Everyone in Atlanta knew how much I loved Garrett Cross. When he ditched class, I sat in the lecture hall and took meticulous notes for him. When he broke his arm in a motorcycle accident, I spent three sleepless nights sitting by his hospital bed. When he said he didn’t want to go to college up north, I secretly changed my own enrollment forms to match his. My mother used to tell me, “Isla, you’re the biological daughter the Mercer family spent seventeen years looking for. Stop making yourself so small for him.” But back then, I believed that being close to him was worth any sacrifice. On the night of our graduation party, I clutched a confession letter I had rewritten thirty-seven times and went looking for him. Through the glass doors of the patio, I heard his voice rise above the music, laughing with his friends. “You mean Isla?” Garrett was saying, his tone dripping with mild annoyance. “Please. She smothers me more than my own mother. She’s as stiff as a board. If I actually got together with her, it’d be like marrying a chaperone.” Kimberley, who was sitting next to him, laughed and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t be mean, Garrett. She is my sister, after all.” He reached over, pinching her cheek with a soft, indulgent smile. “So what? She might have the Mercer blood, but you’re the one who actually fits in. If I were going to fall for a Mercer girl, Kimberley, it’d be you.” The summer wind caught the edge of my letter, ripping the first page from my fingers. I didn’t reach down to catch it. I just turned around, walked away, and changed my college choice from the local university to a small school in Boston, trading the humid Atlanta heat for freezing northern snow. For eight years, I never saw Garrett Cross again. Until he walked into my private practice. 1 Garrett stood in the doorway of my consultation room, a printed booking confirmation crumpled in his hand. “Isla. This is what you do now? Listening to people complain for a living?” I flipped the wooden hourglass on my desk and checked the wall clock. “Mr. Cross, your appointment is at two. You have six minutes.” His eyes dropped to the acrylic nameplate pinned to my blouse. Isla Mercer, LMFT. “You saw my name on the schedule,” he said, taking a step inside. “You weren’t surprised?” “The platform automatically routes bookings. Client profiles only unlock ten minutes before the session.” I slid the standard intake forms across the desk. “First session. I need you to sign the consent forms.” Garrett didn’t move. His gaze swept over my modest office, eventually landing on the stack of discounted session vouchers sitting near the edge of the desk. “Eighty-eight dollars a session. Buy three, get one free.” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “The Mercer family’s oldest daughter is working for pocket change? You went to a lot of trouble to set up this little reunion, Isla.” I gave him the same polite, professional smile I reserved for difficult clients. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Cross. This is just a standard platform referral.” “Atlanta is massive. I just got back to the city, and you happen to have an office right down the street from my hotel. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?” “I’ve leased this space for three years.” “My assistant only found your listing yesterday.” “Then it sounds like your assistant doesn’t utilize mental health services very often.” Garrett finally picked up the pen, but his hand hovered over the signature line. “You used to hate seeing anyone in pain. Now you sit here all day, asking strangers about their sleep, their appetite, and if they feel like crying.” I tapped the paper. “Those are standard diagnostic questions.” “Isla.” He looked up, his dark eyes searching mine. “You used to be different.” I kept my focus on my clipboard, organizing the intake sheets. “People change.” “In the past, if I so much as frowned, you’d ask me what was wrong for hours. Now I’m sitting right in front of you, and you won’t even ask how I’ve been?” I clicked my pen shut. “We cover that in the intake process, if you’d like to begin.” Garrett stared, his voice dropping an octave. “You used to worry so much about keeping me happy. Now you’re talking to me like a customer service agent, threatening to issue a refund.” I didn’t look up. “It’s just professional boundaries.” His eyes traveled around the small room again, lingering on the slightly shrunken linen curtains by the window, then down to my worn-out canvas sneakers. “Is this really how you’ve been living all these years?” I followed his gaze. The curtains were indeed cheap—they’d shrunk