If I’m honest, my most stubborn bit wants to push everything down the way I always have, revert to my well-versed mantra ofI’m fine.
Vulnerability is hard.
Therapy will be good for me; the logical side of my brain knows it. But I can’t lie and say it was a one woman effort to get me here. I may have dug the card out of my purse and dialed the number to schedule the appointment, but the truth is, the promise I made to Mom—that I’d be okay—is the reason I’m here. Perhaps it’s not the most ideal entry point, but it’s a start.
“What is it?” Kristen’s question forces my wandering thoughts to center. I suck in a breath, the cold December air hitting the back of my throat in a sharp blast. When I still can’t manage a reply, she adds, “You’ve been through a lot the past few months, babe. One step at a time, alright? You go in, you sit down, you talk. That’s it. Then you show up again next week and talk a little more. You’re in a marathon, not a sprint.”
I feel lighter hearing her words. “Can I just hireyouto be my therapist?”
“My god, can you imagine the wine we’d consume?”
“So much wine.” I check the time again. “I should go.”
“Okay, you got this. And remember, no matter what happens, we’re gonna celebrate big and have fun tonight. Tomorrow’s the start of a new year.”
We hang up and I step inside. As I settle onto the couch in the waiting area, my phone buzzes consecutively from my purse. Once for the pin Kristen sent over for the location of the New Year’s Eve party which I tell myself to check later. But the other is a message from Rowan.
Rowan
Call me after? I love you.
I manage a small smile against the nerves pulsing through my veins. I have a villageandI have a Rowan in my corner.
February feels like an eternity away before I can see him next. The past couple months have been one obstacle after another. Mom’s house had to be cleared out to prepare to go on the market. I returned to Hawkley in mid-November after my extended bereavement leave to wrap up my client work before my official last day earlierthis week. The Santa’s Workshop event at the children’s hospital consumed most of my free time around the holiday which meant I couldn’t get to North Carolina to celebrate Christmas with Rowan and his mom.
Tess is doing well, but without her doctors’ clearance for travel and nobody available to help, Rowan hasn’t been able to get away.
February looks promising though, he’s said. In the meantime, I cling to every phone call, love letter, and care package with my hope-filled fist.
Me
Will do. Love you too.
“You must be Hannah?”
I quickly tuck my phone away and stand to greet the woman walking over. “That’s me.”
I shake the middle-aged therapist’s hand. She’s a few inches shorter than me, gray hair coiled in tight ringlets framing her face. And her smile is kind. “Dr. Miranda Ferguson. It’s lovely to meet you. Come on back and we’ll get started.”
Snow is fallingby the time my session ends. Dry winter air scorches my lungs as I step out on to the sidewalk. It’s oddly refreshing after an hour of talking about Mom.
Dr. Ferguson knows about the assault—I alluded to it when I inquired about the appointment. Therapy novice that I am thought we’d jump right into it when I sat down. Instead, she gently prodded me with questions about my job which led to a line of falling dominos. Boulder Children’s Hospital. Maddy and Gwyn. Mom’s cancer. My failed engagement. Mom’s death.
Every attempt I made to circle to the night of the assault was kindly thwarted, steering me in another direction. “We’ll get there, Hannah. Let’s take it one session at a time,” she’d said. It may not have been what I expected, but it wasn’t awful either. I suppose that counts for something.
Marathon, not a sprint.
Gloved hands fisted inside my pockets, my feet carry me to the nearest coffee shop. It’s not my go-to joint, nothing on this side of town is, but something hot and chocolatey beckons me before I make the trek to my car to call Rowan.
“Grande hot chocolate with whip for Hannah,” the barista calls out.
I swipe my drink clutched between both palms and make for the exit. Spinning around, I put my back to the glass and push out onto the sidewalk. The door whips open on a blistery gust of wind and I whirl around to catch it, but not fast enough.
The lid on my cup dislodges, foamy hot cocoa spilling everywhere. Down the front of my coat, my boots and, most embarrassingly, all over the oak tree of a man chest I just collided with in the commotion.
“Oh my god!” I thrust a hand at his jacket currently covered in chocolate and whipped cream. “I’m so sorry.”
Everything happens in the span of a second. Without his permission or even looking this poor man in the eye, I drench my gloves in a pathetic attempt to wipe the hot liquid away while stealing glances at the state of my ruined boots.