“You want us to move in together?”
Aaron shrugged. “That was always the plan for after your graduation, wasn’t it? I figured, while you’re in here working on yourself, I could be out there, getting everything ready. I want us to move forward, Kinsley.”
This was what I’d wanted. These were the plans we had made together. I knew deep down that I was making these changes for a lot of reasons, one of them being I wanted my old life back. That life included Aaron. I was only scared now because I was still in the middle of getting myself together. I knew that once I got better, all of this would seem far less scary than it did now.
“That sounds … great,” I managed.
“Oh, hey, let me grab some of that,” he said, just seeming to realize I was struggling to hold on to all my crap.
Taking the canvas, he studied it with a frown. “What is this?”
“My painting,” I said.
“You paint? Why didn’t I know this about you?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t done it since high school.”
Aaron was still intently studying my painting when my parents and Dr. Iverson appeared at our side.
“Kinsley, Dr. Iverson tells us you’re making remarkable progress,” Mom said, her tone laced with approval.
“Yes, Kinsley is a motivated, strong-willed young lady,” Dr. Iverson between sips of coffee. “I’m quite pleased with the direction our sessions have taken.”
Finding Aaron at my side, he raised his eyebrows.
“You must be Aaron.”
Glancing up from my canvas, he reached a hand out toward the doctor. “You know who I am?”
Dr. Iverson stared silently at Aaron from behind his glasses before accepting his hand and shaking it. I knew that look well—he was assessing Aaron, much like he often assessed me.
“I’ve heard about you,” he replied. “All good things, I assure you.”
“Doctor,” my mother said. “Would you say that Kinsley’s progress is comparable to that of your other patients?”
Turning his gaze to my mom, Dr. Iverson kept his expression neutral. “Your daughter’s progress is her own. Considering she’s reached the thirty-day mark, I’d be willing to say it’s all on par with the time we’ve invested, and the time we have left.”
Despite the fact that my mother’s expression barely changed, I could sense her agitation with the doctor. “Yes, but compared to your other patients—”
“I don’t make it a habit to compare patients to one another,” he said, his tone becoming a bit sharper. “They are all unique, and I treat them as such. I find comparisons to be not only detrimental to their development, but harmful to self-image. Kinsley is where she needs to be, and I feel confident she will be ready to face the world again at the end of her time here.”
Staring down at my shoes, I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to remind them that I was still standing there. My mother, as usual, had sunk into her habit of talking about me as if I wasn’t in the room.
“Oh, have you met the counselor who leads Kinsley’s group sessions?” Dr. Iverson asked suddenly. “Here he is now. Royce, do you have a moment?”
My mouth fell open, and a sound like a squeak came out, but not much else. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that, no, Royce did not have a moment.
Yet, I seemed incapable of doing no more than standing helplessly by as Dr. Iverson steered Royce toward my parents.
“I can’t take all the credit for aiding Kinsley’s progress,” he said. “Along with one-on-one sessions, she participates in group therapy led by this very capable young man.”
“How do you do?” my mother inquired in her frosty tone. “I’m Amala Simmons, Kinsley’s mother. This is her father.”
The three shook hands, and while Royce smiled, I could see that it wasn’t reaching his eyes. So, he was as uncomfortable at the moment as I was.
Good. I’d hate to suffer alone.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Royce Adams.”
“You seem young to be a counselor,” my mother said, causing me to want to throttle her.
Royce took it all in stride. “I’m twenty-five, ma’am, and a recent college grad. I spent four years studying my field, and I do my best.”
“I’m certain you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” Dad replied, shooting my mom an annoyed look.
Spotting Aaron at my side, Royce inclined his head, his expression becoming curious.
“Are you also a relative of Kinsley’s?”
Before I could speak up and intercept him, Aaron had reached a hand out to him.
“I’m Aaron,” he replied, “Kinsley’s boyfriend.”
For a second, Royce faltered, his gaze flicking to me for a fraction of a second. I saw his jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he shook Aaron’s hand. He recovered nicely, fixing his expression before anyone could notice.
But I had noticed, and now I wanted a hole to open up in the ground and swallow me up. While the conversation continued around me, I fell silent, listening to Royce tell my parents how well I was doing and praising my willingness to participate in sessions.
“Art therapy has also been something of an outlet for her,” he added. “She is … gifted.”
Seeming to notice my canvas for the first time, my mother eyed the painting without giving any indication of her thoughts on it.
“Yes, Kinsley used to paint quite frequently as an adolescent. However, more important pursuits await her back in Austin.”
Glaring at my mother, Dad took the canvas from me and lifted it, studying it with a soft smile. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. I always hated that you stopped painting.”
My mother turned her head, as if she couldn’t bear to look at the painting, causing my stomach to churn once more. I felt like I was fourteen again, arguing with her over the choice between spending my allowance on art supplies, versus SAT prep manuals. Shaking my head, I forced myself away from those memories. Glancing up, I found Dr. Iverson studying me quite closely—as he’d been known to do. I knew our next session would be a doozy.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more families to meet,” Royce said. “You folks enjoy the rest of the day. Have a safe drive home.”
