Confidential(35)

“She did choose him. She still hasn’t called me back. And I keep thinking”—lump in my throat—“about what that says about me.”

I was the vixen who tempted her husband away from her. Well, tried to. I failed. She was the one who’d be beside him in the end. The one he loved. And who loved me? No one.

“Don’t torment yourself,” Dr. Baylor said. “That’s what she wants.”

“Or she just wants to nurse her husband in peace.”

“If that’s all she wanted, she could text you to say so. She’s punishing you.”

“Maybe I deserve to be punished.”

He leaned forward in that way he did when he really wanted me to take in something important. “Last week, you overheard something you shouldn’t have. Something that a nearly deranged woman wanted you to hear so she could humiliate me.” Weird. He was talking about his girlfriend in the waiting room. “She was trying to trap me, and it almost worked. Then I realized: She wants me to feel responsible for her emotions. But we’re all responsible for our own. See, even I’m susceptible to that kind of manipulation.

“Think about it. Your mother going MIA—that’s manipulation. That’s cruelty. But she wants you to feel you brought it on yourself, that you’re responsible for her pain. You’re not.”

There was something off about the parallel he was drawing between us, but I liked it. Overhearing him last week had somehow shifted our dynamic. It was like I’d graduated from the kids’ table to the adults’.

When I said again, “Maybe I deserve it,” I didn’t know if I meant it or I just wanted to be told that it wasn’t true, to hear again that Dr. Baylor and I were the same. We were being manipulated, and we could withstand together.

“Whatever age you are, you’re still her child,” he said. “That’s not how a parent behaves.”

“Are you a parent?”

He paused a long moment, debating, and then nodded.

“How old?”

“Story for another time.” Did I imagine his sadness? “This is your story. And I think it’s time for you to start telling it.”

I felt a splash of fear. “To who?”

“On the page. You’re a writer. Write.”

“I’m not a writer. I’m an editor. Not even. A proofreader. I punctuate for a living.”

“This isn’t about how you make money. You have the heart of an artist. The lived experience of an artist. You don’t need to portray exactly what happened. Just sit down and write your way through this and out of it. Write into the light.”

From anyone else, it might have sounded cheesy. I’d definitely heard him more eloquent before. But he was so impassioned that it had made him less articulate, less controlled, and that scooped me up. He was passionate about me and what I could do. What I could become.

“I haven’t tried to write in a long time,” I said. “I’m a little scared to try.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What I’ll say. When I’m here with you, I know who I am.” When I was being coached, it was all so clear. “But when I’m alone, it’s different. You talked about the light, but some of the corners of my mind are so dark.”

“Write through that and bring it in for the next session.”

“You want to read it?”

“I’d be honored.”

That brought up another fear entirely. “What if you don’t think I’m talented?”

“I think you’re brilliant. I think you’re a bright shining star. Write until you know that. Write your way there.”

“This is the last thing I thought we’d talk about today. I thought we’d be talking about my mother.”

“We’ve talked about her enough. She’s holding you back. Your past is holding you back. Write like an exorcism.”

“Do I have to write as myself?”

“Of course not. Be anyone you want. Any character you can think up, that’s who you’re meant to be.”

No one had ever talked to me like this. No one had ever seemed so sure of my talent. My mother never even asked to see anything I was working on. Adam never did, either. In my writing workshops, no professor had anointed me.

But then, Dr. Baylor hadn’t seen a word from me, unless you counted my initial intake form. His certainty could be misplaced. The thought of disappointing him . . .

“Do I have to bring it in right away?” I asked. “Can I sit with it awhile?”

“This is your process. You do whatever you want, whatever feels right. I trust you. Follow your muse. It knows where to go.”





CHAPTER 28





FLORA


“It’s official,” Nat said. “No more Tinder.”

“Hear, hear!” Jeanie raised her glass. “To being off the market!”

We all clinked. I was happy for Nat, yet I couldn’t help but envy how simple it had been. A few dates, mutual enjoyment, and voilà, she had a boyfriend. It wasn’t love, though. It might not ever be.

Not that I was rooting against her. Nat was my friend, and she’d never even been married. Things should go smoothly for her, finally. I wanted them to. I just wished I were on the conveyor belt to (re)marriage myself, but if I couldn’t even get Michael to be seen in public with me, that was looking like a long shot. And it had been a very bumpy ride this past week, to say the least.