The 17-minute drive to therapy was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Which meant my brain filled it with noise. Jace’s voice. TJ’s smirk. Jackie’s inevitable look.
By the time I pulled into the lot, I already had the beginnings of a stress headache and a full-on identity crisis.
Jackie’s office was in a ten-story building that smelled like lemon water and executive guilt. Modern, gray, slightly too clean. I walked in and was greeted by a secretary with exactly the kind of name you expect a therapy receptionist to have:
“Janet,” I muttered.
She smiled. “Where to?”
“3C.”
“Ahh, Ms. Jackie. Elevator, third floor, turn right. She’s two doors down.”
I gave her a polite nod and walked toward the elevator like I wasn’t internally screaming.
Jackie’s waiting room hadn’t changed. Warm blue-greens. A
