"Alison? Alison?"

I tear my eyes from the portrait on the wall of a storm at sea. It's not the first time I've seen this portrait. In fact, it's been here since the first time I entered this office eight months ago. But this time I have been struck by how real the waves look. It's like I can almost make out movement. Maybe it's just the sound of the rain outside that enables such an illusion. It's been storming on and off for almost a week now.

"Huh?"

Ms. Ray, my counselor, tilts back in her chair and taps her fancy stylus on her tablet computer. It occurs to me that she could be playing solitaire rather than taking actual notes. Maybe she's doodling.

"You were talking about Philip Dussault," Ms. Lee says. "How you feel like you've become obsessed with him."

I look at my counselor – her designer glasses, her boy-short haircut, skirt suit, her I-just-graduated-from-college youthful appearance. She tries so hard to look professional but can't seem to get rid of that sneer of distaste off her face. She doesn't like me, I hear myself think, but then I respond. So, why don't you just ask for another referral? . . . Because it's obviously impossible to find a good therapist. The profession is a load of —

Ms. Ray sighs heavily and checks her watch.

Oh, screw it. Give her a chance. "I—I've been having nightmares," I say.

"You're changing the subject?"

"Eh, maybe," I say. "I don't know. Feels related."

Her stylus bounces across her tablet. "Okay. So, tell me about these dreams."

I look back at the waves in the portrait. It seems easier to call to mind my memories of the dreams while I look at it, makes me feel like I'm dreaming again. A chill comes over me, and I wrap my arms around myself.

"I'm walking into the lake— in the dream," I say. "It's night, and someone is singing—or maybe it's just the insects humming. Anyway, it's a full moon. Kind of romantic, you know? And the music gets faster and louder the deeper I walk into the lake. Each note—it— it seems to force me to continue and to . . . uh . . . " I close my eyes. "embrace death?"

Neither of us say anything for several moments.

"Philip is there," I say but deliberately withhold how few clothes he's wearing. "He tells me to be brave, and I keep moving forward. The water eventually covers my head, but it doesn't feel like I can't breathe. Instead, I just keep walking. Everything is dark for a long time, and then there is this red light. I walk closer and closer toward it, and I can hear my heart beat in my ears. Faster and faster and faster. But then it stops, and I realize I've died and the light before me is the gate to Hell."

My therapist waits a moment to speak.

"Okay."

She swipes the stylus across her screen a few times. "So, you've been having this dream for how long?"

"A week."

"Since your graduation."

"Since my trip to the lake," I say. "I didn't get home in time to attend my graduation."

"I see."

Her eyes scan the screen as she mumbles a few sentences, "Philip hasn't called. . . . blames self . . . avoidance . . . lake, lake, lake . . . hmm."

I roll my eyes. A counselor who skims her notes out loud? Give me a—

Ms. Ray leans forward in her leather chair and looks at me. "Alison, you know you can be straight with me, right? I'm going to ask you to be real honest now, okay? No judgment regardless of what your answer is."

I nod.

"When you walked into that lake last Friday, what were your intentions?"

I open my mouth to speak, to shoot back her implied accusations right back in her face.

I breathe instead. My eyes land on her desk—the nameplate that reads Sonya Lee Ray LPC embossed in the thin gold, photographs of Ms. Ray with her parents at Christmas, a photograph with her arms around the neck of someone handsome and professional looking, so many pictures of smiling faces.

I sigh. "I don't know anymore."

"Well, maybe you need to think about that harder." Why does she have to sound so condescending?

I frown and look at my hands. "I just want my suffering to end."

"Alison," she says and leans toward me again. "I know you've gone through a lot of therapists. Wanting to give up is understandable, but you need to look at how far you've come."

I suck in my bottom lip.

"I think the real problem is that you're lonely," she says. "It's not so much about Philip as it is how you felt around him. You were confident and sociable and enjoyed yourself. And I can tell you, that if you can do that once, you can do it again."

"I dunno. He—"

"Look, I'm sure the attraction was authentic," she says. "I'm not meaning to demean that, but you're the one who called your interest obsessive. And I'm asking if that is a healthy way to see things. What's the need behind it? If you can identify that, you can find the solution that isn't dependent on whether or not he calls."

I blink, and the words 'I can be found at the lake. Come back' whisper through my mind. But I know that's not the answer she's looking for.

