I shake my head and reach for a tissue. “Elle is doing fine. She seems to be adjusting well and has sort of attached herself to Harrison, but Peyton… she is acting out and I don’t know what to do to help her. I know she misses Mason, we all do, but she’s taking it hard. Liam helps, but …”
“It’s not the same?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Now, who’s Harrison?”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “He’s the drummer in Liam’s band. I started working for them and we just came off tour. He and Elle hit it off.”
“Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“No, he’s good to her and she likes him.” He is. There’s no doubting this. Watching them together in Disney World was a sight I never wanted to see, but couldn’t help and stare. The way he treated her, like she walked on water, it showed me a different Harrison.
“But?”
“But what?” I don’t purposely mean to be obtuse, but I’m not giving any answers that require me to think too hard.
“Your body language is suggesting otherwise.”
Do I tell him how he makes me feel? Is this where I let all my feelings out on the table and he dissects them for me and tells me what I need to do?
“Harrison and I…” I shake my head and bite my tongue from speaking out. “We’ve agreed to keep things professional.”
He nods and writes something else down. I wonder if I get a copy of these notes when we’re all said and done. You know like a parting gift of some sort.
“Harrison and Elle get along?”
I nod.
“What about him and Peyton. It’s important that he likes both girls.”
“Were not together,” I reply, correcting his assumption.
“Okay,” he says with more scribbling.
“He’s good with Peyton, but she prefers Liam.”
“Have you thought about an after school program or something at the community center that she can be involved with?”
“No, I haven’t. Will that help?” My voice is full of desperation. He looks up briefly before returning his focus to the paper.
“It might, but I’d also like to see the girls too, individually and the three of you together. We can figure out what’s going to work and get you all talking.”
“Okay.”
“Now tell me about you.”
“What about me?”
“It’s been a year, have you thought about dating?”
I glare at him. How does he know that dating is even an option? Small town gossip is going to be the death of me, I swear. “Is a year some predetermined mourning period?”
“No, but your hostility tells me that you’re interested in someone.”
“I am not.” I break my gaze from him and look down at my hands. They’re clutched, my nails digging into my palms. “I can’t…”
“Why not?”