Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Her head tilts back as she laughs, her dark ponytail extending almost down to her butt. When her gaze returns to mine, she nods. “That’s fine. Horses aren’t required, but they are available if they’ll help to enhance therapy. While I’d love to get you over that fear, let’s concentrate on why you’re really here, shall we?”
I nod, grateful I’m not going to have to deal with the big beasts on this visit. If I’m going to be forced to relive the worst moment of my life, I want to do so from a position of safety and security.
“Do you like tea?” she asks.
“Um… yeah, sure,” I reply with a half shrug.
“Let’s head up to the main house to sit in the living room,” she says, pivoting to head out of the barn. “It’s more comfortable there.”
I have to say, this was a good call. While her spartan office was just as good a place to talk as any, something about seeing Nora kicking her boots off and curling her legs under her as she sits in a big leather chair with tea in hand is reassuring.
I chose the leather couch that’s extra wide and long, joking before I lower myself onto it, “Do I have to lie down on this?”
“Only if you want to,” she quips. I choose one end, sit my ass down, and lean on the armrest, feet planted solidly on the braided rug below.
Nora smiles pleasantly, blowing across her tea. Mine sits on the coffee table, untouched for now as it’s hot as hell.
I’m at a loss as to where to begin, and she must sense it, because she comes to my rescue. “Tell me a little about MJ.”
That’s both easy and painful, but a lot more preferable than describing the crash. I smile, an immediate warmth rushing through me, and lower my eyes down to my hands as I talk. “MJ was great. Her full name was Melody Jane, but everyone called her MJ. She was beautiful, and sweet, and really smart. She worked for a pretty big firm in Dallas as a CPA, but she was moving on up the ladder.”
“How did you meet?” Nora asks, her eyes bright with interest.
“It’s cliché, but at a bar after a hockey game. She caught my eye because she was about the only female in the place not fawning all over the hockey players. She was always just a really confident woman, you know? And for whatever reason, that got my attention.”
Nora smiles and nods, blowing on her tea once more before taking a tentative sip.
“At any rate, we dated for almost two years before we got engaged and well, I’m sure you know if you read the news articles… we were just a couple weeks away from getting married when…”
My words die in mid-formation, hanging heavy in the air.
She doesn’t push or pressure. Instead, she redirects me. “Tell me what you’ve been feeling these last few months. Paint a picture of your emotions for me.”
That’s easy enough. Really fucking simple, too. “A lot of anger.”
“At who?”
“Me,” I answer without hesitation. It’s my fault she died.
“Who else?”
“God.”
She nods, perhaps in true understanding. Maybe she was angry at God, too.
“Who else?”
“People in general,” I say tentatively.
“Why?”
“For being alive. Happy.” I actually jolt when the words are out of my mouth, but yeah… that’s true. I just hadn’t yet realized that I’m pissed at other people for being whole.
“Who else?” she presses.
My mind whirs, going through the mental list of things that offend me, but I feel like I’ve exhausted everything.
I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Nora seems to contemplate something, pausing to sit her teacup on the table beside her chair. She leans against the armrest, listing to the right and clasps her hands together as she looks at me earnestly. “Why not the manufacturer of the plane?”
“Pardon?”
“If I understand what I read, the National Transportation Safety Board investigated the crash and you were absolved of any liability. The piece of equipment you relied on to keep the plane straight to the horizon was faulty. It’s what caused you to crash.”
“Yes, but—” I stop, shaking my head. “I mean… yeah, I get that. But I could—”
“No. Stop, Tacker,” she says firmly, and my mouth snaps shut. Her words are slow and deliberate. “You were absolved of any culpability in that crash. So I want to know why you aren’t angry at the manufacturer? I want to know why you won’t cut yourself a break?”
All the air in my lungs comes out in a massive rush, leaving me feeling deflated and lost. I don’t have an answer to her question.
“Have you heard of survivor’s guilt?” she asks quietly.
“Sure,” I admit. I mean, who hasn’t? But it is the first time I’ve considered that term in conjunction with myself.