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Chapter Twenty-Six
Peyton
I pushed the door open and met the receptionist’s gaze. After scanning the lobby and finding it empty, I proceeded to walk toward her. With each step, my legs felt heavier, a little less capable.
Eventually, I made it to her work station. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled in return.
“Hi. I uhhm. I need to talk to someone.”
“Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
“Uhhm. I mean. No. Well, kind of. Someone who. Someone who has. I’d really like it if. Do you have any women?”
She looked caring. Understanding. And confused.
“Are you a victim?”
My lip began to quiver. I clutched my purse and nodded. “Uh huh.”
She lifted her hand and reached toward me. “I’ll get you one of our counselors, and if needed, an EMDR therapist.”
I took her hand in mine. I wanted to tell her thank you, but lately it seemed wanting to speak and actually speaking were two totally different things.
Either her hand was shaking or mine was, but together, we stood there and shook like it was the right thing to do.
“What’s your name, beautiful?” she asked.
“I’m Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”
“I’m Candace,” she said. “I’m a survivor. It’s going to get better, okay?”
I chewed on my lip and nodded my head.
A woman walked through the door beside Candace’s desk. She was older than I expected, probably sixty by my guess. She was dressed in a navy pants suit, and was an attractive woman, but I had little desire to talk to someone that had no idea about what I was going through. I wanted to talk to Candace, she was a survivor. I was done being a victim. I wanted to be a survivor.
“Peyton,” Candace said. “This is Elizabeth. She’ll take you back where you can talk in private, okay.”
“The woman smiled a genuine smile. “Peyton?”
I nodded.
“Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the center’s counselors, and I’m a survivor,” she said.
I felt a little bit better. “Hi, I’m. I’m uhhm. I’m Peyton. Peyton Price.”
She extended her hand. I glanced at it, and eventually took her hand in mine.
“Come on back, Peyton,” she said. “Who does your hair?”
I reached for my head, and pressed my hair to my scalp. It seemed like an odd question. “My hair?”
“The highlights look wonderful. And I just love the cut. I need to go somewhere new. Mine always looks awful,” she said with a laugh.
“Uhhm. The highlights are natural. I spend a lot of time in the sun. I surf. And, thank you. I get it cut at Crystals in Old Town.”
I followed her through the door and down a long corridor.
“Crystals?” she asked. “I’ll have to give them a try. Who’s your stylist?”
