Gratitude

Alright Chase," said Martha Collins, the therapist he'd been strong-armed into visiting. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

Why I'm here? Chase echoed in his head. What sort of stupid question is that? I'm here because my life is sunshine and daisies, lady! I just can't take all the happiness I have and need help. What a stupid question.

"You know why I'm here," he said softly. "I'm sure Doctor Kimble already told you why I'm here."

He glanced around the woman's office. It was easily one of the greenest places he'd ever seen in a city. The furniture itself wasn't too bad, a little more "professional comfort" instead of the lived-in look that he preferred. However, it was decently comfortable and unoffensive. The two couches were unmatched and faced each other with a knee-high glass coffee-table between them. There was a bottle of water on the table, which Chase wouldn't touch and didn't trust even a smidge. There was also an ash-tray, which explained the mild smell of cigarettes that stained the room, even though Chase doubted the therapist smoked. The walls were covered in a large loopy wallpaper that reminded him vaguely of victorian-style wallpaper and a thick beige carpet.

No, all-in-all the room could've been nice… well except for the smoke smell. No, the problem was the plants in the room. Of course, many, many offices had plants in them and he was fairly used to seeing them. The problem arose because this woman owned more plants than everyone he'd ever met put together. There were so many plants that finding a way to move through the room took an extra second. There were plants on the floor, on the desk, on the coffee table and on shelves around the room. There were so many plants that it made him instantly suspicious. There was no logically reason for anyone to own that many plants.

He tried to identify if any of them might give off dangerous or mind-altering scents but knew it was a hopeless attempt before he started. Plant study had never been one of his strong suits. Instead, he focused his energy on the therapist. She seemed to be nice enough, of course that was her whole job: to make him feel comfortable and open his brain up to her. What would she find if he did that? What even was his brain at this point? Chase couldn't have said with any confidence.

"I want you to tell me why you think you're here, Chase. Please."

Chase sighed and glanced at the clock on the table by the window. It's lit LED display showed that he still had fifty-three minutes to go. He let out a very long breath, and tried to refocus. He wasn't going to get out of this visit without giving something, so best to tell a useless and obvious truth.

"I'm here because I'm struggling."

"And what are you struggling with?"

"A man broke into my house. Ever since I can't sleep well. I'm anxious a lot."

She examined him for a very long moment, before she shook her head and looked him right in the eye.

"Those are things that either happened or are happening. I asked what you're struggling with."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Chase said, lying bluntly.

"I think you are, Chase. There's a reason you finally agreed to come see me."

"Yes," Chase said, exasperatedly. "My friend was twisting my arm until I agreed to come."

"You mean Justine… Hooper?" asked the woman, checking in a manilla folder. "Why don't we try something else then: tell me about Justine."

"Justine?" Chase repeated, slightly thrown by this change in discussion. "Well, she's a friend who lives with me. She's a talented poet and we help each other out a lot."

"Good," said Martha, nodding slightly. "How do you help one another out? You lived on your own for some time prior to your current arrangement."

"She's recovering from an addiction," he said, hoping that the therapist would let him leave it at that. "I'm helping her manage it. She helps me out too. She's a better cook than I am, and she makes me happy. We spend time together in the evenings. Sometimes we watch movies or just talk about different stuff."

Martha nodded again, paying very deep attention to his words.

"Tell me Chase, how do you feel about Justine?"

"I…" Chase paused, considering the question himself.

He didn't actually have an easy answer. She was definitely a friend to him, and there had been… moments between the two of them. However, they were properly a couple either. A large part of that was that Justine wasn't a converted Christian, although she was regularly attending church. Still, he'd always held adamant to the idea that if he were going to seek a romantic relationship with a woman, she would hold God in her heart as he did. Besides, he was too screwed up to focus on romance at the moment anyway. Yet, through all of that, he couldn't say that he didn't have feelings for her.

"I like her," he said. "Maybe more, at some point, maybe not. I don't know yet. Honestly, right now we're both just trying to get things under wraps."

"Good," she said, seeming much more satisfied by that answer. "Now, why don't you tell me about what happened the night of the break-in?"

Chase stiffened and his hand began to shake reflexively. He took a very long breath, trying to relax himself.

"I don't want to talk about that," he said softly, and that was perfectly true.

Discussing the incident was almost always painful and he preferred not to focus on it anymore than need be. It was always in the back of his mind anyway, often forcing memories into his daily life and distracting him.

"Chase," said Martha, leaning forward slightly. "I understand that this is scary. It's likely going to be difficult or even a little painful at first. But if you don't trust me, at least a little, I won't be able to help you help yourself."

If you don't trust me…

Chase couldn't have said exactly what it was that made those words stick in his head so hard.

