ole breakdown in the morning to get things off on the right foot , she thought. Pulling into her parking lot at the rear of her shop, she breathed out a long, slow sigh, trying to release her tension. She reapplied her beeswax lip-tint, collected her purse, and exited the car. Popping on her wide, tortoise-shell sunglasses, she rounded the corner of her building. She’d opened the door to her shop and let the calming aroma’s waft over her anxiety. Walking to her store landline, she picked up the phone and dialed the one woman who could walk her through this fire. One. Last. Time.
***
Jordan ran her sweaty palms down the front of her wide-legged pants. The navy and white print, cotton, one-piece jumper was cinched at the waist with a navy patent belt and accented with gold disk earrings and a series of gold bangles that she was twisting nervously back and forth. She looked crisp and lovely and felt like a torn-down mess of an emotional demolition site. If she wanted this relationship with Riordan to work, she would need to address her scars head-on. Let the air and the light of day dry the open wounds.
Dr. Annabelle Winston walked into her office and smiled reassuringly at the woman she looked upon as a friend. She and Jordan had been keeping her night terrors at bay for close to ten years, since back when Annabelle was a just trauma counselor. Jordan would come in for a six to eight months at a time, get a tenuous grasp on her fears, and then disappear off of the map for long stretches of time. This time Annabelle was going to frame up this process from the jump and see if they could finally shut this revolving door on Annabelle’s office and repair Jordan’s fissured psyche permanently. Annabelle dropped Jordan’s file on her desk and pulled her office chair out.
“Welcome back, Jordan. It’s been a while since your last appointment. What’s been going on?” asked Annabelle.
Jordan sighed deeply. “Well, AB, I’ve been pretty good. Using my relaxation techniques, keeping my space free of clutter and calming, removed every toxic person and substance out of my life…” Annabelle glanced at Jordan’s open purse and spied the brightly colored cigarette pack in the pocket.
“Even smoking?” Annabelle said, jotting down a note in her file.
“Umm… Every once in a while…” started Jordan.
“You mean like now ?” asked Annabelle, pinning Jordan with a stare.
Jordan looked up at Annabelle under her lashes. Despite being one year her senior, Doc AB had always seemed like that big sister/mother figure that Jordan had needed so desperately growing up. She was the first person Jordan had told about her father’s abuse and her mother’s neglect. The first person she had told about blacking out in the bathroom from booze and pills. The first person to understand it was all a cover to be accepted and, for a small moment in time, loved. This also laid the groundwork for some pretty honest and gritty sessions that kept Jordan in her head for weeks on end.
Jordan studied AB for a moment. She was statuesque and dark, her skin the color of hazelnut shells. She had crossed over into the overweight zone long ago and was bordering on brick shithouse. Her fire-engine-red pencil skirt and her crisp, white, ruffled blouse accentuated every abundant curve and brought focus to her black, cat-eye glasses and bob-cut micro braids. AB was no joke and, right now, she was leaning back expectantly, ready to strike down the first line of bullshit Jordan was looking to send her way.
Jordan answered honestly. “Doc, I’m on my last nerve. It’s been nicotine or a padded cell. I’m just being real.”
Annabelle laid her pen down. “That’s what I need to hear, Jordan, and what you need to be this go around. Be real. What is it you are looking to get out of your sessions with me? Do you want to repair the damage or merely keep it at bay? Can I count on you to stop the disappearing acts?”
Jordan straightened
***
Jordan ran her sweaty palms down the front of her wide-legged pants. The navy and white print, cotton, one-piece jumper was cinched at the waist with a navy patent belt and accented with gold disk earrings and a series of gold bangles that she was twisting nervously back and forth. She looked crisp and lovely and felt like a torn-down mess of an emotional demolition site. If she wanted this relationship with Riordan to work, she would need to address her scars head-on. Let the air and the light of day dry the open wounds.
Dr. Annabelle Winston walked into her office and smiled reassuringly at the woman she looked upon as a friend. She and Jordan had been keeping her night terrors at bay for close to ten years, since back when Annabelle was a just trauma counselor. Jordan would come in for a six to eight months at a time, get a tenuous grasp on her fears, and then disappear off of the map for long stretches of time. This time Annabelle was going to frame up this process from the jump and see if they could finally shut this revolving door on Annabelle’s office and repair Jordan’s fissured psyche permanently. Annabelle dropped Jordan’s file on her desk and pulled her office chair out.
“Welcome back, Jordan. It’s been a while since your last appointment. What’s been going on?” asked Annabelle.
Jordan sighed deeply. “Well, AB, I’ve been pretty good. Using my relaxation techniques, keeping my space free of clutter and calming, removed every toxic person and substance out of my life…” Annabelle glanced at Jordan’s open purse and spied the brightly colored cigarette pack in the pocket.
“Even smoking?” Annabelle said, jotting down a note in her file.
“Umm… Every once in a while…” started Jordan.
“You mean like now ?” asked Annabelle, pinning Jordan with a stare.
Jordan looked up at Annabelle under her lashes. Despite being one year her senior, Doc AB had always seemed like that big sister/mother figure that Jordan had needed so desperately growing up. She was the first person Jordan had told about her father’s abuse and her mother’s neglect. The first person she had told about blacking out in the bathroom from booze and pills. The first person to understand it was all a cover to be accepted and, for a small moment in time, loved. This also laid the groundwork for some pretty honest and gritty sessions that kept Jordan in her head for weeks on end.
Jordan studied AB for a moment. She was statuesque and dark, her skin the color of hazelnut shells. She had crossed over into the overweight zone long ago and was bordering on brick shithouse. Her fire-engine-red pencil skirt and her crisp, white, ruffled blouse accentuated every abundant curve and brought focus to her black, cat-eye glasses and bob-cut micro braids. AB was no joke and, right now, she was leaning back expectantly, ready to strike down the first line of bullshit Jordan was looking to send her way.
Jordan answered honestly. “Doc, I’m on my last nerve. It’s been nicotine or a padded cell. I’m just being real.”
Annabelle laid her pen down. “That’s what I need to hear, Jordan, and what you need to be this go around. Be real. What is it you are looking to get out of your sessions with me? Do you want to repair the damage or merely keep it at bay? Can I count on you to stop the disappearing acts?”
Jordan straightened
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