a few inches after the first wash, leaving a gap at the bottom. “They block the light. That’s all they need to do.” Garrett’s brow furrowed. “Don’t act like this doesn’t bother you.” I placed my pen back into the ceramic holder. “Mr. Cross, if you aren’t here for a consultation, you are free to cancel. The platform will refund seventy percent of your booking fee.” “Do you think I care about eighty dollars?” “No, but it is the policy.” He leaned back into the chair, falling silent. The fine white sand in the hourglass trickled down, grain by grain. Through the thin walls, we could hear the faint sound of a mother in the neighboring office helping her child recite multiplication tables, occasionally raising her voice when he got one wrong. Garrett’s jaw tightened. “The walls are paper-thin. You can hear everything from the street, and there’s a loud aerobics class downstairs in the evenings. How do you work in a dump like this?” “The classes end by eight. It doesn’t interfere with my evening clients.” “Isla, do you hear yourself? You’re a Mercer. You should be living in a home where you’re taken care of, not locked in a shoebox, eating cheap takeout.” “The life you’re describing is one I never actually got to experience.” The words seemed to lodge in his throat. For a second, he looked like he finally remembered what my life in the Mercer house had actually been like—always playing second fiddle to Kimberley. I didn’t want to linger on the past. I flipped to the second page of the assessment. “Mr. Cross, let’s get back to the matter at hand. What brings you to therapy today?” Garrett stared at me for a long moment, realizing I wasn’t going to engage. His shoulders sank, and the tension in his posture gave way to a quiet fatigue. “I can’t sleep.” “How long?” “Almost eight years. It’s gotten worse since I moved back.” “Any specific triggers?” His knuckles tightened against his knee. “Being back in Atlanta. I keep seeing you everywhere.” I wrote on the pad: Chronic insomnia, recently exacerbated. Patient attributes onset to returning to hometown and intrusive memories of a former acquaintance. He suddenly reached out, his hand pressing down on the corner of my clipboard. His voice was raw. “To you, am I really just a ‘former acquaintance’?” 2 I gently pulled my clipboard back from his touch. “I’m just keeping objective records.” The sharp defensive edge in his eyes gradually faded, leaving only a deep, exhausted vulnerability. “If you need money, Isla, you just have to ask. This place… the rent might be cheap, but you can’t be making enough to survive.” “It covers my expenses.” “Don’t do this to yourself, Isla.” There was a soft knock at the door, and the receptionist poked her head in. “Hey, Dr. Mercer, the printer is jammed again. If you have a minute after your session, could you take a look?” I stood up. “Sure, give me ten minutes.” Garrett watched in disbelief as I pulled a small screwdriver from my desk drawer. “You know how to fix a printer?” “A little. You learn when things break often enough.” I paused at the door and looked back. “Mr. Cross, we’ll take a five-minute recess. This won’t count against your session time.” In the small copy room, I carefully cleared the jammed rollers, getting a smudge of black toner on my fingertip. Garrett appeared in the doorway behind me. “Isla, your hand is bleeding.” I looked down. There was a tiny scrape on the side of my index finger, a bead of dark blood mixing with the black ink. “It’s nothing.” “Come here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small adhesive bandage, gesturing for me to step closer. I shook my head. “There’s a first-aid kit at the front desk. Please, go back to the office, Mr. Cross.” He stood his ground, a flash of anger crossing his face. “Do you have to treat me like a stranger?” He set the bandage on the copy machine. “Those years in college… how did you actually live?” I tightened the final screw on the printer casing. “I went to class, did my clinical hours, studied, and worked part-time.” “Did the Mercers stop sending money?” “At first they did. Then I figured out how to support myself.” He looked at me as if he didn’t believe a word. I didn’t feel like explaining. Boston winters were long and brutal. During my freshman year, I used to stand in the university dining hall, calculating if I had enough to add a side of fries to my cheap soup. I worked my shift until ten at night, and when the transit shut down during snowstorms, I’d walk back to my dorm through the freezing slush. My boots would leak, my socks would freeze stiff, but I’d still get up for my eight o’clock lecture the next morning. That was