Eloise POV
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, a sterile, careful kind of comfort. A diffuser puffed slow clouds of scented mist into the air beside a tray of glossy magazines I didn’t bother to glance at. I was too busy tracing the edge of my thumbnail with the pad of my finger, over and over, until I realized I was doing it and forced myself to stop. Mike had suggested I go for therapy and honestly I needed it.
“Eloise?”
The therapist stood at the doorway, her voice calm and warm like chamomile tea. Her hair was curly, brown, and framed her face with a softness that seemed rehearsed. But not insincere. I rose, smoothing the front of my cream sweater, and followed her into the room.
The space was cozy, almost homey. A plush navy couch. A single window cracked open just enoug
