It’s our first time combining our “talents.” And I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been.

Exceedingly more nervous than my first unofficial job helping Darcy break up with the class president.

Bryce lowers his chin, tips his head to the side, and peers at Lauren with his wide, puppy dog brown eyes. “So you see, you deserve someone who’s on the same page, who wants to start a family and have the white picket fence. But that’s just not me. I wouldn’t be staying true to myself if I tried to be that person—the person I’m not. And I don’t want us to take this further and for me to resent you.”

Be honest and to the point. ✔

Bryce sighs, wrapping up his spiel. “You deserve more than that. You deserve someone who wants all that, who appreciates art and likes watching Sex in the City reruns, and isn’t allergic to your cat.”

His lips curve up in a smile tinged with melancholy. “Someone who’ll appreciate you and the way you know exactly how to make microwave popcorn without burning it and only having minimal kernels left at the bottom. Someone to appreciate the way you care for them when they’re under the weather and make sure they’re stocked with tissues and cough drops. Someone like…”

Mention positives and share good things they’ve done for you. ✔

My fingers clench in anticipation. He’s doing so well. Just a little more…

“Maybe someone like Ethan Filmore.”

Jackpot. Mention an attractive classmate who might be interested. In Lauren’s case, Ethan’s an art design major and has been studying with her for the past few exams.

Thank you, Darce. She worked her magic in orchestrating that.

“Good boy,” I murmur beneath my breath as I watch the couple from a few tables away on the patio of the quad’s coffee shop. “Now, Darce,” I speak the hushed command into the small microphone on my earbuds.

Out comes Ethan, his stereotypical artsy attire clear for anyone to see. He has flair, I’ll give him that, especially with that beret he always wears.

“Oh,” Lauren starts, “please don’t put yourself down, Bryce.” She lays her hand on the one he has lying on the small round table. “You’ve been exactly what I needed, but now that you mention it…” She trails off thoughtfully.

“So no hard feelings?” he offers softly, executing a quick, gentle hand squeeze before he extracts his from hers.

On point, just like we practiced.

Leave them better now than they were before. ✔

Lauren’s lips part, and her eyes dart between him and Ethan, who’s now sidling up to their table.

“Excuse me for interrupting.” Ethan’s expression is sheepish, his eyes flitting over to Bryce before focusing on Lauren with burning intensity. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d like to go to the exhibit this Friday.”

A flush spreads high across her cheekbones. “I, uh, yeah. I’d love to.” Then more furious blushing.

God, this is way too easy. Granted, Lauren and Bryce had only been dating for about four months, but according to him, they’d been drifting apart for two of those months. It’s breakups like this one that help us get through the more challenging ones. Everyone needs a reprieve; even me.

Helping people break up is more exhausting than one might imagine.

“Great. It’ll be nice to have someone who knows their stuff.” Ethan shuffles his feet, and I tense, trying to telepathically remind him to be confident. To exude it. “And who’s beautiful, too.”

Lauren’s eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. “That’s so sw—” She breaks off suddenly, realizing Bryce is still there.

Bryce offers her an easy smile and a wink, sliding out of his chair to rise. “I’ll leave you two to make your plans.”

“Bye, Bryce.” Her smile is grateful before she focuses her attention back on Ethan, who wastes no time taking the vacated seat.

Bryce walks away, looking relieved, and slips right past where I’m seated. One ever so brief nod at me, and he’s off to enjoy single life once again. My eyes rest happily on Lauren and Ethan as they chat animatedly about medieval art something or another, and I can finally breathe easy.

“Great job.” Darcy’s voice in my earbuds brings a satisfied smile to my face. “Fifty bucks well earned.”

“We need to start charging more.” This comes from Leif, our tech guru, who’d insisted on being in the loop in case things went sideways. He always manages to dig up useful background information on clients and the individual they plan to break up with.

“We’re in college. Not everyone’s rolling in it,” I mutter.

“We need to at least have a breakdown of charges for potential clients. It would help now that Darcy’s officially added her skill set to the mix.”

With a sigh, I gather my messenger bag and sling the strap across my chest. “Talk about this later. Gotta run.” I disconnect and tuck my phone and earbuds into the back pocket of my bag, then head back to the dorm.

Time to prepare for my appointment with my thesis reviewer.

* * *

“Miss Hayes, I’m a bit concerned.”

Dr. Robicheaux’s eyes narrow, and he has that crease between his brows, which never bodes well. My stomach twists in knots of apprehension because I’ve got a lot riding on this thesis. Or, more importantly, on the approval of my thesis.

