I sit down on the chaise.
"That's true," Doctor Wyse concedes. She walks over and sits in the armchair, crossing her legs. The scent of aged leather and lavender, usually so calming, does little to soothe my tense muscles today.
My eyes are fixed on the piano, anywhere but on the woman across from me. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I mumble, my voice a low rasp.
"Of course," she says. "When a patient shows up without an appointment, it's rarely for a casual chat. What is it that's bothering you?... You sounded very urgent."
I finally tear my gaze from the piano, though I don't meet her eyes, opting instead for a spot on the carpet near my shoes. "It's my issue with Angelica," I say, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. "I have been doing what you told me to do."
A beat of silence passes as I struggle to articulate the next words, my throat suddenly dry.
"I take it it's not going well," Doctor Wyse states, her voice even.
