Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
I always thought when the breakthrough came, it’d feel like breaking the surface after too long underwater. The ache of Lungs burning, but finally, air. Relief. I was wrong. It felt like hitting bottom, face-first, ribs splintering on the rocks. Dr. Daniels barely looked up from her notebook as she pronounced it: “You need to talk to her, Kevin. You can’t heal from wounds you won’t acknowledge.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had all the wounds, but Mom had always been the one who bled the most, at least when she talked to her friends.
The drive back to the house was a blur, the world smeared in salty streaks. I white-knuckled the steering wheel, everything in me coiled so tight I thought my bones might crack from the pressure. The therapy notes were crumpled into a damp wad on the passenger seat, mocking me with their bullet-pointed “Action Items.” I kept picturing Dr. Daniels’ pencil tapping, the tip stuttering out every time I hesitated. I wanted to turn around, or maybe just keep driving until the sun went down and the sky made sense of itself again. Instead, I went home.
The house was smaller than I remembered. Not physically, but in the way that matters. The ceilings seemed lower, the carpets more threadbare, the kitchen tile an infinite, ugly expanse. The lights were all on, like always, banishing any shadow that might try to creep in. I let myself in without knocking, the old hinges squealing like they were announcing a show.
She was there, waiting, perched on the edge of the living room armchair as though she’d never left it. Maybe she hadn’t. Anita Pearson, matriarch and tyrant, in her “lounge-wear” (cashmere, always), mug of chamomile clutched like a scepter. Her feet barely touched the floor, legs crossed at the ankle. She glanced up, one eyebrow arching in greeting.
“You’re home early,” she said, with that perfect blend of accusation and concern. “You were supposed to be at therapy until six.”
I hovered in the doorway, backpack slung from one shoulder, hands fidgeting uselessly at my sides. She had this way of staring that made you feel like you were smuggling secrets under your skin, and she could see every one. Her eyes were brown and soft, but you learned to never mistake warmth for mercy. I tried to swallow the lump, but it stuck.