“Grace is going to take me shopping this week before my date with her brother. We’re going to get yoga clothes for classes and something that shows off my boobs. Her words not mine.”
Dr. Hart chuckles. “That sounds like fun. Are you looking forward to it?”
Am I? Yes and no. I glance off toward the window, thinking about the best way to answer her question.
“This isn’t a ball in Washington DC where you’ll be meeting the President of the United States,” Dr. Hart states.
I shake my head. “No, that was a couple months ago. I don’t care for the man. Too pompous for my liking, and his wife reminded me of an alien. So much Botox and lip fillers she didn’t seem human anymore.”
Dr. Hart blinks a few times and presses her lips together. “Okay, that analogy didn’t have the desired effect. What I meant to say, Honor, is a shopping date shouldn’t be scary. It’s meant to be fun.”
“But what if she figures out she doesn’t like me or realizes how strange I am?”
Dr. Hart sits back in her chair and rests her fingertips against her lips. “Honor, you might be shy and a little introverted, but you are not strange or weird. I’d like you to get that out of your head. Find a way to abolish that nonsense, because I’ve spent the better part of three months getting to know you, and I like you very much. You’re sweet. Kind. Intelligent. Reserved. And perhaps a bit socially awkward, but that doesn’t make you a person people wouldn’t want to spend time with.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. It doesn’t. And the sooner you realize it, the more fun you will start to have. I promise. Will you work on giving yourself a break? Try not to think too harshly of your personality. Go into this shopping day with your new friend with an open mind and, better yet, an open heart.”
I nod, tears welling up behind my eyes. I clear my throat and breathe through the meaning behind her words. Still, I’m not sure she’s right. I’ve spent many years being the odd duck. Just because one overly nice girl has latched on to me doesn’t mean I’m no longer the weird, bizarre girl I’d always been in high school and college.
“I’ll try.” It’s all I can promise her.
“Good. Tell me about the man you met.”
Instantly a sense of anticipation and excitement rushes through me. “His name is Nick.” On hearing his name, Monet frowns. Maybe she knows a Nick who does yoga. Nonplussed, I carry on. “He teaches yoga at the studio I go to. He’s Italian and definitely the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”
Dr. Hart’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I took his class last week. Then I had some type of weird episode in his class…”
“Wait a minute. Episode. Explain this to me.” Her eyes flash with concern as she picks up her legal pad of notes.
“We were doing this position where you’re in a cocoon…”
“Aerial yoga? The Italian man named Nick teaches aerial yoga?” she asks, her voice tight and restrained. I wonder if she knows my Nick.
My Nick. He’s not exactly mine. “Yes.”
Dr. Hart purses her lips. “Continue.”
“Well, I was hanging in this hammock, and he told the class to curl up inside of it and find a resting spot. Then he started talking about feeling safe and protected and loved. My heart started to pound; my skin got ultra-hot, and I couldn’t breathe.”
“Sounds like you had a bit of a panic attack. Those can be very scary and serious. How did you come out of it?” she asks with her doctor first, friendly therapist second tone of voice.
I clear my throat and think back to when it happened. “I popped my feet out of the hammock and scrambled to the surface for air. Nick was right there, holding on to me. He told me to breathe with him, and I did for long enough to get my heartbeat back to normal. He placed his forehead against mine and forced me to focus on him alone. It worked. Once I could breathe more normally, he eased back and finished up the class. I, however, bolted immediately!”
Dr. Hart nodded and scribbled something on her pad. “Why did you leave so quickly?”
I bite down on my bottom lip.
“He seemed like he liked me.”
“Okay, and why does that make you uncomfortable?”
“He doesn’t know me. I’m not that likeable.”
Dr. Hart leans back, crosses her legs, and rests a hand on the roundness of her belly. She moves her hand around the fabric in lazy circles. I’ve never felt a pregnant woman’s baby. Come to think of it, I’ve never even held a baby.
“You are… We just went over this, Honor.”
I frown, cross my arms over my chest, and press against the back of the couch. Skipping the “I’m likeable” conversation, I go right to what’s on my mind. “You know, I’ve never held a baby.”
My doctor stops rubbing her stomach. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re bringing this up because of my pregnancy?”
“Maybe.” I tilt my head.
“Have you ever thought of being a mother?”
I half snort and choke on the gag that tightens my throat. “And end up like my mother? An abuser?” I scoff and turn toward the doctor, missing the importance of what I just revealed.
Dr. Hart’s lips turn into a flat, white line, and her eyes flash with anger. “Honor, may I?” She gestures toward the couch.
At the firmness of her tone, I respond immediately, shifting to the other seat to make room. I sit ramrod straight, my hands in my lap.
The doctor rises and comes to sit next to me. When her hand touches mine, I flinch. She pulls back, eases sideways, and tips her head toward me. “Remember that honesty we talked about? The trust we must have with one another in order for you to get healthy mentally?”
I nod slowly as a sense of dread throbs
