How the hell did such a Zen creature birth the type-A Natalie? Guess she takes after her father, beyond her blue eyes and pointed chin.

Dr. Shelby steps backward into her office, exuding calm, as she directs me toward a brown leather two-seater couch that faces a matching armchair. Mild disappointment swoops through me.

“First time in therapy?” Dr. Shelby asks. “Everyone remarks on the pedestrian couch. Not what the TV shows promise, eh?”

“Sorry. Yeah. Though everything else is pretty much bang on.” I gesture around the room. Wide windows throw sultry late-afternoon light onto built-in bookshelves along the inside wall, a sleek desk and iMac bookended by bougie filing cabinets behind Dr. Shelby’s chair, and an ornate fireplace between the windows.

“Shall we get started?”

Her question is simple enough. It expands. Fills the room.

It’s big, beginning.

Beginning means I have to acknowledge an end.

And then Dr. Shelby asks me to articulate my hesitation.

And like that, I am officially in therapy.

CHAPTER NINE

Natalie’s room turns out to be easy to find. Simply follow the trail of photos of her up the stairs and down the hall to an airy pink-and-white room tucked under an eave that faces the spacious backyard. Hers is a pretty-princess bedroom with a horsey flair, and I think, Of course she’s a horsey girl. Champion jumper, too, judging from the ribbons.

I find her typing away on her iMac keyboard; I’m mildly surprised to see it’s an older model. But it fits in with the rest of the room. Pointedly dated.

Natalie reads my mind. “It’s frozen in time, I know. I haven’t bothered with redecorating since middle school. I only drop by here when Mom insists on dinner after a long day of sessions. Wait until you see my room at the beach house. Daddy gave me the upstairs master, since they have the master here.”

“Are your parents separated?” I try to parse how having two houses works. Is this one just for shits and giggles? Or, I suppose, for therapy but not for living.

Natalie snorts, avoids the question, instead volleying with her own. “How was the session with Mommie Dearest?”

I can’t tell if the moniker is ironic or if she’s never seen the movie and doesn’t know. “It was good,” I say. “I’m new to, uh, talking about my emotions, but I don’t think I completely fucked it up. Though I did feel silly some of the time.”

“Everyone’s kind of wary in the first session. You’ll warm up. Spill all your juicy secrets. Anyway.” She turns off her monitor and sprints over to me by the door. “The game starts in less than an hour, so shall we? I just have to grab my shoes and a purse from the beach house.”