Page 97 of Open Secrets
I stare at the carpet for a long beat, the pattern blurring as my eyes sting. “He was happy,” I repeat, softer this time, almost to myself. “Even if he didn’t know who he was happy with.”
Dr. Nina lets the silence breathe, giving me space to sit with it. Then she leans forward slightly, her tone gentle but deliberate. “Maria… I think you’ve come very far. You’re allowing yourself to be honest—not just about your father, but about your marriage, too.”
I swipe at my eye quickly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “Yeah, well. Honesty isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
“Not with yourself,” she says quietly.
That earns her a sharp little laugh from me, dry as sandpaper. “You’re not wrong.”
She checks the clock on the wall, then looks back at me. “Before we end today, I’d like to suggest something.”
My stomach drops. “Oh, God. You’re going to tell me to journal, aren’t you?”
Her lips twitch in amusement. “Not this time. I’d like Lyle to join us for our next session. If you’re okay with that.”
For a second, I just blink at her. My first instinct is to say no, to shut it down before I even think about it. I’ve liked having this place just to myself. But then I picture him—the way he’s trying to make up for the past.
I take a slow breath. “Okay,” I say finally. “If he can.”
“Good,” she says, smiling. “Then let’s see where the two of you can go together.”
I nod, pushing up from the cushion and grabbing my bag. As I leave, one thought settles in my chest—heavy, terrifying, but not entirely unwelcome.
No more hiding.
I drive straight back to the clinic. Work has gotten busy lately—busier than usual.
People think zero-sugar drinks are healthy. Maybe they’re better than the corn syrup cocktails most soda’s drowning in, but let’s be honest: drink anything but water like it’s water, and it’s gonna do its damage. Teeth don’t care what the label says.
I slip into the parking lot, mindlessly running through the day’s schedule in my head—fillings, checkups, a crown replacement for Mr. Brooks, who talks more than my kids combined.
Normal things. Predictable things.
I push through the glass doors and let the familiar scent of fluoride and antiseptic calm me, just a little. The receptionist glances up, offering me that same polite smile.
“Your next appointment’s running late,” she says. “But a woman stopped by and left this for you.”
She holds out a manilla envelope.
I freeze. My gut twists before my brain even catches up.
“Woman?” I echo. My voice comes out flat.
The receptionist shrugs. “Said you’d know what it’s about.”
My fingers curl around the envelope before I even realize I’ve reached for it. It’s heavier than I expected, the weight of it dragging my arm down.
And just like that, I know.
I know exactly which woman she’s talking about. At least she had the decency to be discrete, at my place of business. Bitch.
I force a tight smile for the receptionist’s sake and turn away before she can see the heat rising in my face. My heels click sharply against the tile as I make my way back to my office.
The second the door clicks shut behind me, I drop the envelope onto my desk like it’s ticking.
It lands with a thud.
I don’t touch it again.
