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Doc held open the heavy door for me. We took it easy in the opposite direction of my parents’ room, and Doc didn’t speak right away. We were on the third floor and the hotel wasn’t fully occupied so it was quiet.
“So, how are you?” she asked.
“A little better each day.”
“What about emotionally?”
I paused and looked at her. “A little better each day.”
She nodded slowly. “It’s hard for me to turn off the doctor part of my brain, but I’m going to try. This is me talking as a friend now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Have you thought about seeing someone…professionally? To talk to, I mean.”
“Like a therapist?”
She nodded.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I admitted.
“You’ve gone through a lot. Really intense stuff. Physically and emotionally. Watching Smoke, well you know…I don’t need to say it.”
“No, you don’t,” I agreed.
She absently touched her right hand that was riddled with scars. “I went through something very intense a while back. And I was resistant to talking to someone at first. I guess I didn’t want to admit that I needed help coping. Processing. Whatever. But I see a therapist now. Once a week.” She sighed. “Sometimes twice a week.”
I tried not to let the shock at her honesty flash across my face. “And is it helping you?”
“Seems to be. Progress is slower than I want it to be. But it’s progress.”
“Is that why you work all the time? So you don’t have time to stop and think?”
Her lips pulled into a grin. “Smart cookie.”
“What happened, Doc? Or would you rather not tell me?”
“I’ll tell you,” she said. “But not now. You’ll come over and I’ll tell you about it when we’re sitting down, a cocktail within reach.”
I nodded. “I’d like that. I mean, not swapping war stories, but I appreciate your willingness to be open about it.”
“I don’t like to talk about it, you know? Talking about it makes me feel like I’m back there, in that situation. It keeps my past very much in my present, and my present is pretty damn good unless it’s shadowed by darkness. That’s something I’m working on with my therapist.” She rolled her eyes and grinned.
“Is your therapist—is she—”
Doc nodded, urging me to go on.
“Is she taking new patients?” I finished.
“She’s not,” Doc said. “But she might do me a favor if I ask for you.”
I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
The elevator chimed and I heard the doors open. Hope filled my chest at the thought that it might be Tavy coming to visit me. A moment later, Slash and Brooklyn rounded the corner. Slash held a casserole dish.
Damn. Not Tavy.
“Hey,” Brooklyn greeted. “What are you guys doing out here?”
