My old therapist’s waiting room had been New England Creative, but this one was Manhattan Hardass. The walls were a soft white, the carpet a neutral gray, the furniture darker gray and chrome. All of it matched everything else—the floor, the lamps. There was also a receptionist hidden behind a sliding frosted window. Even though I was the only person here, she spoke in hushed tones, passing me an electronic tablet with all the forms to sign and assuring me Dr. Lindsey would be with me soon.

The only sound was the air conditioning, shushing like a white noise machine. No magazines on the table, no brochures advertising support groups or shiny new medications, nothing. This waiting room was a cryogenic chamber.

I turned my phone over in my hands, remembering the aggressive rush I’d felt yesterday. Swearing and breaking things had made me feel more like my old self than months of medication. Even if my old self had been soft-spoken and careful.

Last night I’d told Michael the whole story, and it had filled me with triumph rather than shame. He must have thought smashing things in a bathroom was better than sobbing on the floor of one, because he just laughed. “You probably said what everyone was thinking. If this club doesn’t work out, there’s always the one through my work. And who was that woman?”

Lena. Lena Voss. Born and raised in Arkansas but a Texas resident for two decades. My neighbor.

But I hadn’t known that right away. All I’d known was that I wasn’t alone, that someone supported me, even in my rage. She’d put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re okay now. Whatever happened, just fuck it.” The fragments of our coffee cups still rocked on the china-dusted floor as we strode out into the lobby.

“Is everyone looking at me?” I’d whispered.

“Nope. They’re all too busy worrying about their own selves. But you could smile a little. Don’t want anyone to think I’m marching you to your death.”

Lena had pushed the big front door open, and the frigid air conditioning gave way to a heavy wall of humidity. Across the expansive parking lot, other women were heading for their cars, and one of them gave Lena a little wave.

That simple wave triggered my memory. I said, “You live in my neighborhood. We saw you last night, my husband and I.”

Her laugh would have been a full-bodied and uninhibited guffaw on anyone else, but it seemed perfectly sized and natural as breath for her. “Well, nice to meet you, neighbor. I’m Lena, and you are …?”

“Kacy. We just moved in.”

“So this is your first Bluebonnets meeting, and you’re already throwing dishes. Who pissed you off?”

“Sandy.”