The Lies About Truth(54)

I clung to that hope. Mondays clearly weren’t a busy day at the office. I sat alone with a People magazine from a year ago and a Reader’s Digest from the nineties—both of which I’d already scoured—while the receptionist scrolled through Facebook. Fletcher came around the corner in a matter of moments, smoothing his shirt and stroking his bald head. “Sadie girl,” he said, eyes lit with anticipation. “You ready to chat?”

I dropped the magazines and followed.

Seeing the couch opened the portal. His cozy office was as good as an altar and better than a confessional. Fletcher didn’t wear a robe or a cross around his neck. In fact, most of the time, he wore faded jeans, deeply colored polo shirts, and a pair of broken-in boots. I had a crush on the boots. And in a very non-crushy way, for the middle-aged man who wore them. Poor bastard, I didn’t envy him; his clients walked in and spilled their guts. And Fletcher’s job, like a school janitor’s, was to spread that sawdust-like absorbent over the guts and sweep them into a pan. Unlike the janitor, Fletcher examined the guts.

One of Fletcher’s contagious smiles burned into my eyes as he swiveled his chair away from the desk and faced me. “Sit.” He indicated the couch, as he always did. “Tell me about life.”

This was our MO.

I sat. He observed. I talked. He listened.

Then, he questioned me. Gently. Like a nurse who distracts you with stories and lollipops while she gives you a shot in the ass.

I began. “Life’s been . . .”

Guts spilled out.

Fletcher spread the vomit-sawdust-stuff over everything between my last visit and now. Gray and Gina’s lie. Trent and Callahan. The paintball game. The anniversary. Mom catching me with Sharpies. My fear that Max was the one behind Big’s messages. My fear that I was losing Max altogether, messages or not. The incredible shrinking list of impossible things.

When I finally stopped talking, Fletcher leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. “Well, wasn’t that just an emotional enema? I’ll bet you feel better already.”

“Gross.”

He laughed, but it was a serious sort of laugh. “You told me what happened, but not how you feel. You know the rules, Sadie. Go deeper.”

I knew the rules because I always tried to break them.

“I’m feeling . . . worried.”

“And?”

“Scared.”

“And?”

The man was good with his ands.

“I don’t want to lose Max.”

Fletcher passed me the box of tissues he kept on the edge of his desk. I set them down without taking one.

“He feels unreachable,” I said. “I screwed up, Fletcher, and . . .”

Worry burrowed under my skin. It had taken me a year to even think about forgiving Gina and Gray; how long would it take Max to forgive me?

I punched the pillow on the couch. “I. Hate. Screwing. Up. I hate hurting them. All I wanted to do was put this thing in the past, and now . . . it’s messier than ever.”

Fletcher examined these guts and forced me to do the same through a series of questions. Always with a smile. Always with compassion. Then, he made a suggestion.

“Sadie, this might be unorthodox, but here’s an idea for some common ground. You talked to Gina about the Fountain trip. Why not talk to all of them?”

“You mean ask them to go?”

“Well, it might knock out more than one thing on that list of yours,” he said.

“Fletcher, Max isn’t answering his phone, and Gray’s not going to ride to St. Augustine with me after the paintball fiasco.” I shot the guy in the chest at close range.

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty damn.”

“Maybe so, but”—Fletcher drummed his fingers on the desk and pushed another button—“if nothing changes, nothing changes. If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’re going to keep getting what you’re getting. You want change, make some.”

He made change sound like a Nike slogan. Just do it.

It wasn’t that easy.

“You seriously want me to ask all three of them to go to the Fountain of Youth?” I asked.

“I seriously want you to take a gigantic leap forward. And honestly, when you talk about everything that’s happened with your friends over the past week, do you know what I hear?”

“What?”

“Relief.” Fletcher whispered the word until it shouted at me. “It’s tiny and small, but it’s there in your voice for the first time in nearly a year. And you know what, that relief will grow even more when you stop hiding from which friend sent the envelopes. Talk to them.”

“Who?”

“All of them,” he said. “You’re strong enough to ask.”

Fletcher stared hard at the tissue box, and I surrendered and took one.

“Strength. What a joke. That’s what really gets me about this Big thing.” I paused to dab my eyes. “This is someone else who thinks I’m so frickin’ precious that I can’t handle the truth. Anonymous letters? Gina and Gray and the Jeep? Dammit, just tell me.”

“You say that, but you didn’t tell them about Trent. And you don’t want to confront Max about Big.”

The shovel hit the root.