First

I am not a good person. I am selfish and egotistical and positive that my way of life is better than anyone else’s.

Holy crap. I’m acting exactly like my father. The columns holding up my small, petty world shiver and crack at that blow.

‘Can you explain to me why you’re agitated?’

‘Because of stupid Jake Jacobs!’ And then, to the utter astonishment of both of us, I burst into tears.

I have never, ever cried in front of Doctor Blathe. There’s a lot of baggage left over from my father and I’ve spent years working through it. My point of pride has always been that I’ve never allowed myself to seek her pity. Ridiculous melodramatic displays of emotion will not take place. Calm, straightforward discussion of the facts is the only form of therapy I find acceptable.

These tears … there is nothing at all acceptable about them. They are not pretty. They are gasping, painful, snot-flowing, face-swelling sobs rocking my entire body. The only thing keeping me upright is my death grip on the back of the couch.

Doctor Blathe rises from her seat and hurries to my side. She ignores my humiliation and settles me down on the couch before taking up her position again. She picks up her notepad and uses her pen to nudge a box of tissues toward me. That simple motion, so sweet and perfectly precise, is hilarious considering my misery.

I scrub my face with a handful of tissues and try to stop sniffling. Her smile is warm and reassuring. I don’t even fear her pen at this moment.

‘Let’s talk about Jake,’ she suggests.

‘Okay.’

‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happened recently.’

I take a shuddering breath. It’ll be better to share it quickly. Like a Band-Aid being ripped off. ‘A woman he rescued from a fire died so he showed up at my apartment. We had sex. He told me he loved me. He told me he wanted to be with me and I choked. So he left. We avoided each other. I just ran into him at the coffee shop. We tried to talk. He’s leaving for some firefighting thing and will be gone for a while. When he gets back, he wants to give it another shot. And I was kind of a bitch about it so he left. Again.’

These tears are easier to mop up. I stare down into the pile of damp and wrinkled tissues in my hands while she finishes writing down her notes. ‘I really screwed this up,’ I whisper.

‘Many couples struggle with communication,’ she assures me. ‘You can work through this.’

Doctor Blathe doesn’t lie. When I showed up for my first solo appointment, I asked her if we’d be able to fix me in a few visits. She said she wasn’t a mechanic. After that, the session turned into something akin to a business meeting where we hashed out our expectations and came to agreements about the best methods to achieve those goals. She doesn’t give false hope or lie.

‘So you think I can get him back?’ My voice doesn’t crack this time.

‘I think we can work on ways for you to discuss your issues with him so you’re communicating honestly with

each other. I think your reaction to today’s meeting is proof that this is something you want to work towards.’

‘It is,’ I promise.

‘It may be difficult to talk to him about these things,’ she warns.

Hope seizes control, strengthening my resolve. ‘I can do it.’ I straighten and meet her eyes. One of my acting teachers taught us to state a positive intention before auditions so we would be more focused and centred. Doctor Blathe willingly took up the practice with me when I suggested it to her. If any moment needs a positive intention, this is it.

‘I will tell Jake how I feel about him so we can discuss whether there’s a possibility for us to have a real relationship.’

Doctor Blathe smiles and sets down her pen.

Mind clearer, I settle back against the couch and relax. Or I do until she says, ‘Let’s practice what you’ll say to him tonight.’

Tonight? Well, faint heart never won fair fireman …and running away isn’t an option anymore.

***

At least one thing has gone right this week: I got to finish my coffee before the alarm went off. With another fire across town, the crew I’m working with today was directed to this scene, along with a few of our on-call guys.

It’s nothing horrible. Multi-story residential, with all family members safe and accounted for because they were out of town for the weekend. Even the dog’s isn’t in danger because it was at a sitter’s. In a way, I’m grateful this is a simpler call.

I’m going on only a few hours of sleep. Staying at home last night in that empty house gave me far too much time to think. Worse, when I went downstairs to get some water, I saw a picture of Cat and Maya on the fridge. Dally found me staring at it blankly and assumed I was zoning out. I didn’t bother to correct him. Sometime I’ll tell him how I got shot down, but it’s still a little raw.

Running into Maya this morning at the coffee shop was rubbing salt into the wound. A freaking week and a half of pulling myself together and as soon as I see her, all that work out the window. I caved. Offered myself to her again, in the hopes she’d reconsidered.