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"Sloane?"
Sloane looked up from her intertwined hands in her lap at the call of her name, looking towards the now-open office door in front of her. A dark-haired woman with tan skin now stood in the doorway, dressed in a deep blue silk kaftan, beckoning her inside with a nonchalant wave. Her eyes had softened, and a closed-lip smile graced her lips as Sloane pushed herself off the waiting room chair, almost as if she could feel the nervous energy radiating from the firefighter.
Stepping into the office, Sloane was instantly enveloped in a warm vanilla scent flowing from a diffuser placed in the corner of the room on a shelf, the curl of the vapour dispersing into the cool air soon after being released from the spout of the machine. Around the space, there were a few seating options, including a sofa, a lounge chair, bean bags, and even some simple floor cushions.
"Please, sit anywhere you feel comfortable," the dark-haired woman stated as she closed the door before making her way toward the desk near the floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite side of the room, opting to sit on the edge of the light wood surface instead of the rolling chair behind it.
Sloane nodded in acknowledgement, looking around briefly before deciding to sit on the couch. She was unsure of her confidence in falling back into the very comfortable-looking bean bag she had eyed when first walking into the room. The thought of trying to get up after the session gave her a preliminary rush of embarrassment.
"My name is Camille," the woman, Camille, introduced herself shortly after, clasping her hands together and resting them on her legs as she leaned back against her desk, her posture casual and welcoming. "Frank, the LAFD therapist, said you requested to see someone outside the department?"
"Yeah, it was absolutely nothing personal, I'm sure he's great. But, there were certain things I preferred not to discuss and associate with my work. Not anymore, at least," Sloane rambled, and Camille nodded in understanding, turning her torso to reach behind her to retrieve a manila folder, flipping it open and scanning over it briefly.
"So you're from Boston?" Camille asked, and Sloane nodded in corroboration with the statement when the therapist looked up briefly when she didn't receive a verbal response. "Is your family still there?"
"My mom and dad are, I think. I don't really talk to them anymore," Sloane answered, pursing her lips as she thought of the two people who had raised her.
"When did you stop talking to them?"
"About a year before I moved here. My parents told me that they wanted nothing to do with me."
"Seems harsh."
"With the circumstances, I can't say I particularly blame them, but they had been distant for years before that. That I blame them for."
Camille then set down the open folder on the desk and looked back at Sloane, who had redirected her attention to the artwork on the walls. She noted some kids' drawings, inspirational quotes surrounded by painted flowers, and a couple of landscape paintings of American landmarks.
