Page 92 of Her Pretty Words
“Yeah.” I curl onto my side and rest the phone on the pillow. “Goodnight, Macy May.”
“Goodnight, Daniel Grayson.”
She hardly texts me the next day. I know she’s busy, but I imagine the worst.
A week goes by, and nightmares chase me awake every night. With little sleep, my thoughts become paralyzing. I hardly eat. I only leave my bed to use the bathroom. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I curse myself. Macy can’t return home tothis.
After several Google searches, I call a therapist by the second week. Her name is Linda, and she says she’d be happy to help me. I’m seeing her Friday.
When Friday comes, I pace the living room and clench my phone, considering calling and canceling. I assume therapy is like ripping open the stitches that are hardly keeping me in one piece. Like rebreaking a bone so it heals properly.
Macy deserves someone who’s brave.
I grab my keys and drive off the island to meet Linda at her office. My hands shake and I sweat through my clothes, not bothering to play the radio. I was too anxious to eat my omelet this morning, despite how hungry I was. Every time I tried to take a bite, I felt like I might gag.
I glance at the small office building; the outside is a beige color that begins to fade in some areas. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts.
I locate her office, and when I open the door to the small waiting room, cool air and the scent of strawberries greets me. I nearly freeze in place, my eyes automatically going to the candle on the receptionist’s desk.
“How can I help you?” the lady asks.
I clear my throat, hoping my emotions don’t break up my voice. “I have an appointment with Linda. My name’s Grayson.”
“Perfect, just have a seat and she’ll be right with you.”
There are only four chairs, so I take the one closest to the door in case I decide to make a run for it. I inhale the comforting scent of strawberries. I tell myself that Delilah pulled some strings to make the room smell of her favorite fruit, knowing that once I smelled it, I’d have no choice but to stay.
My knee bounces and I press my palms into my thighs, trying to calm myself. I stare at a painting on the wall, trying to decipher what it is. The spiky circles look like bacteria under a microscope, though, that’s certainly not what the painting is supposed to be. The door to the hallway opens, stealing me from my thoughts.
“Grayson,” a dark-haired woman with kind eyes says.
I stand and follow her through the short hallway to a small office. A white noise machine is placed by the door to drown out any noise.
“First time seeing a therapist?” she asks as I stare at the blue couch, not making a move to sit on it.
I nod. “Am I supposed to lay down?”
She chuckles. “I’ve never actually had a patient lay down, but you certainly can if you would like.”
I clear my throat and sit on the sofa. “That won’t be necessary.”
She sits across from me on a plush green chair. “So, Grayson, what brings you here?”
I blink several times trying to find the words. The white noise hums, and it is the only sound in the room. “My girlfriend says I have PTSD.”
She raises her brows. “Does she now?”
I smile at the discussion of my favorite topic. Macy. “She’s not a therapist, but apparently the ‘signs’ I’m showing are textbook. So, here I am.”
“Can you tell me a little bit more about these signs?” She leans back, crossing her legs at the ankle.
“Nightmares. Anxiety. Um, a lot of…unwanted thoughts.”
“Sounds like a lot to deal with. Why don’t you tell me a little more about these unwanted thoughts.”
“Right,” I say. I glance out her window, tree branches blow in the wind. “I keep picturing my girlfriend…dying.”
She writes something down. “Why do you think that is?”