Page 25
The inside of Dr. Sutton’s office is warm wooden walls, clean and well-enclosed except for one dark window in the corner, where winter browns and blues mix.
“Take a look around, if you want, and make yourself comfortable while I grab my intake form.”
I nod, stepping slowly along the wall where multiple degrees are framed and proudly displayed. There are a few pictures of her with a beautiful redheaded woman, including a wedding photo of them both in dresses, sitting against a brick wall and laughing, eyes on each other instead of the camera.
My gaze snags on another photo as well—a team photo for Yale Swimming & Diving, a championship photo. Tucked in the more ornate frame is a Polaroid of three girls grinning broadly at the camera with a trophy in their collective grip.
“Do you swim?”
I jolt from the trance-like state the image seemed to put me in. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head softly, gesturing toward the couch, loveseat, and armchair for me to choose a spot. “Don’t be. I’m quite proud of that win.”
Sitting in the corner of the long, dark red sofa, I try to get comfortable but can’t. Not really.
“Do you swim?” she asks again.
“Oh, um . . . yes, but not like that.” I nod toward her mini shrine across the room. She nods, sitting in the chair opposite me and putting a paper atop the side table nearest her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, not for a team or anything. I just like swimming.”
She smiles. “What’s swimming like for you?”
The question isn’t what I expected. In fact, I was more than ready for her to begin with So tell me what’s wrong with you? Or Let’s talk about your traumatic childhood.
“I guess it’s kind of therapeutic,” I say, wincing as I realize my choice of words. “I mean, it’s calming to me. I like being in the water, really, even without the swimming. But swimming makes me feel good.”
“Do you swim a lot?”
“I used to,” I say, feeling my shoulders relax slightly into the cushioned seat at my back. “But not as much lately.”
She nods again, before letting out a pretty smile. “Have you ever been in therapy before?”
“Yes, but I was a kid, and it was court ordered.”
Maybe I want to shock her a little, but she only nods politely again.
“Would you like for me to go over how today’s session is going to go?”
I nod.
“I’m just going to ask you some general questions about yourself. If, for today, you don’t want to talk about it, feel free to tell me that as well. You aren’t required to talk about anything during our time together. You lead; I follow. For now.” She winks. “Tell me about your family.”
My shoulders stiffen before I can help it, eyes darting back to the photos behind her head as if just the image of the water will stabilize me.
Before I’ve thought of how to say anything without screaming I don’t want to talk about my mom, she’s moved on. “Tell me a little about Waterfell—where you live, what you’re studying.”
“I’m a sports management major,” I say, blowing a breath to flutter the hairs fallen from my high ponytail out of my face. “And I . . . I’m moving to a new apartment today.”
“Oh?”
A noncommittal noise rolls through my closed lips as I cross my arms.
I briefly recap my last three years in a quick summary of the woes of random roommates, before skipping eloquently over my complete spiral and into Alessia finding me an apartment. Which easily leads into a conversation about Alessia.
I’m leaving more gaps in my stories than I am offering vulnerability, but at least I’m talking at all.
