Chapter 93. Therapy

Thankfully the park was quiet today. The ground was covered by a thick layer of damp leaves, and the air was moist and humid, so the usual afternoon chatter seemed muffled. It was exactly the sort of lonely quiet I wanted for my journal. On a freezing stone bench I sat, dismissing the cold that was running through my jeans, and I attempted to focus on the pure, unmarked sheets.

It had been four weeks since I’d heard from Ryder, four weeks since Helena’s venomous visits, and four weeks since I’d been relentlessly trying to move on. My journal is my counselor now. My aim for today was straightforward: come up with ten reasons why leaving was the best thing Ryder could have done, and ten reasons why I didn’t need him back.

The trouble was that each reason sounded like a lie. There was too much drama. (But his drama was sheltering me.) He was too aggressive. (But he was aggressive toward me.) I kept writing, as if it could make me believe the lies, as if it might help me ere