promise, I’ll do my best on the no-pressure thing. Maybe you can tell me if this is supportive or not.” She got up and walked away. I watched her go, my eyes drifting down to her naked thighs. She glanced back over her shoulder, catching me checking her out, and smiled.
I sat back in my chair, waiting for her. I was just about to go after her, when she came back, papers in hand.
“I did a bunch of research,” she said, plunking down in her chair, “about your anxiety disorder.” Her eyes met mine and held.
“When?”
“Last night, while you were sleeping.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. And everything you said in the interview was fresh in my mind. I needed to act on it.” She unfolded her papers. “I found all types of therapy that can potentially help. I know you’ve struggled in and out of conventional therapy. I know you’ve been talking to a therapist again. But maybe it’s best not to put all your eggs in one basket, and be open to trying other things? This sounded interesting, and it might just be right up an eccentric rock star’s alley… Have you ever heard of equine therapy?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s where you basically hang out with a horse. A woman came into the shelter this summer to adopt a rescue dog, and she mentioned that she had a stable and a couple of therapy horses. That was the first time I heard of it, and last night I remembered and I looked it up. Apparently it can be really effective in treating anxiety. Horses are super sensitive, and they pick up on whatever energy you’re giving off. So you have to master control of yourself to be able to guide the horse.” She blinked at me expectantly.
I didn’t even know what to say.
“Have you ever rode a horse?” she asked me.
“No.”
“Me neither. But if it’s something you’d be interested in trying… there are a bunch of places in and around Vancouver that offer it. There are a couple down in Southlands, right here in the city, you know, where all the stables are? And there are a bunch of others just outside the city.” She held the papers out to me. “Maybe we could go together. Or you could go alone, or with Xander. Whatever feels better for you.”
I took the papers from her. Three sheets, printed out and neatly stapled together. There was a list of organizations that offered this horse therapy in the Vancouver area, and a bunch of other therapists listed with their specialties.
“What do you think?” she asked me.
I looked up into her waiting eyes. “I’ll look into it,” I said, and put the papers carefully aside.
“Great. And if none of that is right for you, there’ll be something else.”
Yeah. Maybe.
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I was truly moved by how much she cared.
She always did.
Silence fell, and I only realized I was tapping my fingers on the table when she looked at my hand.
I stopped.
“You know,” I told her, “I felt this thing when we first met. It was the depth of caring in you. I didn’t know how to take it. And I’ll admit, I really thought that Gimme Shelter tattoo on your arm was some kind of sign. Here was this girl showing up at my door, sent by my sister, and I knew Courteney didn’t know about the importance of that song, what those two words meant to me. It felt like something I just couldn’t ignore. ‘Gimme Shelter’ was Gabe’s favorite Rolling Stones song, one of his favorite songs ever. I must’ve listened to it a thousand times when he died. I can still hear it in my head, so vividly, when I’m stressed out. It plays over and over in my dreams.”
“I’m sorry, Cary,” she said softly. “I didn’t know that.”
“We had this bet between us and I lost it. It was the stupidest thing. I can’t even remember what the bet was. All I remember was that we decided to rehearse a Rolling Stones song with Alive and play it in our live show, and we couldn’t agree on whether it would be ‘Paint It Black’ or ‘Gimme Shelter.’ He won the bet. So ‘Gimme Shelter’ was the song we were gonna play. We hadn’t played it live with the band yet but we’d been practicing it in rehearsals, just two days before he died. And for five years, it’s been echoing in the back of my