Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
She did a slow pan to me.
I grimaced.
“I’m betting you dismissed Harper because he was speaking to you with a clinical and sort of dispassionate voice, so you thought he wasn’t being honest, but what you don’t get is that Harper’s an engineer, so that’s how he talks. He’s very ‘just the facts’ until he knows you better.”
“I––”
“Jake just sat here looking at you and waited, and when you asked him stuff, he shrugged, because he honestly has no idea why he’s here, but he likes to please others, so he’s taking part even though, again, he has no idea what’s supposed to be the matter,” she summarized, shooting Dr. Simmons an indulgent look. “I mean, Jake saw us rescued, and like me, when I saw George, I wasn’t worried anymore because, well, George, right?”
“Who is––”
“And I know from looking at the state of your office it would give Kola hives because really, you should see his room.”
“Hannah––”
“I thought he might have OCD since he keeps it so clean, but no. He’s not compulsive about it, he just likes a very orderly space. I mean, honestly, would you want an aspiring doctor to be any other way?”
“I––”
“Let’s get back to you, though,” Hannah murmured, leaning forward to meet Dr. Simmons’ gaze. “How are you doing with the divorce?”
Since Dr. Simmons didn’t want to discuss her apparently acrimonious divorce with my sixteen-year-old daughter, it was time to go.
The third therapist wanted to focus on the bond between the boys, and since no one saw the point in that, we left.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Hannah was indignant.
The fourth, fifth, sixth, and eighth were concerned that the kids were repressing their feelings, so since they weren’t—they’d all admitted that until they saw George, they thought it likely that they could die—those didn’t work out. The seventh therapist wanted to discuss Kola’s feelings for Alessia, and that perhaps his hero complex had sabotaged their blossoming relationship.
He whimpered as he looked over at me, and I ordered him and the others to get up. The sigh of relief all around made me groan loudly as we left the gentleman’s office.
Number nine felt the kids needed to be hypnotized to unlock repressed memories of the incident. Ten wanted to meditate with them, but since Hannah taught classes online about meditation, breathing, and getting in touch with your inner divine core, she pulled the plug on that one.
Eleven through fifteen had wanted the kids to join various groups they led, and that part was fine, the kids agreed to try, but since Kola didn’t share things with strangers, he just sat there glowering.
Jake was bored, so bored, his head fell back and hit the wall, I was told, and he had to be shaken awake. He dozed off and on after that.
Several girls in the group recognized Hannah from TikTok and Instagram, and they made a little PSA about self-care and to never be embarrassed or afraid or not completely proud to reach out for help if you needed it, and that, of course, went viral.
Harper wanted to know, specifically, beyond sharing experiences, what, precisely, talking was going to do for him. Since the answer came back to the benefits of conversation and hearing the support of others, he was not impressed. He could see if one was dealing with a substance abuse issue or grief, that support was a good thing. But if one had a singular catastrophic event on what he considered a minor level since everyone he cared about came out of it safely, then what, if anything, could talking about it with others who did not share the experience provide?
“You might hear a new perspective,” I told him later. “Other people have insights that can be beneficial.”
“Sure, Mr. Harcourt,” he agreed, “but it’s not something that scares me anymore, or that I dream about. I think maybe this isn’t important and is, perhaps, a gigantic waste of time.”
I couldn’t really argue, as we had just seen number sixteen, and I was close to pulling the plug.
Miguel cleared his throat in the front seat, and I turned in mine to look at his profile. “Something to add, sir?”
“My daughter, Clarissa, she and her mother were attacked two years ago, while walking home from a bakery in our neighborhood.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, and I noted that the car had gone silent.
He nodded. “It’s okay. My daughter, she’s a Marine, yeah? So three guys with knives was not an issue, and two of my favorite people didn’t get hurt.”
My relief was instantaneous.
“The problem was, though, Rissa kept reliving the moment she’d turned from putting the two guys on the ground, and saw the third one holding her mother by the throat.”
Just imagining Kola or Hannah shot that night had messed me up for weeks. But it wasn’t my trauma; it hadn’t happened to me. “Your poor daughter,” I commiserated with him.