I’m freaking tired.

So tired I can barely make out the words I’m typing on my keyboard.

Needing a pick-me-up, I head to the coffee room. Surprisingly, no one is in here, but I welcome the silence. As much I’ve always enjoyed the energy coursing through the office, my heart isn’t here anymore. These last few weeks, I’ve been coasting. Basically pretending to work as I attempt to keep my mind and emotions at bay. Thank God no one has asked what I’ve been up to because the answer would be nothing. I haven’t contacted any new leads. I haven’t called any of my clients. I’ve done nothing.

As the Keurig roars to life and steam from the machine fills the air, a presence looms behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Barry standing close. I narrow my eyes at him.

“Can I help you?”

“Nope. Just grabbing coffee.”

The heat of his body tells me he’s standing too close. “Barry? Do you mind giving me some space?” He shuffles a step, but he’s still too close.

“So . . .” He leans in to speak and the closer he gets, the more I feel as if I’m being suffocated. “Did Richard ever tell you his partner’s name? Or better yet, has the lawyer for his estate contacted you?”

Even though I do know, I’m hesitant to tell anyone. It was bad enough for me to be Richard’s favorite, but if the staff knew my mom was the silent owner, it would make working here even more complicated. I don’t owe Barry an answer. The silent partner is a non-entity. Apart from providing capital, she has no interest in becoming involved.

“No, Barry. I don’t,” I manage, but the more we talk of Richard, the more my heart rate accelerates. Without saying another word, I jet down the hall and into the bathroom.

Once there, I throw myself into a stall and dry heave into the toilet. This is bad. So fucking bad. I swear I’m dying. This can’t be normal. It can’t. Pulse racing. Heart pounding. Sweat and dry heaves.

I’m having a heart attack. No. It’s just panic.

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Exhale. One. Two. Three.

I can get through this. Think of the breathing techniques.

It takes me sitting on the bathroom floor for an hour before I have the strength to get up and pretend to function.

But eventually I get through.

* * *

This will be my sixth session seeing Preston Montgomery as a patient. I can’t believe six weeks have passed since the first time I sat in his waiting room.

The creak of wood causes my back to straighten.

“Hi. Sorry, I’m running late today. How are you? It’s good to see you again.” He seems so relaxed and carefree.

“I’m good.” I smile tightly, but I don’t think he senses my unease. He turns to his previous patient and says his good-bye before returning his attention to me.

“Would you please see yourself to my office? I need to check my messages.”

“Of course, no problem.”

As he peers at me, something inside me stirs. A feeling I haven’t felt for a while—comfort. He sees me and understands me. It’s amazing. It’s all encompassing. His eyes blink rapidly and the moment is lost. Shaking my head, I make an effort to no longer gawk at him and head straight into his office.

When he walks in a few minutes later, our eyes meet and a strange feeling lingers in the room. I find myself anxious as I wait for him to speak from across the coffee table.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Doc,” I say and he shakes his head at my moniker.

“You seem in good sorts today.”

“I am now, but I wasn’t before.”

And it’s true. For weeks I’ve been off, but being here—it’s like sunshine after a stormy day. I want to bask in its rays. Feel the warmth on my face.

“What happened?”

“I had an awful panic attack at the office. But I’ve just been off in general. Like my chest is heavy all the time.” Except when you’re around. “Does that make sense?”

“It does. Have you been practicing the breathing techniques?”

“Here and there.” I look down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with him. I know he will see I haven’t been following his numerous suggestions. Only the ones about breathing.

“That’s really good.” He either doesn’t notice how evasive I am or he’s giving me a pass. “And how has that been working for you?” He smiles and I know it’s the latter.

“It did calm me,” I admit on a sigh. “Not so much when I had the full blown attack in the office, but when I felt another one creeping up, I was able to pull away.”

“So, you found the breathing helped you distance yourself from the fear?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good.” He leans forward in his chair. “How about you tell me a little about what triggered your last attack?”

“I was at work. A coworker was bombarding me with questions about the company. Most of my attacks happen at work, which, of course, is not ideal. I had one that was terrible this week. I felt like I was dying. Like I was having a heart attack right there in the office bathroom.” My eyes flutter closed as I shudder inwardly at the thought of every attack I’ve had at work. It’s debilitating.

