Chapter 2

When Pierce finished reading that line at our wedding, Curtis actually smiled from the front row. He clapped Pierce twice on the shoulder firmly. "I trust you with Ainsley."

Now I lay in the pitch-dark bedroom, his breathing inches away from me.

I felt trapped in a room whose door would never open, and the lock had been installed by his own hands.

On Monday morning, I booked an appointment at the anxiety disorder clinic at Clearview Mental Health Center.

The confirmation text came through while I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Pierce walked out of the kitchen with his coffee, glancing down at my phone.

"Which doctor did you book?"

He took a sip, his voice casual. "Nessa says Dr. Garrison from there is a big supporter of exposure therapy. You should book with him.

"I won't be able to go with you today. Something came up at work. I'll pick you up later."

I did not answer as I slipped my phone into my pocket.

The specialist was a gray-haired woman in wire-rimmed glasses.

After reviewing the assessment form I had filled out, she set down her pen.

"Have you recently been subjected to multiple involuntary exposures to enclosed spaces?

"Your anxiety index has doubled compared to three months ago. You’re already showing early signs of panic attacks."

I gripped my knees, palms slick with sweat.

"You need to stop all forms of forced exposure immediately. This is not desensitization. This is compounding trauma. If this continues, it could develop into permanent PTSD."

She wrote that on my chart and underlined one line in red.

My throat tightened. I could not get a single word out.

Outside the hospital, my phone rang. It was Curtis.

"Pierce said you went in for a checkup today? What did the doctor say?"

I hesitated. "The doctor said I can't do any more exposure. My condition is getting worse—"

"Okay, okay." He cut me off, his voice soaked in impatience.

"You're just too fragile. Nessa studied psychology. She knows more about this than you do. Would it kill you to cooperate? Stop making things harder for Pierce."

I stood on the hospital steps, phone pressed to my ear.

The sun was on me, but I could not feel any warmth.

I thought back to when I was little. Once, I had been locked inside the equipment room at school. Curtis climbed through the window and carried me out.

He was drenched in sweat, and his hand had been sliced open by broken glass. Blood dripped onto my white school uniform.

"I'm here! Don't be scared."

He was only fourteen at the time.

I hung up. Three minutes later, a text from Pierce came through.

Pierce: [Okay. I won't make it in time to pick you up, so just head home on your own. Oh, Nessa's coming over to cook dinner for you tonight. She said she felt bad about scaring you last time and wants to make it up to you.]

When I got home, Vanessa came out of the kitchen in my floral apron.

"Ainsley! I made mushroom and beef stew!"

She waved a spatula at me, grinning. The silver bracelet on her wrist caught the light.

Pierce had brought it back from a business trip last month. He gave me a gold one and handed a silver one to Vanessa like it was nothing.

I had not thought much of it at the time. Now, watching that bracelet swing against her wrist, my stomach turned.

At the dinner table, I tried to speak up. "The doctor said my anxiety index has doubled. She said I absolutely cannot—"

"Ainsley." Vanessa set down her fork and cut me off.

"That doctor is too conservative. My professor always says a patient's subjective feelings can't be used as the basis for treatment. Otherwise, no desensitization therapy would ever work."

She said it with absolute certainty and just a touch of pity. It was like I was a child who did not know any better.

Pierce's fork paused for a moment, then he nodded.

"Nessa has a point."

One sentence, and my doctor's diagnosis was buried. I lowered my head and kept eating.

The stew was good, but I could not taste a thing.

On Sunday, before heading out, Pierce asked me, "Ainsley, can you reschedule your appointment this afternoon?"

I had my therapy follow-up this afternoon. I had booked it two weeks in advance.

"Nessa's car is in the shop. She needs to get to her internship site out in the countryside, and she has no ride. You can't drive on the highway anyway, so I'll drop her off and come straight back."

"What about my appointment?"

"Just book for next week. It's just talking and a refill anyway."

He was already putting on his jacket.

"Her internship site is up in the hills. There's not even a bus route out there. How's she supposed to get there on her own?"

He picked up the car keys. "I'll be back by three at the latest."

I sat alone in the empty living room and opened my phone to rebook for the following week.

The system showed the doctor was fully booked for the entire next week. The earliest available slot was three weeks out.

I set my phone down.

The sun was bright outside the window. I sat on the couch, perfectly still, and felt cold.

I thought back to the day I was first diagnosed with claustrophobia.

I cried the moment I walked out of the office. Pierce crouched down in the hallway, looking up at me, wiping my tears with his thumb.

"It's okay. I looked it up. You can get better, and I'll be right here with you the whole time."