My grounding force and bright shining light all week is Ben. In class, we sneak texts like middle schoolers, developing in-jokes about US presidents and Mr. Keating’s penchant for bow ties. He walks me home after school. “It means I get to talk to you longer than a car ride,” he says, which makes me fucking melt.

I’m afraid to ruin our bubble, but the guilt of not telling him I’m at Natalie’s on a routine basis is gnawing at me. Finally, on the walk home Thursday, my Audrey-esque kitten heels pinching my ankles and putting me in a bad mood, I mention the therapy appointment. Ben hisses air through his teeth, halts midstride, consternation deeply furrowing his brow.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing Dr. Shelby?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice. Maura set it up. Is it a problem?”

“…No,” he says, but his tone says yes.

I’m suddenly irritated by his attitude. I knew he’d be upset, but this isn’t my fault, and I have no patience for cryptic bullshit. “I was already nervous, and you’re not making it better. I know you hate their family, but it’s therapy, and Dr. Shelby is one of the only therapists in town. What’s the big deal?”

Ben groans. “I used to see her. Before my mom died, actually. She was fine. I guess.” He scuffs his sneaker on a cracked sidewalk tile, avoids eye contact. “But with a town this small, everyone already knows everyone’s business anyway. Going to Dr. Shelby…Nothing good can come of it.” His face darkens. “It’s better not to touch anything having to do with that family.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s no shame in therapy. I’m sure Dr. Shelby is a professional, and Maura was only trying to help.” Now I’m pissed he’s making me defend Maura and therapy when thirty seconds ago I didn’t want to particularly like either. I stop walking. It takes half a block before he notices.

“Cecelia.” He turns back, but his voice is still laced with chill. “I’m only trying to help.”

“No, you aren’t. This is about you and your hang-ups, not me and mine. Some of us want to work through our shit instead of wallowing.”

“I’m trying to protect you.” The emphasis he puts on the word has me seeing red.

“I don’t need your protection. It’s therapy, not a torture chamber. In fact, I can walk myself home while we’re at it. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m a big girl.”

“Fine,” he yells curtly.

“Fine!” I retort, like the petulant child I just insisted I wasn’t. But despite my words, I’m surprised when he turns away, leaving me to walk the last half block on my own.