Page 3 of The Enemy Plot
Thankfully, our shrink’s practice is only a few blocks away.
Today is what people would call a “nice spring day.” The sky is clear, there’s a light breeze, and the sun is shining. But that also means everyone on our street is outside. I knew moving here was going to be a nuisance. Small pedestrian street equals up-close, nosy neighbors and everything else I hate. I prefer my neighbors a solid mile away, like they were when I lived in New Hampshire. Before my life was turned upside down.
“Hi, Mr. Collier,” Mrs. Edibam, the florist, greets me as she’s arranging the display in front of her shop. “Nice day today.”
I grunt, forcing a smile. “Hi. Right, good day.”
Why do people submit themselves to small talk when they see a neighbor? Can’t we just cohabit without speaking?
“Oh, hi,” Susan, the hairdresser, calls from the other side of the street.
It’s a trap.
I wave curtly and speed-walk until I’m out of the danger zone. Thankfully, the end of the street is still either uninhabited or in development.
I reach Dr. Stewart’s building five minutes late, thanks to all that nonsense chitchat, and his office door is already open when I enter the waiting room.
“Deacon, come on in,” he says in that calm therapist voice of his.
“Hi,” I mumble. “Sorry I’m late.” I step into the small office and sit down on the brown couch that rests in the middle of the room. The familiar scent of old paper and leather envelops me, probably from the large mahogany bookshelf that takes up two thirds of the room.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, pressing the machine’s button to pour himself a cup.
“No, I’m good.” I lean forward on the couch, eager to get started. I might be late, but I know the hour doesn’t start until he’s seated and his notebook is open. Unfortunately.
Soon, the bitter scent of coffee fills the room, adding another layer of warmth to the space. Images of my grandmother and me sitting at the table with a pot of coffee between us as she recounts anecdotes from her past resurface, and my heart does that weird clenching thing. I chase thememory away, focusing on Dr. Stewart’s diploma on the wall.
“All right, Deacon. Let’s get started,” he says, taking his seat in the matching armchair across from me. He sets his mug on the end table and finally grabs his notebook. “How are you today?”
“Fine.”
He writes something down. “Did you exercise this morning?”
My jaw clenches. “I tried, but I was interrupted.”
“What happened?” he asks, cocking his head.
“Same thing as last time.”
“Your neighbor?”
I roll my eyes. “Apparently, the music was loud.”
He arches his eyebrows. “Was it?”
“Maybe.” It definitely was, but if you ask me, it wasn’t loud enough. I could still hear myself think.
“Why not use headphones? That way, you can play your music as loud as you want—though I don’t recommend it for your ears—and not bother your neighbor. You mentioned that exercising helps with your grief, so it’d be good to keep it up.”
I look away. Sure, headphones would help in that department, but then Alice wouldn’t interrupt my session. As annoying as she is, arguing with her makes me feelsomething besides overwhelm and sadness. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s more therapeutic than the actual workout.
“How’s Lola? Have you made any progress on your relationship with her?” he asks, crossing his legs.
My body tenses the way it always does when I think about my niece. “Why do you keep asking me that? I only come to these sessions so she agrees to therapy. She’s the one whoreallyneeds this. If she gets the help she needs, I’m sure everything else will fall into place.”
“Lola lost her mother, but you lost your sister, Deacon. Your loss is important too.”
I breathe out a sigh. I hate coming here. Yeah, losing Amelia was a tragedy for me, but it’s nothing compared to what Lola is feeling right now. I have no right to be weak. She needs my strength. Her entire world has shifted. Her favorite person and only caregiver is gone, and now she’s stuck with me, her antisocial uncle she used to see only a couple times a year. I know the feeling all too well. When my drunk dad killed our mother in a car crash, Amelia and I were in the same boat. Except we at least had each other, and our grandmother raised us.