Without sparing me another glance, he was gone, swallowed up in the crowd. I wanted to be relieved, but all I could register was a profound sensation of emptiness. I felt guilty, when I had no reason to be. The question remained: was my guilt over Royce’s discovery of Aaron, or over the fact that I was more concerned with his feelings at the moments than Aaron’s?
After a few minutes of trying to figure it out, I decided I’d rather not know the answer.
Chapter Thirteen
Family day couldn’t end fast enough for me. After my parents and Aaron had left, I’d closeted myself away in my room, sitting on my bed and staring at the things they’d left in my hands. My canvas rested on a wall beside my body image poster, and on my nightstand sat Jenn’s gift bag, along with Aaron’s flowers—resting in a plastic container full of water Dawn had brought me from the cafeteria. I reached into the gift bag and found a framed 4x6 photo of the five of us—me, Chloe, Jenn, Christian, and Luke. I recognized the photo as one taken during our Spring Break on South Padre Island a few years back. I smiled as I gazed at the photo, and couldn’t have been more grateful for Jenn’s thoughtful gift. I’d forgotten to bring a little piece of home with me, and I’d needed this reminder of what waited for me back in Austin.
As I sat the frame on my bedside table, I realized the other items there also served as a reminder of what was waiting for me on the other side. Aaron, for one—him, plus an apartment, and an entire planned future that had seemed so far away a few months ago. Reaching out to touch the petals of the bright yellow lilies—my favorite—I wondered if things could ever be the same between us after this. Being with him was what I’d wanted, and I didn’t think that had changed. I certainly still loved him. Maybe, what I was feeling was simpl
y fear that I would mess it all up again.
Turning away from the flowers, I glanced at the manila envelope my mom had presented me with before they’d left. Inside were the course booklet and registration paperwork for UT in the fall.
“When I come back next month, I’ll pick them up and turn them in for you,” she’d said. “Now that you’re moving forward, it’s time to plan for your life after this.”
She was right, of course. The whole point of this was to prepare me for reentering the real world. Why, then, did just looking at the course booklet make me feel fidgety? After flipping it open to the Mathematics courses, my fingers began to twitch, and the urge to run to the bathroom overwhelmed me. Closing the booklet, I quickly stashed it back in the envelope, and hid the entire thing in the drawer of the nightstand. Leaning back against my headboard, I drew my knees up to my chest and hugged them tight, fighting the urges. Feeling them again after so long frightened me, and I couldn’t figure out what it meant. I’d been doing so well, and attending family day had seemed to send me spiraling. Maybe, I hadn’t made as much progress as I’d first thought.
Clenching my hands into fists at my sides, I forced myself from the bed. I was not going to move backward. I had sixty more days here, and I would make every one of them count. Washing the makeup from my face, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and changed into my workout gear. An hour in the gym, practicing my tumbling on the mats cleared my head. While I didn’t plan to go back to cheerleading—ever—it was nice to practice the skill and engage my body in something that required a lot of energy. By the time night came, I poured myself into bed, exhausted.
Sunday was a quiet day, and I spent most of it alone in the art studio working on a new piece, in an attempt at avoiding the registration packet in my room.
Monday saw me back in Dr. Iverson’s office for our first session of the week. Once we’d taken our customary seats across from each other, he produced my file, taking a moment to read over his notes.
“Well, we’re over the first hump here,” he murmured. “Thirty days down, sixty more to go. How do you feel about that?”
“Okay, I guess. I know I’ve made progress, but I also realize I’ve got a ways to go.”
He nodded, seeming to hold back a little smirk. “Well, I met with your team this morning, and we all agreed your course of treatment is working. You’re responding well to your meds, making good progress in therapy, and I’ve heard you’re quite a fixture in the art studio.”
“Well, you told me to pick something …”
He nodded. “We’re pleased with everything, so there won’t be any changes to your protocol … except one.”
I frowned. “What’s changing?”
“You’re being assigned to another counselor for group therapy.”
His statement caused a stone weight to settle in my gut, and I clutched it to keep from retching.
“Who’s decision was that?”
Dr. Iverson frowned. “Not sure, but I do know that your new group is a good one. Tiffany is a great counselor and she’s made a lot of progress with bulimics. A few of her patients also have OCD … so I think someone might have decided you would do better in her group.”
I sat back in my chair, and avoided the doctor’s gaze. I couldn’t let him see how disappointed and hurt this new change had made me. He might not know where the decision had come from, but I did. Royce was behind this, and the thought that he might not want me around anymore stung. I hadn’t been prepared for how badly it would hurt for him to reject me, yet again.
“So, how did you feel about seeing your parents after so long?” he asked, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts.
Still avoiding his gaze, I rolled my eyes. “How do you think it was?”
