Being back at work becomes even harder as the days pass. By the time I return home, I resort to drinking to cope with my days and keep the nightmares at bay. My terrors and anxiety have gotten worse, and I still haven’t called the number I know I need to call. I’m not sure what my hesitation is. I guess I’m hoping Sydney finds me someone else.

Tonight I lie in bed sobbing. My bedroom door pushes open and I peer through swollen lids to find Sydney standing in the doorway. I don’t speak and neither does she. Her eyes are sunken in from worry as she gnaws at her upper lip.

“This is enough already. You are falling apart and it’s breaking my heart. Earlier today I spoke to Natalie.”

My mouth opens to object. Natalie works in the office with us. I can’t have her knowing that I’m falling apart at the seams.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell Natalie it was you. I told her it was for my younger brother.”

My tears dry as I consider this. It would make complete sense. Sydney’s brother is a notorious fuck-up in his senior year of some fancy prep school in the city. She’s always complaining about him getting expelled.

“She gave me the number of her therapist, Dr. Cole. We’re calling him first thing on Monday morning and you’re going to see him, understand?”

“Yes.” I sniffle.

“Good.”

Sydney is right.

Dr. Montgomery is right.

I need to speak to someone.

I need to fix whatever is broken inside me.

And I need to do it before it’s too late.

Before I turn into her.

* * *

“Are you nervous?” Sydney asks.

Am I? Hell yeah, I am. It’s been a few days since she got me the number of the therapist, and when I did nothing with said number for two days, Sydney took it upon herself to call and get me an appointment.

“Wouldn’t you be?” I grit out.

“Wait, is this really the first time you have an actual appointment to see a therapist?” I nod. “So, even when you were young and your dad died, you never saw anyone?”

“Nope.”

“You would think they would have made you.”

“Nope.”

She furrows her brows at my one-word answer. A tense silence echoes through the room.

“Do I really have to go?” I finally groan as I bury my head in my hands.

“Girl . . . I love you, but yes, you do. You looked like a walking zombie today at work. If they were planning to sack anyone, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the first to get the boot.”

I pout my lip and roll my eyes. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” she chides as she throws her coat on.

“Where you going?”

“I’m walking you.”

My eyes widen.

“What?”

Sydney tries unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. Her cheeks puff up until she finally fails and one escapes. “I’m walking you to your appointment.” Her lips twitch with amusement as she wraps a scarf around her neck. “What are you still doing lying there like a lump?”

Despite the fact I have no desire to see Dr. Cole, I find myself getting up and putting on my coat. “Lead the way, bitch,” I mutter under my breath, eliciting another round of giggles from Sydney.

Dr. Cole’s office is not at all what I expected. First off, it’s in Alphabet City. Secondly, it’s in the basement of a dingy building. Not that I need a fancy Park Avenue location, but this is kind of sketchy.

Sydney chews on her lower lip as she steals a look at the building. “So . . .this looks—”

“Like a dump?” I chime in.

“I was going to say interesting. But yeah, it looks like a dump.” She grabs my arm. “Come on, we’ve come this far. No backing out now.”

I follow her into the building and down the steps to the basement apartment. A chime goes off as we enter. When we step in, I know instantly this isn’t the right psychologist for me. The place is grimy and dirty. The sound of something shattering has us looking up. A man walks out dressed in wrinkled slacks and there’s a stain on his shirt. Not at all professional-looking. Not like Dr. Montgomery. I can’t see someone like this. I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling him anything.

“You must be, Eve,” he says. His eyes linger on me a second too long, making my back stiffen uncomfortably.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding. I’m so sorry, but we have to go.” The words tumble out as I grab Sydney’s hand and usher her out the door.

“Well, that was . . .” Sydney trails off, trying to articulate exactly what that was.

“Very unprofessional, right?”

“Yeah, totally. I’ll make a few more calls and see who else I can find. But first, let’s find the nearest subway and get the hell out of here.” She pulls me down the street.

When we’re back in Murray Hill, we decide to walk down Third Avenue to find a place to eat dinner. Sydney taps away at her phone the entire meal. By the time we’re finished and returning to our apartment, she had two more psychologists with spots open for me.

* * *

The next few days are a whirlwind of appointments. It feels as if I’ve seen every therapist in the tri-state area . . . Well, maybe not every one. One was unprofessional, one was an ice queen, and one’s voice just rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t imagine seeing any of them. I couldn’t imagine being comfortable enough to divulge my life to these people. I could imagine each of them judging, criticizing, and in the end I knew none of them would make me feel safe. There was still one I hadn’t called and even I was starting to chastise myself for that. What was my holdup with calling him, anyway?

Other than the fact he was handsome, there was nothing else stopping me. I couldn’t think of one reason I shouldn’t see him as my therapist. I was comfortable with him. He made me feel safe, and he was able to talk me out of a panic attack not once but two times. Both times he never judged me. He had compassion in his eyes and a genuine expression that promised he wanted to help me. The only holdup I could see was his looks, and that was starting to sound like a ridiculous reason even to me.

So what if he’s good looking? His looks shouldn’t play a part in my treatment.

There’s only one choice I can make in this situation . . .

I’m calling him.