I do need to ask you to trust me sometimes.

This time it was not his therapist's voice in his head, but Justine's. It was her statement to him as she'd been recovering in the hospital. That memory stung far more than it should have. In fact, it felt like he'd been stabbed in the stomach. It came from a fairly simple realization. He had not trusted her. Despite all his promises, all his efforts, all they'd done; he hadn't trusted her. It made him feel violently sick and angry with himself.

What really had been the entire point of their relationship if he was going to be this stupid?

As he shook himself again, he looked up, and saw that the therapist was looking at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "I was just… what did you want to know?"

"I was asking you what happened during the break-in."

So Chase took another breath, and began to tell it. It wasn't pretty, or easy, and he felt sick to his stomach more than once. However, Martha made it easier than it might've been. She didn't interrupt or attempt to ask him for details on certain things. She merely listened attentively and watched him.

So, he kept talking. He explained his sleeplessness and his anxiety. He explained how Justine had been against getting a gun, and even how he'd gone behind her back to get one. He explained the shooting sessions and the lies about hiking. He explained until tears were leaking from the side of his eyes. He reached forward and took a tissue from the box and cleaned himself up a bit.

"Sorry," he said, glancing up at her.

"Don't apologize Chase," she said. "This is what we're here for. I'm glad you trusted me with this. It's a good first step. Trust is an integral part of relationships, platonic or romantic. If you trust Justine, you should open up to her. She's the biggest support you have right now, and if you shut her out, it'll hurt you far more than anything else."

He nodded, because she was right. Maybe she had other designs and maybe she didn't, but she was right either way. He should've been honest, even when he disagreed with Justine.

"So, when you come back in two weeks, why don't we discuss where you're at with that?"

Chase glanced at the clock, and was stunned to see that his hour was gone. After a moment or two, he nodded. Then, Chase gathered up his coat, wrote Martha a check, and head out to his car. He couldn't decide if his first visit was a success or a failure. He had opened up, at least as much as he could, but was that a positive thing or had he been taken in by his therapist? Regardless of her intentions, she had been right that he should open up to Justine. She'd trusted him with so much that to cut her out of his mind was insulting to her.

Chase sighed exasperated and took one of the anti-anxiety pills he'd been prescribed. Maybe he was right in his suspicions, and maybe he wasn't. All he knew was that things were working out as they were currently. He couldn't keep going shell-shocked and constantly on edge. Much like Justine, albeit in his own fashion, he'd hit rock-bottom and needed to begin the complicated climb up and out of the hole.

He started up his engine and moved to merge onto the main street, waiting patiently as he could for a gap in the swarming traffic. While he watched the waves of vehicles moving left and right across his field of vision, he let his mind wander back to Justine. He couldn't deny that there had been moments where he'd had strong feelings for her. But they'd never really discussed their relationship to one another. Maybe it was because they both felt they had things they had to work out first. Or perhaps it was simply because it was easier to avoid the idea than broach a difficult discussion.

Chase eventually managed his left turn, just in time to hit the nearest red light, of course. As he came to a stop at the white line, he looked up. Whatever world-class intellect had designed this particular intersection clearly hadn't thought it through very well, because even parked behind the line, Chase had to duck his head to see the stoplight due to the roof of his car. Sure, if he'd been driving a convertible, like the man two car lengths behind him, it would've been no issue. However, as it was, Chase had to assume the posture of a hunched-over villain in a kid's movie. While he watched the light, he nonchalantly skimmed through the songs on his phone, trying to find one he wanted to listen to.

Of course, any individual song he had on the device was one he liked. However, he would sometimes get stuck in these moments, skipping song after song until he could find one he wanted. More than once, while listening to the radio, he'd come in half-way through a song he knew, and would stop to listen to it even though it was one of the songs on his phone. That still made no sense to him. It was like watching a movie on the television if he already owned the film.

He supposed it came to convince. The easier it was to access something, the less grateful one was for it. He could remember as a teenager, his first car had been made in the eighties, and you had to pump the gas pedal to get it to start, especially in the winter months. When he'd first gotten his next car, he was fascinated by the fact that he could start it up, summer or winter with no pumping of the pedal. However, now he almost never considered how easy it was. Heck, now he didn't have to even be in the car to start it up due to the remote starter.

Perhaps there was something to the gratitude and accessibility. Had he been taking Justine for granted ever since she'd moved into his house? Perhaps he had, despite his promises to himself. After all when he'd first been helping her recover from the heroin he couldn't have imagined he would've lied to her like this. He'd been a fool, but he would set it right. He swore it to himself. And not next week, or tomorrow, or even sometime that night.

"First thing when I get home," he said to himself. "First thing."