Page 32 of Into Pitch

Alright, let’s see what else you’ve got for me.

The bracelet catches the light as I bend over the page, the plague mask charm tapping against the paper as I write.

We are already mid-session when I realize something is different.

Sadie sits deeper into the couch than she usually does, spine no longer straight with quiet vigilance, shoulders no longer pulled in as if she’s bracing for impact. Her boots are kicked slightly forward, toes angled out instead of tucked neatly below. One arm rests along the back cushion and her fingers are relaxed.

She looks tired, but not the bone-deep exhaustion I am so used to in these sessions. It’s instead the kind that comes after effort, and after something pries open inside of you that you refuse to close.

Good.

It means the homework did what it was meant to.

I lean back into my chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and continue to hold her gaze.

“So, how did it feel to write the letters?” I ask.

“Like ripping off a scab. I could see how it was necessary, it was just messy.”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She tilts her head back, eyes tracking the ceiling for a moment like she’s choosing her words instead of letting them choose her. “I didn’t feel better, but I felt lighter. Like I wasn’t holding my breath anymore.”

“Good. That’s usually how you know it mattered.” I bother to soothe.

Her gaze flicks back to me, something unreadable passing through her eyes. I do believe she is searching for judgement or correction. Unfortunately, she won’t find it.

“I read the first letter, but you also wrote a second,” I continue, tone casual despite the weight of what I’m asking. “The one to yourself.”

Her body responds before her mouth does; her shoulders pull in, her arm slips off the back of the couch, and she straightens slightly. She’s defensive without meaning to be.

“Yes,” she mutters.

“Did it feel different?”

“Yeah, a lot different.” She admits warily.

“Tell me how.”

Her nostrils flare at the demand, but her fingers twist in her lap as she tries to battle through the knee jerk reaction to be defiant. All good things, it means my little fox is slowly inching along down the correct path.

“That one felt embarrassing,” she finally breathes. “Like I was saying things out loud that I’ve spent my whole life pretending weren’t that big of a deal.”

I fight my own reaction to perk in my seat. “Why embarrassing?”

Her lips press together, but she drags the answer forward for me. “Because it’s easier to tell yourself you’re over something than admit you’re still carrying it. Especially when it happened so long ago.”

I chew the inside of my cheek and drop my chin into my hands, trying to mask my interest. “Would you be willing to read it?”

What brings you shame, little fox? How do I tear my teeth into and make it less so?

The question lands exactly where I intend it to, though. Her eyes are sharp now and measuring as they flicker with instinct. The urge to refuse and to protect the last piece of privacy she still believes she’s entitled to.

She must come to the realization that I will pick it free either way and with a small huff, she reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.