And then a 7-year-old pointed at me. Yeah. He rubbed the back of his neck. I'm still working on an apology for that. Don't.
Her voice was firm in a way that surprised him. Don't apologize for it. It was the most honest thing that had happened to me in months. Ava stirred in the chair. Both of them looked at her.
She resettled, still asleep, coat bunching further under her cheek. Caleb looked back at Natalie. I should get her home. Yes. Neither of them moved immediately.
There's a conflict of interest, Natalie said quietly, as though she was working something out. The therapeutic relationship with Ava is real and I take it seriously and there are ethics involved that I won't compromise. I'm not asking you to. I know. I'm saying I'm saying that I need to think about how to handle this in a way that's right for her.
She met his eyes because she matters. She matters more than she stopped more than the other thing. Caleb finished. Yes, I agree. He said she matters most.
A pause. Then I could refer her to a colleague, someone equally qualified, someone she'd be comfortable with. She paused if it seemed like something else needed room. He looked at her for a long time. He thought about 3 years of parking lot breakdowns.
4 seconds of peace every morning. The smell of a room that no longer smelled like anything. He thought about what it cost to open a door you'd sealed shut and whether the thing on the other side had any chance of being worth it. He thought about his daughter in a park pointing at a stranger with absolute uncomplicated certainty. Let's not decide anything right now.
He said, "Okay, let's just let's just see." She nodded slowly. "Let's see." He bent down and gathered Ava carefully, her head against his shoulder, her arms, arms limp with the complete trust of a sleeping child, her coat trailing from his arm. She stirred, murmured something, and went back under.
Natalie held the waiting room door. He carried his daughter through it. In the hallway at the elevator, he turned back. She was standing in the waiting room doorway, arms slightly crossed, watching. He looked at her.
She looked at him. Thursday after next, he said. Thursday after next, she said. He pressed the elevator button. She turned and went back inside.
He stood in the hallway for a moment while the elevator came, his daughter breathing slow and even against his shoulder. The warmth of her the most reliable thing he knew. Let's just see. He stepped into the elevator. What followed was the specific, confusing, terrible, ordinary experience of two people trying to figure out what they are to each other while both pretending they're not doing that.