“You must realize how jaded your approach comes across?”

Jaded? My jaw clenches, but I maintain my cool façade as I sit in the chair opposite his side of the desk. “With all due respect, just because I’m not on the bandwagon of believing everyone is destined to get their happily ever after doesn’t necessarily mean I’m jaded, sir.” I break off with a hollow laugh. “I mean, there’s not a rule that says everyone has to buy into the Disney garb—” I catch myself in the nick of time and finish with a more flattering, “scenario.”

“But with this ideology, establishing your own practice”—he breaks off to lower his face, peering at me over the top of his thick, dark-framed glasses—“if that’s what your goal is, you may have quite a challenge in finding patients.” He purses his lips. “And keeping them.”

I fight hard to bite my tongue because I can’t allow myself to spill the truth that I’m already pseudo practicing without a license. Not only would that ruin me, but it would also hurt Darcy and Leif, and I can’t implicate them. Especially not Darcy. She’s been my rock.

He continues. “Perhaps you should consider some counseling. It might be beneficial and might help to ensure that your background”—the way he says the word “background” causes my spine to stiffen—“and experience in foster care isn’t coloring your views.”

I link my fingers and settle them on my lap where I’m seated in the cushy leather chair across from where Dr. Robicheaux—or DeAndre, as I once knew him, a lifetime ago—sits at his enormous desk.

Time to finally confront the elephant in the room.

“My foster care experience wasn’t like most people expect. I was never abused.” And that’s the truth. I wasn’t. The worst of my experiences came long before foster care.

After my mother changed.

I attempt to calm myself before I speak my next words. “How long have you known?”

How long have you known my identity? is what I’m really asking. I’d hoped to get through without tripping his “radar” of familiarity. Especially since he has knowledge of my past.

As soon as the question spills from my lips, a minuscule part of his mask drops, and his lips tilt up in the boyish manner I recall from years ago.

“You’re a hard person to forget.” His muted response is unexpected. “I didn’t want to address it earlier. Didn’t want to spook you.” His eyes, the darkest shade of espresso, regard me thoughtfully, but with what I’d swear is also a hint of affection. “Did you ace your math test after that?”

At his reference to our shared past, my throat grows painfully tight, and my heart begins to thud in erratic beats. I frantically attempt to remind myself I haven’t had a panic attack in years. This is definitely not the time to revisit them.

Drawing in a deep breath, I force myself to maintain patience and adopt a casual tone. “I did.” With a curt nod, I attempt a tight smile. “Thanks to you, of course.”

His mouth curves in a hint of a genuine smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Glad I could help.” Those dark eyes scan me, not in the sexual way I’m used to from men, but in a concerned, almost brotherly manner. “You look well.” When my lips part, he finishes with, “On the outside.”

My laugh is strained, the sarcasm heavy in my words as I wave a hand to gesture to my body. “It helps that I look vastly different than when I was eight years old. My hairstyle is just an additional safeguard.” My mother had kept my hair short in a bob style for years, but I’ve since grown it much longer.

“Have you”—he waves an upturned palm in my direction—“considered therapy? Talking to someone might—”

No. I’m not doing this. I’ve worked hard to put my past behind me, and regardless of how our paths may have intersected at one moment, I’m not interested in taking a stroll down memory lane with him.

This is why I abruptly interrupt. “If it’s a crime for a person to grow up in a sterile environment—much like the bulk of my foster care experiences—I think there’d be a shortage of available appointments for those requiring therapy.”

“Look.” He slips his glasses off and pinches one of the temples between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m only suggesting you try to eliminate your bias because it could very well hinder you at some point.”

This is a losing battle. And I fully recognize when I have to acquiesce.

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me for an extra beat, enough to make me think he’s going to call my bluff, but at the last moment, he nods. Setting his glasses on his desk, he closes the file, and his index finger toys at the edge of the paper affixed to the outside.

The paper requiring his signature of approval.

My breath lodges in my throat, and I resist the urge to lean forward in my seat, anxiously waiting for him to pick up that pen and scribble his signature.

With his approval, I’ll be one step closer to achieving my goal.

“Promise me you’ll consider what we’ve discussed, Miss Hayes.” Dark eyes meet mine, and his eyebrows remain furrowed with concern.

“I promise.” I’m not lying. He’s asking me to consider it, which I have.

And I’ve promptly dismissed it.

His gaze is scrutinizing as if he can read my mind, and honestly, he might actually be able to, considering the field he’s in.

Finally, he does it. He grasps that expensive-looking pen and scratches his signature along the line.

My eyes fall closed in relief.

This is it.