"How?" I say.

"Well, what doors are open to you? What could you do to improve the quality of your life?"

"I dunno," I mumble.

She's silent a moment while I lean forward with my head bowed. Then she says,"Well, what's that written on the back of your hand?"

I look at Braydon's number, the faded permanent ink on the back of my hand. It's still legible. I look at her with an open jaw. "What are you saying? I have to call Braydon?"

"I'm just pointing out a potential opportunity. You could call him. Ask him to a movie or something."

"You mean, like a date?"

For a moment Ms. Ray's eyebrows furrow, but she laughs it off quickly. "It doesn't have to be a date. That's not the point. The point is, do something. Don't just wait for life to happen to you. Make something happen."

A half hour later, I'm still sitting in my Toyota Corolla in my counselor's parking lot. The streets are wet but drying, and Braydon's number continues to mock me. I feel as if the numbers have turned into little demons sticking out their tongues and crying out, Scaredy cat. You won't do it. DELETE ME! Start the car. Drive on. It's safe now.

If I hit send, I know I'm won't be able to speak. I'm too nervous. I'll forget how to breathe. The most I'll be able to get out is an inappropriate squeak.

I close my eyes and press send like it's a hot burner.

Ring. I put my phone to my ear. Ring. All he's going to hear is me breathing. That'll be creepy. Ring. Hello, Braydon, this is your stereotypical creepy stalker chick. Ring. I'm not stalking you. My counselor forced me to do it. Ring. And then—

"You have reached the voice mailbox of . . ." Long silence. Giggling in the background. A distant voice says, "So is it recording yet? You should have heard— " Laughter. "Oh, yes. This is Braydon Klein. Sorry, I missed you – " I hang up; toss the phone aside. It lands on the floor, the passenger side.

Three heavy breaths shake my insides. Shivers go through my spine and up to my head. I need to get out of the car. I need to get out and run—run far away, pretend I didn't do this.

I move to open my car door, but then there is a sudden downpour. The rain drums hard over the vehicle for several minutes, streams of water rushing down my windshield and turning all the scenery outside into a messy blur. I stare at it, willing it to subside, and gradually the wind sweeps it away toward the west.

Then, my phone rings. I stare at it for a long moment, my mind jumping back and forth between the possible options—Braydon calling me back, Lindsay asking why I'm not home yet, Philip—

I reach down, grasp the phone and answer. "Hello?" Barely audible and sheepish. Lovely.

"Hello," says the voice on the other end. It's male. "Who is this?"

"Um . . . This? This is-is-is . . . um . . . It's Alison. Who's this?"

He laughs.

"The person you called?"

"Oh."

"Do you know who this is?"

"Um." My heart beats wildly, but I'm too nervous to say Philip's name.

Then, he responds, "It's Braydon Klein."

"Oh," I say, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. My body sweats. It's not just the anxiety or disappointment. The car is hot and stuffy. I push open the door to let in a breeze. My car door dings at me.

"Who were you looking for?" Braydon asks.

I close it again.

"Um . . . " Would it be wrong of me to hang up at this time? "This is Alison Halse, the girl from the beach?" Why am I saying that as a question!

Silence.

I feel like I'm suffocating. I open the door again. More dinging. I scrabble out, close the door, and lean on it briefly only to pull back because now the back of my shirt is wet.

"Hello?" Braydon says.

"Um," I say. "This is Alison Halse. I think we met at Devil's Lake . . . la—last week." I squint and bite my tongue.

"The suicide girl?"

I can't speak. I have no voice.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I mean the girl who nearly drowned?"

"Uh . . . Yeah."

"O.M.G." He actually speaks the letters. "I totally didn't expect this . . . um . . . "

Oh great. He was only being polite when he gave me his number. I shouldn't have called.

"So . . ." he says. "Uh . . . How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Okay. Well, that's great," he says. "Listen, we're kind of in the middle of some severe weather here right now. Mind if I call you back later?"

I bite my bottom lip. He must be further west than I am.

"I dunno," I say.

I fiddle with my hair to give myself something to do.

"Uh . . . Alison? Is something wrong?"

"No. Sorry."

"Okay, well," he says. "I'll try calling again later tonight. Say seven or eight? Weather permitting. You take care of yourself."

"Okay."

"Well, uh, bye."

"Bye."

I hang up and put my face in my palm.