“Other than the fact that my ex threatened to sue me for custody of Fin, it’s all good.” I shrugged. As terrifying as the threat was, I logically knew that no judge would give her custody.

“Oh God. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. It won’t happen.”

She swallowed. “Do you want a hammer? It might help to break a few things.”

I grinned. “Why don’t you sit down over there and wait for your ice cream, and I’ll demo the rest of this?”

She nodded slowly. “I’d really appreciate the help.”

“All you ever have to do is ask.”

Then I picked up the hammer and destroyed what was left of her kitchen, knowing whatever she rebuilt in the space would be even better, and I didn’t think about the email I’d already fired off to my lawyer.

I didn’t think about it the rest of the night.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Morgan

God, I wish I’d had the chance to take you up with me. I wish you knew the way it feels up there with the clouds. It’s like you’re an inconsequential human and a god all at the same time. You would love it.

“This is good,” Dr. Circe said, looking over my list of less-than-awesome memories of Will. As much as the anniversary had taken me down a notch, it hadn’t thrown me backward as much as I’d prepared for. “How did you feel filling it out?”

“Guilty,” I answered honestly. “But lighter once I was done.”

“Excellent. We have a tendency to put our deceased loved ones up on a pedestal, as if we can only remember the good things about them instead of who they were as a whole person.” She leaned forward and put the worksheet on the coffee table. “We’re past the halfway point, and I’m incredibly pleased with your progress.”

“Thank you.” Heat rose in my cheeks.

“How is it going with the truck?”

My pulse kicked up. “Okay. I can open the door and stand on the running board now.”

She nodded, jotting something down on her notepad. “And the anxiety attacks?”

“I had one the first day that I stood on the running board,” I admitted quietly. “But Sam was there, and she talked me down. I didn’t have to use my rescue meds or anything.”

She smiled. “Good. That’s really good. And it might not feel like progress, but it is. See?” She opened my folder, flipped to a page in the back, made a mark, and then turned it around so I could see it. “These are your number of attacks a week.”

The graph was decreasing.

“And this”—she flipped another page—“is your reported level of grief. Look, you started up here at ten, and now you’re down here at five. It means the therapy is working. That’s fantastic!”