
Those are emotions and feelings that people like me don’t get the pleasure of experiencing anymore.
And love?
I scoff as I slam my door shut, feeling the roar of the truck rumble beneath my thighs, grounding me and reminding me where I am.
No matter how much I’d like to feel that it feels unattainable.
Chapter 10 – Molly
“Good morning, Molly!” Lydia, the Whitewood Creek police department’s records clerk calls out to me over a file cabinet full of folders.?
Lydia stands next to her desk, flipping through the piles of paperwork with an intensity that makes the bun holding back her dark blonde curls look like it’s ready to give up. Her black-rimmed glasses slide down her nose as she works making her look like some sort of librarian.
Despite her current scowl, Lydia has been one of my first and dearest friends since I joined the police force in Whitewood Creek. She’s a rare find—sunny, kind-hearted, and completely free of judgment about my family’s less-than-sterling reputation in town.
Her own background may be the reason behind her immediate acceptance of me: the reverend’s daughter, the quintessential good girl with a spotless record. I’ve never heard her swear, and though she occasionally sips a cocktail during our departmenthappy hours, I’m half-convinced her favorite drink—mojitos—are always made virgin.
Our department is small just like our town, but we’re busier than you’d think. With drugs creeping into the area from Charlotte and small-town crimes bubbling up here and there, keeping Whitewood Creek the safe, picturesque place it’s known for takes more work than it seems. Still, our community holds tight to its charm. It’s been featured in magazines and online as one of North Carolina’s most beautiful towns to visit. It’s the host of the North Carolina State Fair, our claim to fame and draws visitors every fall in the thousands.
It’s a world away from what I left behind in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. There, I was just one officer among hundreds, competing for promotions and dealing with violent criminals and high-profile cases. Respect was hard to come by, and I was just another badge in a sea of blue.
Here, I’ve earned recognition and a strange, almost redemptive respect that feels new based on my experiences down south. People see me as experienced—someone they can rely on—not just the daughter of the town’s infamous illegal gambling kingpin. It’s a welcome change, one I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to see or embrace.
“Hi Lydia,” I slide a cup of the new, seasonal coffee from the cafe down the street across her desk towards her. “The spring blend.”