when I realized how many things in life you can get used to simply because you have no other choice. Garrett spoke quietly. “Let me transfer you some money. Fifty thousand. Get out of this place, lease a proper office in Buckhead.” I closed the printer’s rear panel. “No, thank you.” “A hundred thousand, then.” I looked him in the eye. “Mr. Cross, are you here for therapy, or are you trying to write a charity check?” “Isla.” The way he said my name carried the exact cadence of his voice from years ago. Atlanta summers were sweltering. I remembered him falling off his motorcycle, scraping his knee, and me kneeling on the hot asphalt to clean the cut. He’d wince, trying to act tough, insisting it didn’t hurt. I had just been brought back to the Mercer house back then. My mother had held me, crying until she shook, while my father stood in the foyer with a look of belated guilt. But Kimberley had cried louder. She wept about how she had stolen my room, my parents, my entire childhood. Everyone ran to comfort her. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the brand-new school bag they’d bought me, feeling like an uninvited guest who didn’t know the house rules. Then Garrett had walked in. He looked at me and said, “Isla, don’t just stand there. Come have some cake.” The cake had been sweet. So sweet that I foolishly believed he would always be the one standing by my side. Back in the consultation room, Garrett slid a sleek black titanium card across the desk. “The PIN is your birthday.” I looked at the card. “Do you know when my birthday is?” His tense expression softened slightly. “Of course I do. October fifteenth.” “You’re mistaken.” I slid the card back to his side of the desk. “Mr. Cross, that was simply the day the Mercers legally brought me back.” His hand froze over the card, his face falling into a state of sudden confusion. “But… Kimberley told me you celebrated that day as your birthday ever since.” “Do you believe everything she tells you?” “Isla…” “Mr. Cross, I prefer we stick to formal terms during our session.” He looked up, a faint redness rimming his eyes. “You’re still angry with me.” I didn’t answer. “If you’re willing to listen, I can explain what happened back then.” 3 I turned to a fresh page on my notepad. “If that is the core stressor keeping you awake at night, please go ahead.” Garrett kept his head down, tracing the edge of his card. His voice was thick. “The night of the graduation party… I’d had a few drinks. I said some stupid things. I never meant for you to hear them. Kimberley was so insecure back then, and I was just trying to calm her down.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “When you left for Boston, Robert was furious. He thought you were being rebellious and ungrateful. Kimberley cried every day, blaming herself for driving you away, so I felt like I had to look out for her. You sent me a few texts. I saw them.” I looked up. Garrett avoided my eyes. “But Kimberley was in a really dark place then. She ended up in the hospital after a self-harm attempt. I was terrified of triggering her again, so I didn’t reply.” My mind drifted back to my freshman winter break. I had taken a grueling twelve-hour bus ride back to Atlanta, dragging my heavy suitcase to the front door of the Mercer estate. The housekeeper had spoken to me through the intercom, telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Mercer had taken Kimberley to the Cross family home for dinner. It was freezing, but I sat on the porch steps until ten that night. Kimberley got out of the car first, wearing a plush white cashmere coat, holding a warm cup of hot cocoa Garrett had bought her. When she saw me, she gasped and shrunk back behind him. Garrett had frowned, looking at me with annoyance. “Isla, don’t start drama the second you get back.” “I just wanted to come home,” I had said. “No one’s keeping you out,” he replied. “You’re the one who threw a tantrum and moved halfway across the country.” He reached into the car and pulled out a shopping bag. “I bought you this scarf. Keep yourself warm.” I opened the bag. It was a bright pink scarf with the tags still attached. Kimberley had murmured quietly, “Garrett, isn’t that the one I tried on and decided I didn’t want?” He had hesitated for a second. “Your sister isn’t picky.” I ended up burying that scarf at the very bottom of my suitcase. The next morning, I overheard them talking in the living room. Kimberley was crying, saying I had terrified her. Garrett’s voice was quiet: “Isla’s stubborn. She needs to face the real world a bit to realize how good she has it at home.” Shortly after that, my allowance was cut off. My