“Above Delilah’s Deli, in the apartment. It’s… perfect for one.”
Her eyes widen as she looks back up at her husband, and I find Maverick grinning.
“What?” I ask, worried that maybe the tiny apartment is haunted or some shit.
“Delilah is our close friend,” she says. “Her brother is married to my best friend, Dave.”
I nod, making faceless connections in my mind. “Wow, small world.”
“Small town,” Maverick corrects. “Well, Goldie, it was nice to meet you, and I’m positive we’ll see more of you around.”
“Absolutely,” Anna adds, rubbing her belly.
We say goodbye just as Dr. Longo calls me back and though I had no doubts before, now coming to therapy seems like the best choice I’ve ever made.
If a person battling self-harm can be in a healthy relationship with a child on the way, I have hope.
The truth is, even if I didn’t feel hope, I would still be here, putting in the work, because Atticus is worth it.
* * *
It’s only beensix sessions, but I’m already feeling much better. Leaving therapy, I have the same sense of accomplishment that I do after a hard workout or a productive day at work.
It feels so fucking good.
My feeling good could also be the fact that I’ve been dodging my Mom like crazy. This morning, she called me at ten past eight to see if I wanted to go to pilates with her. When I explained that I was already in the office at work, she said, “oh, you’re still doing that.”
She never worked a day in her life, not in any real sense. She could’ve, too. I remember her telling me she graduated Summa Cume Laude. I don’t really know what happened to my Mom to make her the way she is. All I know is that I’ve been a mini version of her for far too long. And until I can properly handle her and speak to her in an effective way, I’m low-key ghosting.
Ghosting your own mother feels… wrong. But whenever I feel guilty silencing her call or shooting her back a two-word “just busy” text, I hear her saying, “oh, you’re still doing that” over and over, and don’t break.
It’s Thursday evening, work was amazing today, and therapy was equally as amazing. Dr. Longo and I are discussing narcissistic behavior, and while at one point I was comparing everything he said to my mother, I found myself holding Reynold next to those definitions, shocked by how identical they were to him.
Stopping off at the store, I grab a handbasket and slide my arm through, making my way through the produce. I grab a head of romaine and some other fixings for a nice salad. I’m on my way to the meat counter to pick a nice salmon filet when I hear my name being called.
“Goldie!”
I already talked to Beck today, and she and Beau are busy with Jett cutting teeth, the soft opening of her studio, and building their relationship. Plus, Beck wouldn’t shout to me. She’d probably text me and say, “look behind you, bitch.”
Turning around, my stomach goes inside out when I see someone I’d completely forgotten about.
In her long sleeved Brutes t-shirt, Sabrina Aimes abandons her cart and approaches me, arms wide for a hug.
Fuck.
Who wants to hug anymore, anyway?
Shit. I guess I did when I knew her. I fall into her hug and return it, and when she pulls apart, she’s beaming like she’s truly happy to see me, and that’s… surprising.
“Goldie! I honestly didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” she says, her hand staying affectionately on my arm like she doesn’t want to let go.
I’m further surprised because Sabrina worked for me in PR, and because we never seemed to form any sort of friendship outside of work, I always figured she disliked me.
“You’re in Oakcreek,” I say stupidly because, obviously. But I’m just so… taken aback.
“You, too,” she says, still smiling. She takes one more step toward me, and I swear she’s close enough that I can feel her breath on me. “I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t have your number; we never swapped.”
“Are you… still with the Brutes?” I ask nervously because once I was out of there, I never looked back. Never sent a peaceful goodbye to the people who worked for me or anything. I should have. They worked hard for me. It was unprofessional of me not to say… something, at least.