I kiss him back, letting my body once again show him exactly how grateful I am that we’re here, together.

“I really thought I was doing better than this.”

I’m sitting on Dianne’s couch, picking at loose threads on a throw pillow in my lap again. I’m surprised this thing doesn’t have holes in it by now. Or maybe she replaces it every once in a while, like a parent swapping out a dead goldfish when their kid isn’t looking.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Ugh. She’s going to make me figure this out on my own. I hate it when she does that.

“Well, it took a while, but now I’m able to talk about this so easily with you. I thought that was it. Once I could talk it out, I’d be better.” As soon as I say that aloud, I realize how stupid it sounds.

Luckily, Dianne doesn’t laugh at me. Instead, she tilts her head and indulges me with a smile. “Is that really what you thought?”

“Not anymore,” I grumble, face tilted down to the pillow.

She does chuckle at that, but it’s motherly, not derisive. “You should be incredibly proud of yourself, Scarlett. You showed up here—”

“I was dragged here by my agent.”

“Trina doesn’t have the muscle to carry you. You walked through that door on your own two feet, and you’ve kept showing up and working hard to get to a place you feel good about. I mean, look at you. You’re not only writing again, but you’re publishing, too. Two years ago, you didn’t even want to consider that as a possibility.”

“Ryan had to come over and remind me to eat. And bathe,” I admit to the pillow.

“Progress isn’t linear.”

“It should be for me,” I insist stubbornly.

Dianne’s nostrils flare as she frowns at me. “I know you’re deflecting, but I also know you hold yourself to an impossibly high standard. We’ve talked about that when it comes to your writing. It applies here, too. And look, you did eat when Ryan reminded you. That’s improvement. And you bathed, I’m guessing, because you don’t stink more than usual.”

I raise my gaze to glare at her, and she winks. I roll my eyes. Somehow, I always end up feeling like a petulant teenager when I’m here. “So why can’t I talk to Ryan about some of the things that happened? I feel like I clam up, or we end up taking about something else.” Or making out, but that’s probably too much information. I’m sure she’s figured it out anyway.

“Has he asked?”

I make a noncommittal noise. “He never seems to want to know what happened before. Only after.”