Dr. Carla Mortensen studied me with somber eyes. She was a trim, middle-aged woman with sleek, dark hair and a movie-star mole above the left corner of her mouth. Her office was light and airy, decorated in soothing tones of blue and gray. An African mask hung on the wall behind her desk. I stared at it, unable to make eye contact with her. I felt like I’d let her down. She’d been my doctor for the past ten years and had been a major factor in turning my life around. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d still be living with Dad, working at the coffee shop, and miserable.

“What’s going on, Bronte?” She came around the desk to sit in the club chair beside me. “You’ve been doing so well.”

“I’ve had two freak-outs over the past month.”

She scribbled on her notepad. “Tell me about that. Where were you when the first one happened?”

I told her about the incident at Joe’s Java Junction and followed up with the Seaforths’ party. She nodded and listened intently to the end of my story. I kicked off my shoes and tucked a foot beneath me. This place always seemed safe, a judgement-free zone.

“And when did you start counting again?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say anything about counting.” I’d hoped to avoid the topic but should have known better. She was too sharp.

“Come on, Bronte. We’re way past that.” She tapped her pen impatiently on the notebook. “You came here for my help. I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve always counted, even on the good days, but it didn’t interfere with my life until last week. I thought it was better to get a jump on things before it got out of hand.” Panic squeezed my insides. “I don’t want to go back to the way I was. I’m scared.”

Seeing my distress, she patted my hand and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out, just like we have before. You’ll feel better in no time. Now, let’s back up. Tell me about the first time you realized you were counting excessively again.”

“It happened so gradually that I’m not sure, but I think it started when I went back to work at the coffee shop.”

“Okay, good. That’s a start.”

We talked about Jo and Dad and the way they treated me like a twenty-eight-year-old child. It felt good to confess my feelings to someone who didn’t argue or complain or make excuses. Eventually, the topic turned to Rhett.

“And what did you do when he said the evening was a mistake?” she asked.

A hot flush burned my cheeks at the memory. “I yelled at him and slammed the door in his face. I feel terrible about it.”

“Do you think he treated you fairly?”

“No.”

“Then you were within your rights to speak your mind. It’s okay to have boundaries, Bronte. You deserve to be treated with respect and to remove the people from your life who don’t follow those guidelines.”

* * *

At the end of our session, she flipped through the pages of her notepad before speaking. I wrung my hands, aware of the perspiration on my palms. What if she said I needed to go back to Dad’s? I didn’t mind spending a night or two, but the idea of losing my independence frightened me. I had no idea how much it meant to me until I risked losing it.

“It seems like your issues from now and before center around your relationships with your father, Jo, and Rhett. Next time, I’d like to talk more about that. Take the week to think about how they make you feel and what’s triggering your behaviors. In the meantime, I’m going to adjust your medication and see if we can relieve a bit of your anxiety.”

I frowned as she sent an electronic prescription to the pharmacy. “I really don’t want to take more medication if I don’t have to.”

“Everyone needs a little help from time to time. There’s nothing wrong with it. And it won’t be forever. Just until you get your OCD under control.” She tapped her pen on the desktop, studying me. “I have to say, Bronte, I’m impressed with the progress you’ve made since your last visit. You should be proud of all that you’ve done. We’ll get through this.”

I walked the eight blocks from Dr. Mortensen’s to my lab. The shops and apartments passed by in a blur. My thoughts lingered on Dad and Jo. They loved me unconditionally but seemed resistant to the changes in my life. I felt like a fragile butterfly contained within a glass jar. I wanted to spread my wings and fly, but I’d never be able to move forward without their support.

Rhett, on the other hand, seemed to accept me the way I was. I liked the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at me, the way he listened to what I said, like I mattered—like I was normal. His behavior after the Seaforth party seemed out of character, more like Walt. But he wasn’t my asshole high school crush. Treating him that way was unfair to us both. Something must have happened at the party to change Rhett’s mood, something more than my breakdown. I couldn’t continue to project Walt’s bad behavior onto every guy I met, or I’d end up lonely and alone like Jo.