Page 15 of Wild Side
Instead, I’ve been walking on eggshells for the past several days, soaking up every moment with Milo. All the while imagining some awful over-the-top scenario where cop cars pull up to my house and take him away while I cry and am forced into cuffs. It’s safe to say I’ve watched too many soap operas in my life.
The bottom line is, I don’t want Rhys here. It all feels like a bad dream each day when I wake up. Every morning, I squeeze my eyes shut again and then spring them open, as though that will reset my life. A trueHave you tried turning it off and back on again?moment.
Getting lost in the kitchen during summer dinner service makes time pass quickly and brings me a sense of joy and satisfaction that I don’t find anywhere else. But what I’d like is to lick my wounds in private. I’d like to cry in the shower where people can’t see or hear me, because it feels like no one in the world could be missing Erika as much as I do. Everyone around me would be too quick to judge. They’d turn around and whisperabout how they always knew this would happen. And I don’t want to hear it.
Ican’thear it.
Instead, I crave going inward. In the mornings, I’d like to take a cup of coffee to the back side of the mountain and watch Milo pick flowers while I tell him childhood stories about his mom and me. And in the afternoon? I’d kill for a fucking nap.
I amsotired.
I want to grieve. And I don’t want Rhys watching me while I do.
The tinkle of a digital bell followed by an upbeat whooshing sound from the speakers feels altogether too light for the moment. And yet here I am, bracing myself for whatever this therapist has to tell us.
When her face pops up on the screen, I do that thing I always do. I force a smile onto my face and say, “Hiiiii,” in a way that sounds super approachable and sweet. Years in the service industry have trained me well. It’s unsettling how fast I can snap a facade into place.
“Hey,” is all Rhys can muster from behind a suspicious glare and crossed arms.
“Thank you so much for taking this online call with us, Dr. Bentham. Options for therapists here in Rose Hill are limited,” I say sweetly, attempting to make up for the poor first impression Rhys seems determined to make.
“Of course.” The woman gives us a genuine smile and claps her hands together. Stacks of bracelets jingle as she makes the motion, and they draw my attention to her general look. Round glasses with thick lenses perch on her dainty nose, and gray curly hair flows down to her shoulders. Behind her is a mess of greenery—plants on stands, vines draped from the ceiling, and crystals hanging in the window just off to the right.
It looks like a hippie haven. And she’s the queen. I love her already.
“I do plenty of online consultations, so this isn’t out of the ordinary for me. And please, call me Trixie.”
Rhys just grunts, like the total asshole that he is, and I can’t help but turn and give him a disbelieving look.
“You’re a striking couple,” Trixie adds with a sly grin.
And we both freeze.
Then we talk at the same time. “Oh hell no,” I say, right as Rhys sits forward and says, “Actually, we’re not.”
The woman’s head tilts. “Well then. Why don’t you two tell me what the situation is here? We’ll see what we can work out to get Milo—it was Milo, right?” She glances down to check what must be notes on the sheets in front of her. “Yes, Milo. We need to come up with a good system to support him through this.”
To that, Rhys and I nod. In fact, Milo seems to be the only thing we can agree on.
“So, I know Tabitha is the sister of the deceased. But you, sir, are…” She leaves the question hanging in the air.
Rhys shifts in his chair, and I get the sense it’s not just the subject matter that feels uncomfortable for him. It’s the entire process of sitting down with a therapist. He looks like he could crawl right out of his skin. “I’m, uh, Rhys.”
Trixie smiles and gives a reassuring nod. “Ah yes, the legal guardian. What a nice surprise!”
Rhys tosses me an irritated glance, and I shrug. “What? I explained the situation in my email.”
His lips purse, but he carries on. “And I’m… well—Iwas—a friend of Erika’s.”
I scoff at that, shaking my head, unable to fight back a disbelieving smirk.
The fucking nerve of this guy.
“Oh, afriend. Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Trixie tries to reroute our tension with, “It’s okay to refer to her in present tense. She can still be your?—”
But Rhys cuts the woman off by physically turning in his too-small chair to face me, dark eyes boring into my own. “Yes.Friends. That’s all we ever were. Platonic. Neighbors. Two people who genuinely liked each other. And. That’s. It.”