“Well, based on my limited interaction with the three of you, I gathered you felt a bit overwhelmed. Aaron’s presence certainly surprised me. You led me to believe his place in your life wasn’t quite cemented at the moment.”
“It isn’t!” I insisted. Pausing, I sighed and closed my eyes. “At least, I didn’t think it was.”
“He introduced himself to everyone in the room yesterday as your boyfriend, and you did not correct him. This leads me to believe you’ve taken him back and everything is all good again. Yet, I’m confused as to how that could have happened since you’ve been here for a month with no contact with him whatsoever. What changed?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Everything. He just … showed up. And I was happy to see him, but yes, a bit overwhelmed, too. He wants us to pick up where we left off when I get home.”
Dr. Iverson nodded. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, knowing he’d pounce on me if I hesitated and ask me a thousand question about why. “Of course it is.”
“Hmmm,” he murmured, his pen scratching his little pad as he made a note. “Your mother left you with a parcel. What was it?”
I stared down at my hands, unnerved by the fact that my fingers had begun twitching again. Clenching my hands into fists, I fought to still them.
“A registration package for the fall semester.”
“A bit soon to be thinking about school, don’t you think?”
I forced myself to look up at him. “Well, I can’t exactly stay here forever, can I?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course not. However, I have found that my patients have a better success rate after their time here if they don’t rush back into things too quickly. Returning to school in the fall might be good for you, but only if you’re ready to go back.”
“I thought you don’t like to compare your patients,” I scoffed.
Closing his notebook, Dr. Iverson set it aside and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Kinsley, you seem stressed today. Do you want to talk about what has you so upset?”
“I’m not upset,” I insisted, even though I could feel tears brimming in my eyes again.
Reaching for the tissues he kept beneath his chair, he offered them to me. I took a few and dabbed beneath my eyes.
“I believe I’ve come to know you quite well these past four weeks,” he said. “And it has become plain to me that you are a people pleaser. Along with your tendency for perfectionism, and your obsessive impulses … well, it’s not a good mix. You’re hurting yourself by putting the wants and needs of others before your own. Aaron wants to get back together. Mom wants you to go back to school. But what does Kinsley want?”
“Damn it,” I muttered as the tears became uncontrollable.
I had yet to cry during one of our sessions, and the fact that I couldn’t seem to turn off the waterworks now left me feeling embarrassed.
“I think,” he continued, “your greatest challenge will be making these decisions for yourself going forward. Over the next sixty days, I’d really like for us to explore your life as it was before you came here. I want you to be honest with me, and with yourself about why you’ve made certain life choices. I think we will both discover that many of the things you thought you wanted, are actually things that other people want for you.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and took a deep, shaky breath. “But I’m good at math. I love Aaron. I want to graduate this year.”
Offering me another tissue, Dr. Iverson smiled. “And I love football … but after getting my ass kicked on that field a few times, I realized it wasn’t for me—at least, not as a player. I’m now a happy spectator. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded. “It’s hard. I don’t really know what I want anymore. I feel like I don’t know who I am.”
Inclining his head, he chuckled. “Well, you’re Kinsley Simmons, for starters. Now let’s spend the next sixty days finding out the rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” I replied.
“I think we can be finished for the day,” he said. “Between now and our next session, I want you to make me a list of everything you ever wanted to be when you were a kid. From the pra
ctical, to the most absurd. Next to each of those careers, I want you to give a reason why you decided not to pursue those things. We’ll discuss it next time.”
I stood, certain I was composed enough to be seen without anyone knowing I’d just bawled my eyes out. Hopefully, my nose hadn’t turned red like it did after I usually had a good, hard cry. I left Dr. Iverson’s office feeling a bit frightened of where this next phase of therapy would take me. Was he right about me? Had I really been living my life to please other people? From where I stood, my old life looked pretty damn good compared to this. But it seemed obvious that something had been wrong, otherwise I wouldn’t have nearly killed myself with destructive behavior. Maybe he had been right—perhaps it was time for me to discover just what it was Kinsley wanted.
I couldn’t avoid the art studio, even though I knew I should. Despite knowing I would inevitably encounter Royce, I wanted to be there. Painting offered the only outlet I had at the moment, and I needed it. I needed to do something while pondering all the questions Dr. Iverson had filled my mind with, or I might go insane.
So, I waited until around seven o’clock to go to the studio, finding only Joy inside. The sounds coming from the sculpting room told me Royce was also there. For the moment, I felt grateful there was a wall between us.
“Oh, Kinsley!” Joy exclaimed as I entered the studio. “There you are. I was wondering if I’d see you today.”
“I decided to get in an extra workout after dinner.”
She gestured toward my easel, where a fresh canvas had been placed. “I got a chance to see your finished piece before you took it. Brilliant work.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “That means a lot coming from you.”
Grasping my shoulders and guiding me toward the canvas, she turned me to face it. “I’d like you to do something for me. It’s probably the only actual assignment you’ll ever get from me. My other students have done it, and I think you could really benefit from it.”
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