In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Reagan: Don't forget about the birthday dinner thing at my place.
Samara: Caine will be there, do I have to come?
Reagan: Yes because all of Paris's friends will be there and I don't want to be alone.
Samara: I'll think about it.
Reagan: I mean it Sammy or I'll show up at your apartment and drag you out by your legs.
Samara: How deranged of you.
Reagan: You bring out the best in me :)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
If a pin dropped, it would have the same impact as an explosion. That's how quiet it is in Erica's office. I'm sitting with my knees to my chest, fiddling with the fabric of my pants, while Erica sits on the armchair facing me, not saying a word. She's completely silent, legs folded neatly across each other and her glasses perfectly perched on her nose. The only movement is the slight tremble of her hand. I don't know what kind of psychology trick this is, but it's working. I'm squirming under her gaze, ready to confess sins I haven't even committed. It feels like I'm on trial.
“Aren't you going to ask me how my day is going?” I ask, breaking the extended silence.
“How was your day, Reagan,” she says without missing a beat.
“Oh, um good, I guess,”
“How so?”
“Oh, you know,” I answer because I don't think telling my therapist that I had a nice heart-to-heart with my older, dominant boyfriend after confessing my feelings on a difficult subject. But only after he practically forced it out of me by denying me an orgasm would be appropriate. “Just a good day,”
“Hmm, and your panic attacks?” I clear my throat and straighten my legs, grabbing a pillow beside me and hugging that to my chest instead.
“I haven't had any recently,” I answer, and she nods her head, reaching for the notebook beside her and writing in it.
“And how are your journal entries coming along?” A subtle ache starts up in the pit of my stomach at her question, but I don't pay it any attention.
“It, well..... It comes and goes,” I say, and it's the best if not the only answer I can give. Some days my words flow like water and my pen flies across the pages of my journal. On other days, it's challenging to write even one word. And most days it's impossible to write anything at all because, at the end of the day, all my words add up to one thing. Goodbye.
“You look good, Reagan. Healthy,”
“Thanks,” I answer, and Erica leans forward, her expression attentive.
“And the man who dropped you off today? Is he the reason you've been skipping our sessions?” My eyes widen at the mention of Paris, and I can already feel the heat creeping up my face.
