“Ah, figures. That woman acts like she’s auditioning for Desperate Housewives. Don’t let her get to you. There’s a little drama at every meeting, but it always blows over.”

I wanted to believe her, to believe in drama that was fleeting, not life ruining. I wanted to be confident and strong, to look to the future. Apparently I couldn’t get there on my own.

Maybe Dr. Lindsey could make that happen.

My former therapist had his office in an old Victorian with battered hardwood floors and white plaster walls. The furniture was well-worn leather and mismatched end tables, and Dr. Johnson matched the decor. He wore Mr. Rogers–style sweaters and often had a pair of glasses on his face and another pushed back on his head. His beard was pure white and he occasionally brushed it with his fingers while I was talking, as if reminding himself it was there. He sat on a chair by the door and I sat on a sofa near him and mostly cried. Sometimes he passed me a tissue. When our time was up, he would say something vague and I’d leave.

The only thing of substance he’d given me was a prescription. But I hadn’t expected any more help than that. The problem wasn’t imaginary. Unless he could turn back time, appear at the museum and warn me about Aimee, denounce her and exonerate me, keep me from being so stupid, so trusting, so naïve, there wasn’t anything he could do for me.

But six months and a big move later, I was still a certifiable basket case. At least, until yesterday. I tapped out some new affirmations on my fingers. I am strong. I speak up. I am not afraid. I hesitated, tapping my fourth finger before choosing the obvious. I am ready for therapy.

“Remember,” Michael had warned. “You don’t have to commit to Dr. Lindsey. We’re going to find a therapist that you connect with, one that can help.”

I had connected with my old psychiatrist, more or less. Something about his clichéd contemporary Freud appearance and nonthreatening passivity gave me the space to fall apart. I didn’t feel self-conscious or like I had to present a false front. He didn’t expect better of me, like my dad, or want to coddle me, like my mom, or suffer all the collateral damage like Michael. He was just there.

And I was still the same.

I took out my phone, but the internet didn’t pull up. No signal. Was this building made of solid lead? Even the wireless networks were locked. Every single one. Maybe it was the universe cutting me off from my online stalking addiction. No matter how many times I checked up on Aimee, all I got was a stomachful of envy, hatred, and grief. The residue still coated my insides, and I dropped my phone back into my bag.