“Okay.” He pauses and I hear the sound of his pencil scribbling against the pad. “Tell me about your job. You said you work in marketing, but what are your daily activities?”

Opening my eyes, I stare up at him. “It depends. I find leads, contact them, and then pitch them. I wine and dine them. If I land a client, I come up with a strategic marketing plan to fit their needs. That’s about it.”

“I’m sure there’s a little bit more to it than that?”

“Yeah, I guess, but I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“Can you talk to me about how you like working there?”

“I used to love it, but it’s just not the same anymore,” I huff out. Suddenly, talking about work is suffocating.

“How is it not the same?”

It feels as if ice is spreading through my veins as I try to reel in my emotions. He nods to me with encouragement. I exhale and press through.

“Go on, Eve, I’m here for you.” He reassures me.

“I’m there because of Richard. He gave me the job. He trained me. He taught me the ins and outs. He encouraged me. I just can’t be there without him. It feels wrong.” Tears pool in my eyes and I think I might break down, but when I catch Dr. Montgomery’s eyes, there is so much compassion and understanding in them. They hold me together. They make me stronger.

“I know this is difficult for you, but I think we are getting somewhere. Have you noted when this heaviness presents itself?”

“I have.”

“Would you like to share?” He smiles.

“Not particularly.” I laugh. “But if I have to.” He purses his lips and I laugh some more as I reach for my notebook. “Fine.” I scan the pages, one after another. Note after note, until one thing becomes clear. I furrow my brow.

“I see you found something. The common denominator?”

“From the look in your eyes, I believe you already know, doc.”

“I do.” He looks at me with an expression full of understanding and something else, something I can’t put my finger on. I feel as if he wants to close the gap and reach for me, and then just as quickly it’s gone. “Go on.”

I take a deep inhale then let out an audible breath. “Work. It’s almost always at work.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“If I knew the answer to that—”

“I know you don’t, but that’s why we’re here. We’ll figure this out together.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“I can tell you my belief, but until you figure it out for yourself, you won’t learn. It’s like a plant. You drop a seed into the dirt, pour a little water, but in the end, the seed needs to learn how to grow by its self. All you can do is give it the tools it needs.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me,” I huff out and he laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound.

“Tell me some of the things Richard did for you in the office and outside the office. You told me he was always there for you in your personal life, and that at work he helped you with your training. What else did he do?”

“He gave me encouragement.”

“Does anyone else give you that?”

“No.” He cast his eyes down and his jaw tightens. My answer seems to sadden and anger him at the same time.

“So, now when you’re working, you no longer have reassurance that you are doing a good job?”

My mouth drops open. Is that it?

“What are you thinking?”

“It’s more than the encouragement. It’s the approval, right? The acknowledgment?” He nods as I work it out. “And it’s because of what?”

“Growing up, who gave you encouragement?”

“No one. Well, no one but Richard.”

“So, your belief in yourself is dependent on him?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And how do you feel now at work?”

“Unmotivated. I have no idea what I’m doing. I can’t see the correct path for anything. It’s as if I can’t do it anymore. It’s as though I don’t know what I’m doing now without him there. God, I miss him so much.”

“And what do you think Richard would say to that?” I close my eyes and hear his words in my head.

“He would say that notion was ridiculous. That I’m an amazing woman and I can succeed in whatever I put my mind to.”

“So, here’s what I think. Richard was a father figure and a mentor for almost your whole life. I think the reason your panic attacks are mostly triggered at the office is because your need for approval was always fulfilled by him instead of your parents, and now his absence is a giant void that’s manifesting itself into anxiety.”

I consider his words and they make so much sense. How had I not seen it? Was I so blinded by my grief that I couldn’t see what was so blatantly in front of me? He was my father, my mother . . . my mentor.

“So what do I do?” I mumble.

“You do what he would have advised. You take one day at a time. Every time you start to panic, when you start doubting your ability to do your job—when you’re questioning your decisions—you visualize Richard. You think of him and the lessons he implemented all your life. You remember his words. You replay them and you live them. He was your champion. Now you need to learn to be your own champion, Eve.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can.” His voice is so assertive. So sure.

“How do you know?”

“Because I have faith in you.” Warmth spreads through me at his words. Familiar words Richard once said. They make me believe.