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So he could have her again.

It’s got nothing to do with me, other than I’m the one he needs, not the one he wants.

I sigh, close my eyes and shake my head, pulling myself out of the past and refocusing on the present. And then I open them and say, “I choose the library. And not because Evangeline Rolaine might like books.”

Chapter Three - Evangeline

It’s never going to snow again.

The thought pops into my head unwanted and takes me by surprise. Ever since I started seeing Lucinda last year things have been getting progressively better for me.

Actually, they got significantly better.

After just six months of seeing her I went outside without a hat and sunglasses. I was wearing a sundress. Bare shoulders, bare legs. I went down to the 16th Street Mall and walked through all the crowds without bolting home or hiding in a bathroom until dark.

After that I walked the Mall every day for weeks. I went to the library every Sunday and checked out books. I even went to my favorite Chinese restaurant and sat there, alone, and ate an entire meal. Twice.

I. Was. Normal.

Lucinda has been a godsend. And even though I was reluctant after she explained her therapy methods, I gave her a shot. Then another. And another. Until I was going to see her three times a week.

She explained her practice to me the first time we met, which included highlighting (anonymously, of course) a lot of former cases involving sexual issues.

I don’t have a sex problem. Not even a small one because I don’t have sex. Haven’t in many years. It’s hard to find people to have sex with when you’re a recluse.

Yes, I’ve come to terms with that descriptor of myself. Estranged is another word I’ve learned to embrace. Well, maybe not embrace. I don’t want to be estranged from anyone. Not even my asshole parents. I don’t want to be a recluse, either.

It’s just… I am those things. What more can I say about it?

But Lucinda said she’s not a sex therapist, she simply uses sex to conquer fears and psychological disorders.

My treatment plan does not involve sex. She made that very clear. I have an unusual phobia. The fear of being watched is pathological in my case and it’s called scopophobia.

Lucinda is fairly certain it comes from repressed performance anxiety when I was a child. So I didn’t get a hook-up as part of my cure. Which is too bad. I could use a hook-up, if I’m being honest.

Things got better the longer I saw Lucinda. I became braver. Bolder. More in control, more assertive (well, a tiny bit more). I mean, I did go outside, and read books, and have small essential conversations with people like waitresses at the Chinese restaurant.

The problem is… I think all that talking, and embracing, and self-reflection, and courage led me to believe I was recovering.

Which was a mistake because I’m not.

I’m right back where I started that day I first called her. Afraid, riddled with anxiety, and unable to go outside.

My phone buzzes on the couch, but I let it go to voicemail so I can continue looking out the window wishing for snow. Rain. Hell, hurricane-force winds. I’ll take anything at this point. I’m dying up here. Dying. I need to get out but I can’t go out until the people go in.

Every once in a while I go out at night, but it takes me days to work up to it. And I don’t understand. I don’t get it. Things were going so well… weren’t they?

They were.

And then I looked at my bank account and realized I’d spent almost a hundred thousand dollars on therapy with Lucinda last year. And then I paid my property taxes because I was behind. Two years. (I’m not the most organized person.) So that was another eighty-two thousand dollars because the penthouse is now valued at eight million, not three.

I should sell this place. Move to Mississippi, or Louisiana, or Texas. Somewhere down south where the real estate is cheap and so are the taxes. I could live like that for a long time. Little shack in a bayou, maybe? Something you’d need a boat to get to. Hidden in all those weirdly twisted cypress trees with Spanish moss hanging off every limb like a curtain. Maybe? Couldn’t I?

Could totally do that. Should totally do that.

A hard knock at my door makes me whirl around, startled. Who the hell got up here?

“Evangeline!”