mother tried to wire me money once, but my father found out, and they argued over the phone all night. Clutching my receiver in the dorm hallway, I heard my father shout, “Ever since we brought her back, this house hasn’t had a single day of peace!” Then my mother fell ill. When I wanted to catch a flight back, Garrett told me over the phone, “Don’t come back right now, Isla. Kimberley will have a breakdown if she sees you.” I asked, “What about my mother?” He replied, “I’m taking care of your mom. Don’t make things more complicated.” When my mother passed, the Mercers didn’t wait for me. By the time I managed to get to Atlanta, the flowers at her grave had already begun to wilt. Garrett stood at the base of the cemetery steps, holding an umbrella over Kimberley. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Isla,” he had said. Watching the rain drip off the edge of his umbrella, I had felt a sudden, heavy exhaustion wash over me. In the quiet of my office, Garrett murmured, “Those years… they weren’t easy for me either.” I nodded politely. “I understand.” “You don’t believe me?” “I do.” “Then why are you acting like this? Like it doesn’t affect you at all?” “Mr. Cross, adult regrets don’t require a performance from others to be valid.” Garrett’s face drained of color. He pushed the black card toward me again. “Let me make it up to you. I can buy out this lease and set you up with a proper, state-of-the-art clinic.” “That won’t be necessary. This office is perfectly fine.” “Why are you being so stubborn?” His voice cracked, though he tried to keep his tone level. “You aren’t living here, Isla. You’re just punishing yourself.” I looked at him calmly. “Garrett, I’m actually doing very well. I have my own practice, my own health insurance, and clients who trust me with their lives.” “But this isn’t what you wanted back then.” “Back then, I wanted you.” The confession hung in the air, thick and heavy. Garrett’s throat moved, a sudden spark of hope catching in his eyes. I closed my water bottle with a quiet click, finishing my thought with complete calm. “But I don’t anymore.” At that moment, the door creaked open slightly. A little girl with a small ponytail peeked in, holding a pink thermos. “Mommy!” she called out in a sweet, high voice. “School’s out! I learned how to draw a sun today!” Garrett whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto the child. 4 Garrett stared at the little girl, looking as though he had forgotten how to process the word “Mommy.” “Maisie, sweetheart, give Mommy just two more minutes, okay?” The little girl nodded obediently, but she cast a wary glance at Garrett. “Mommy, that mister looks really sad.” I couldn’t help but smile. “He just hasn’t been sleeping well.” Garrett’s voice sounded dry, like paper scraping against stone. “What did she call you?” “Mommy.” “You’re married? Since when?” “Six years ago.” He sat perfectly upright, but his hands slowly dropped to his sides. “In Boston? Is he… does he treat you well?” “Very well.” Garrett let out a hollow laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “What does ‘very well’ even mean?” I neatly gathered the documents on my desk. “He remembers that I hate cilantro. He leaves the porch light on when I work late. When Maisie gets sick, he takes time off to wait in line at the clinic so I don’t have to navigate a crowded hospital corridor alone.” Garrett’s face grew even paler. “That’s it?” “That’s more than enough.” “Isla, you didn’t use to be someone who settled so easily.” “Back then, I didn’t know what a healthy life looked like.” “Every word you say sounds like you’re blaming me.” I slipped the consent forms into a folder. “Our session is concluded, Mr. Cross. If you wish to continue, you can book another slot through the system.” He spoke abruptly. “I never married Kimberley.” My hands paused for a fraction of a second. “You don’t need to explain your personal life to me.” “She’s been the only one because of her health. She relied on me. But I never married her.” I looked at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Cross, we are three minutes over.” He looked as if he’d been physically stung. “Isla.” Just then, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the hallway. Kimberley pushed the door open, her eyes already brimming with tears. “Isla… it really is you.” I frowned, my professional composure tightening. “Kimberley, this is a private therapy office. You can’t just walk in.” She bit her lower lip, looking fragile. “I was just worried about Garrett.” Garrett stood up, his jaw tense. “What are you doing here?”
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