Conner finishes his food and says, “Then you can send me pictures of you.”
“Conner!” Mr and Mrs Jones snap.
“What pictures?” Charlotte asks.
“Nudes,” Noah answers, receiving hard looks from his parents. “What? That’s what he meant.”
“Gross,” Charlotte blanches.
“Noah, prepare the TV for Mario Kart,” Mrs Jones says.
Mr Jones slaps his son on the shoulder and says, “C’mon, I’ll help.”
“Why am I in trouble?” Noah questions. “Conner started it!” Noah sticks his tongue out at Conner, and Conner’s grin broadens, and that smug expression emerges.
I lean into Conner and whisper, “Um… can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. Do you remember where it is?”
I nod while standing. Then, I glance at Mrs Jones and say, “If you will excuse me.”
I leave quickly, my heart racing until I reach the bathroom. Luckily, the door can lock, and I flick the latch. I stand at the sink, turn on the tap, and wash my face.
The way she looked at me… was the same look she gave me as she analysed me in our therapy sessions. I shouldn’t have said my camera doesn’t work. Even knowing it doesn’t, because Dad thinks I’ll record him abusing Mum, which I thought about. If he ever caught me with a new phone or recording, it would shorten my lifespan, and I’m trying to do everything to prolong it.
I exhale softly and glare at the mirror before looking away at my complexion. This is why I should have asked Conner what his last name was before meeting his parents. Who would have known his mother was my old therapist?
I don’t want to leave this bathroom. Perhaps I can sneak out of the overly large, tinted windows and text Conner later, telling him I wasn’t feeling well
I sigh. That won’t work at all. It would more than likely make me look even more suspicious.
Deciding to face the music, I open the door and close it softly.
“Noya.” I stiffen at her soft, professional, and calm voice. She holds a warm smile, and creases wrinkle around her eyes. “How are you doing at home?”
“Good,” I answer.
Mrs Jones frowns, and I know she knows I’m lying. It can be how I hold myself, the look in my eyes, or my facial expressions. It is tough to hide things from her now.
I remember when I first met her in her office. I sat on the chair, knees held to my chest, arms wrapped around them—guarded. She told me I was putting myself in a cage because it made me feel secure. Then, slowly, she broke pieces of the cage until there was a big enough opening for me to reach out and leave it.
It’s too bad that the cage has shaped once more since Dad and Mum took me out of therapy, believing I was telling lies to Mrs Jones. If only… but I barely spoke. She got her answers through body language and behaviours. Not once did I ever speak badly of my family. Mrs Jones figured it out on her own. And now, I can genuinely tell Conner is like his mum.
“You’re caging yourself again, Noya,” Mrs Jones says.
I raise my brows. Mrs Jones glances down, and I notice that I have my arms wrapped around myself. Sighing, I release my hold and clutch at my shirt instead. Mrs Jones smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time.
“Here.” She holds out a box. “There’s a phone in there. My number is on it as well. If you ever need me, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask as I take hold of the box. “You aren’t my therapist anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t be a decent human being,” she answers, catching me off guard.
I blink a few times after I feel the sting behind my eyes. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Conner doesn’t know, does he?” she asks suddenly.
“No.”