ELLA
Ihaven’t looked forward to Damon and his chats. It’s something I’ve tolerated because I was told I had to do it. Therapy isn’t something I’ve ever wanted. Until this morning.
Waking up to find another gift from Kam, glazed pastries from a quaint French bakery downtown, and a note from Zander, letting me know he had to have arrangements made but would see me tonight … left me feeling more alone than I’d have liked. Barefoot in the kitchen, that sinking feeling resonated until Damon walked into the room.
“Is there anything you want to talk about this morning?” Damon’s professional as always, but I don’t miss his subtle change in expression when he glances down at my nightgown. It’s the same one from yesterday. I was eager to get downstairs, to find Zander and didn’t think much else of, well, of anything else.
“Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to pick those topics?”
“I could … just thought I’d offer,” he says and shrugs. Eyeing him I wonder how this man always looks so professional. Even in only a simple white tee and faded blue jeans, he radiates an aura of strength. Freshly shaven, his dark skin taut over his muscular arms. It’s easy to decide that it’s just him. It’s the air around him. Everything about him reads: authority.
And then there’s me. In a wrinkled nightshirt, with finger-combed hair.
Clearing my throat, I hesitantly take a seat at the counter. “I haven’t brushed my teeth, let alone begun to think about what we should talk about.” Lies. The softly spoken words sound like lies even to my own ears.
“There’s nothing you want to talk about?” he questions. Staring past him to the kettle still on the stove from yesterday, I wonder if Z told him about last night. I wouldn’t think so, but then again, I’m not a part of those conversations. There’s so much out of my own control.
“You seem …”
“Out of it?” I surmise.
“Upset,” he says, correcting me. The stool grates on the floor as I stand up and busy myself with the kettle.
In truth, I’m exhausted. I slept so well, yet it feels like I haven’t slept at all. With the water running he questions, “Are you all right?”
With a gentle sigh escaping, I tell him, “I’ll be all right. Just feeling needy today.”
Damon nods, rounding the counter to join me in the working space of the kitchen. He manhandles the coffee pot, finding it empty.
When he opens the canister, the scent of fresh grounds filling the room, I comment on how much I love the smell.
Which he duly ignores. “Is there anything in particular that upset you this morning?” Even though he’s facing a now brewing pot of coffee, pretending like he’s not watching me, I feel his eyes on the side of my face. That’s when I realize I’m watching a kettle, waiting for the pot to boil.
“It’s just a ball in a box,” I murmur, knowing full well why I’m upset. “I’m still grieving.”
Damon’s charming smile isn’t what I expect to see from him. He nods and says, “We always grieve.”
I nod in return and debate on letting it all out. Telling him about last night, but maybe he already knows.
“Did Z tell you?” I whisper the question.
Grabbing his mug of black coffee with both hands, he shakes his head. “Did something happen?”
I scoot from in front of the stove to the counter so I can rest my back against it, gripping the edge on either side. “Last night, I just … I had a moment.”
Damon gestures to the breakfast nook to the right with his mug. “Would you like to sit?”
Raising a brow, I ask him, “Would you like to add your sugar and cream?” My sarcastic response grants me an even broader smile. “Sitting can wait until I at least have a cup of tea,” I add as he sets his mug down and adds cream and sugar as he always does.
“You know there isn’t a story worth not having sugar in your morning brew.”
The spoon stops mid-twirl in his mug at my comment, the warmth leaving his expression for a moment as he seems to carefully consider his words. “There is purpose in suffering.”
“What?”
“I wanted to wait for the right time, but I feel like you need to know that this morning.”
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye as the kettle whistles.