This Might Hurt(40)
“Maybe I’ll stick to career stuff,” I said.
April nodded. “Yesterday Rebecca helped me understand I’ve only stuck with this job because I’m afraid of who I am without it, without all the money. Makes me wonder what I’d do with my life if I wasn’t so afraid of everyone else’s opinions.” I thought of the accountant who was going to become a chef in France.
“This is step one of five of April moving into a yurt,” Georgina said. I laughed. April swatted at her.
A tall woman with a shaved head rose from her stool in the corner. “No touching.”
April waved an apology. The rules here would take some getting used to.
Georgina gestured for us to lean in. “How long do you think it’s been since Raeanne got laid?”
I choked on the sip of water I’d taken.
“Vulturine” was the best way to describe Raeanne—fifties, beaky nose, permanent frown, perpetually on the hunt for mistakes. Her complexion was golden, but not with a healthful glow; rather, she appeared shriveled, like she’d been tanning on the surface of the sun. I found her more than a little terrifying.
April stifled a giggle. “She’s just doing her job.”
“I bet she’s got mothballs down there,” Georgina said.
I grinned and stood to clear my tray. “I’ll catch you guys later.”
“Good luck,” Georgina called.
I left the cafeteria and walked toward Rebecca’s house. It was my favorite kind of July day: warm enough for shorts, cool enough for jeans. Every day since I’d arrived, the sky had been blindingly blue, scattered with drifting Monet clouds. The sun’s rays cast buttery light across the garden. A few of the plots overflowed with forsythia, magnolia, and goldenrod. From the rest sprouted tomatoes, green beans, turnips, and summer squash. This rainbow of bounty would make a gorgeous photo. I reached into my back pocket, potential captions already running through my head—but my phone wasn’t there. Would I ever lose that urge?
I inhaled a deep breath of pine mixed with sea salt. I’d been here only one week. I had to be patient. A tern with silver wings soared through the sunbeams. That was her, watching over me.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.
During my first week at Wisewood, I had met a lot of friendly people and folded dozens of loads of laundry. In class, we’d each made a list of what scared us and read it aloud. Mine included public speaking, wasting my life, and death—my own or my loved ones’. We’d spent the following class coming up with solutions to conquer these fears. I was eager to get started.
With a deep breath, I opened the sliding glass door to the back of the house, stepping inside. The ground floor was bright, minimalist, and monochromatic—bare walls, twelve-foot ceilings, open floor plan. To my left was an immaculate kitchen.
“What about Raeanne makes you nervous, I wonder?”
I jumped. Gordon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed against a firm chest. I had seen Rebecca’s second-in-command around the island once or twice, but he’d never spoken to me directly. He studied me for what seemed like hours. Not once did I catch a blink behind those thick-rimmed glasses.
“Who said she does?” I asked when my heart had slowed.
“You become subdued in her presence, while everywhere else you’re cheerful, even sprightly. Could be a coincidence.” He shrugged. “Only the smallest of brains feels the need to bark as loud as she does.” He gestured to the hallway. “I’ll show you to your meeting now.”
How closely had he been watching me?
Gordon walked with the gait of a man a foot taller. I followed him through the kitchen and into the foyer. Rebecca’s home was the architectural opposite of our spartan cabins—she had spared no expense here. To our left was a dining room with a table big enough to seat twenty. Ahead was an elegant spiral staircase. Beyond the staircase was a great room with a couple of oversized sunken couches.
The house was museum-like, spacious and silent. No coats, scarves, or shoes littered the doorway. No keys on a hook or purse tossed on the sideboard. No mirror for me to check my reflection, to make sure I didn’t have remnants of breakfast stuck in my teeth.
Gordon stopped at the foot of the spiral steps. The staircase was sculptural with white plaster walls and plush carpeting. Cascading from the ceiling and through the center of the spiral was a light installation: gossamer-thread pendants with glowing round orbs fixed at varying heights. My guide gazed up at it reverently.
“What brought you to Wisewood?” I asked.
“I prefer to focus on the present,” he said without looking at me. I felt as if I’d crossed some unspoken line. Everyone else here was so forthcoming about their past—Gordon was the first to be cagey about his.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.”
Gordon began to climb. At the top of the stairs, there were hallways to our right and left with several closed doors each way. “Her office is the last door on the right. We come here for all one-on-one sessions.”
I was debating whether to apologize, unsure if doing so would make things worse. “Sorry” was always on the tip of my tongue, had probably lodged itself in place on the stupid day of my stupid birth. I’m sure I slid out of the womb apologizing to my mom and the doctor for the inconvenience. I wanted nothing more than to walk through life without annoying anyone, to not leave a single smudge on the glass or footprint in the snow. Some people acknowledged that a little conflict was necessary to progress. Most people accepted that not everyone would like them.