“Yeah, well, I have to work-out to fit into mine.”
“Cute,” Braden murmured into his coffee, his eyes laughing at me.
I grinned at him, my second non-verbal apology for snapping at him. “Whatever. Guess I’m flying solo. Catch you guys later.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Jocelyn,” he called cheekily to me as I wandered down the hall.
I winced. “It’s Joss!” I yelled back grouchily, trying to ignore the sound of his laughter.
***
“So, now that we’ve got our introductions and all the basics over, do you want to tell me why you felt it was time to talk to someone?” Dr. Kathryn Pritchard asked me softly.
Why did all therapists speak in that soft, ‘soothing’ voice? It was supposed to be soothing, but it sounded just as condescending to me now as it had when I was fifteen. I glanced around at her large office on North St. Andrews Lane. It was surprisingly cold and modern—nothing like the cozy clutter of the therapist I’d been sent to in high school. Plus, the high school therapy was free. This suede and glass chick was costing me a small fortune.
“You need flowers or something,” I observed. “A bit of color. Your office isn’t very welcoming.”
She grinned at me. “Noted.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Jocelyn-”
“Joss.”
“Joss. Why are you here?”
I felt my stomach flip and the cold sweats start and I rushed to remind myself that anything I said to her was private. I’d never see her outside this office, and she’d never use my past, my issues, against me or to get to know me personally. I drew a deep breath. “I’ve started having panic attacks again.”
“Again?”
“I used to have them a lot when I was fourteen.”
“Well panic attacks are brought on by all kinds of anxiety. Why then? What was going on in your life?”
I swallowed past the brick in my throat. “My parents and little sister were killed in a car accident. I have no other family – except an uncle who didn’t give a shit – and I spent the rest of my teen years in foster care.”
Dr. Pritchard had been scribbling as I talked. She stopped and looked directly into my eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Joss.”
I felt my shoulders relax at her sincerity and I nodded in acknowledgment of it.
“After they died, you started having panic attacks. Can you tell me your symptoms?”
I told her and she nodded along with them.
“Is there a trigger? At least, are you aware of one?”
“I don’t allow myself to think about them a lot. My family I mean. Memories of them, actual real, solid memories not just vague impressions… the memories trigger the attacks.”
“But they stopped?”
I curled my lip. “I got really good at not thinking about them.”
Dr. Pritchard lifted an eyebrow. “For eight years?”
I shrugged. “I can look at pictures, I can have a thought about them, but I carefully avoid actual memories of us together.”
“But your panic attacks have started up again?”