One

North Carolina was my first love, the rolling hills, small towns, and southern hospitality.

My small town does not require those who reside here to have a car. It is just a short walk to the local diner where old men chew the fat and the ladies catch up on the latest gossip. Thistle mountain is just around the corner, it’s moss covered trails perfect for my morning run, a jump in the lake to conclude. A million memories come rushing back whenever I catch air then hit the cool water.

Your choice of the Blueridge Mountains or the Atlantic, either just a short trip away and both equally satisfying. My visits to both are countless, friends packed in the car, music blaring, my tanned feet hanging out of the passenger window.

This morning, sweat rolls off my nose, the salt of it hitting my lips. One hundred percent humidity at 8am is not forgiving in my jeans.

As I make my way up the small hill to my destination, a chill comes over my body despite the temperature. Maybe I should turn back towards home. I stop and lean against the brick wall, the roughness of it scratching my arm. After a few seconds, I head on, aware it has been far too long. I almost lost this place; this first love of mine.

I reach the door of his office, my reflection staring back at me as I pull open the door. My hair has already fallen flat from the few blocks I have walked, so I snap the rubber band off my wrist and throw my hair into a bun. The shorter wisps cling to the sweat on my neck.

The smell of lavender and lemon hit my senses as soon as I step into the room. A woman reading the latest US weekly looks up, smiles, then looks back down.

You can do this, Eve. I step toward reception.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” the woman at the counter asks.

“Eve Crownberry to see Dr. Whitman. I think I’m a little early.”

She clicks on her mouse, looking briefly at her computer screen. I notice her middle fingernails are painted a darker pink than the rest.

“He’ll be right with you. Have a seat.” She smiles.

As I sit in a seat opposite the woman reading the magazine, another chill comes over my body. Maybe I should just leave. My heart begins to beat a little bit faster. I pick up the magazine nearest me to distract myself, but nothing can keep my mind from the reason I am here. I flip through it anyway, hoping the woman won’t notice my nerves.

“Eve?”

I look up to a tall man standing in the entry of the hallway, give him a half smile and rise from my seat.

“Right this way,” he says as he motions me into the hallway.

He slips past me to open his door, and I notice small streaks of gray throughout his black hair.

The walls are painted a soft blue. Calming, I think. He directs me to a green, oversized cushion chair and then takes a seat in a leather one near it.

“Hello, Eve. I am Dr. Whitman. What are you here for today?”

“I almost killed my mother,” I blurt out.