A Million Shattered Pieces

Chapter Twenty-Five

~ "You will break. But oh, you will also heal."

Before I knew it, another two and a half weeks had passed by. It was a Friday morning, and I had been excused from school, to finally go to my psychiatrist meeting. I was not excited.

"Stop looking so down. Today is a big day. Today we solve all these problems." Mom reached over to give my hand a quick squeeze. Her eyes remained glued to the road ahead.

I rested my head against the window. "I'm not too sure about that, Mom. It's not that easy."

"We'll be fine, sweetheart."

We. As if she knew how it felt. I had a hard time believing that to be the case. My mother had enough confidence for the both of us, the skill she possessed in any social event always inspiration for me. I wished I could have half her radiance.

Rain pattered on the windshield. The week before, the last remnants of snow had melted away. It was now near the middle of March, which two months until prom. The dress I'd bought with Zoe's help still hung in my closest. It had been so long since I'd bothered to try it on.

"Mom, do you think Brock is good for me?" I turned to look at her, my right cheek pressed against the cool glass, my glasses at an awkward angle across my face.

She seemed surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?" I could see the panic.

"I've been thinking a lot lately, is all."

To admit to anyone, most of all myself, that Brock might not be the best person for me tore me apart. I wanted us to work out. The idea of this relationship coming to a bitter end was enough to send me into blind misery every night. I ended up curled in a ball, trying my best to stop the tears from coming.

He was everything I'd ever wanted. And yet...nothing like I'd pictured. Anyone could see the struggles that came with loving someone as depressed as him. I was scared that it would never get better. That our stolen moments of happiness would never be enough for me.

I was scared that I would destroy him if I ended our romantic relationship.

My mother sighed, pulling into a stall outside the clinic. She unbuckled and turned to me. "I think this is your decision, honey. If you think Brock makes you happy, try to work things out with him. But, if he isn't worth the trouble, I know you'll do what's right in the end. You need to put yourself first."

I sighed. The journey to the psychiatrist's office set me on edge even more than I already was. By the time we were told to sit down, my palms were slick with sweat. I tried my best to wipe them on my jeans without raising any suspicion.

"Claire Fortescue, Dr. Weinstock will see you now."

In that moment, I debated bolting out the door. Screw the consequences. I did not care if my mom chased me around the city in an attempt to drag me back, I would hide under a bridge until she gave up.

That was not what happened.

I stood on shaky legs, and gave my mom once last nervous glance before following the receptionist to the room. My first thought was that the psychiatrist looked to be in her early-thirties. Her skin was a rich brown, the color of her eyes reminding me of milk chocolate. They were friendly eyes. The kindness in them the rare one that makes you want to spill all your secrets, and somehow knowing that person will never tell another soul.