chapter seven      "Oh my God," she gasped, clutching her heart. "You scared the living daylights out of me!" He smiled and chuckled a bit.      "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I just wanted to see how your first meeting with Harry went."      "It went well," she said, hesitantly.      "Then why do I get the feeling that something went wrong?"      "Well, we got off to a bit of a rocky start, but we recovered and ended beautifully."      "In other words, he acted like a jackass till you put him in his place, yes?"      "Something like that, yes."      "Well, I hope he cooperated positively."      "He did, we got a lot done." They started to walk through the property the way she had with Harry. Except, with Will it felt different. With Harry it was relaxed, a little tension, but it was relaxed. With Will, she felt tension, but it wasn't anger or distrust, it was this eerie sense of discomfort; a discomfort that comes only with a heightened sense of chemistry that's trying to be harnessed, and forgotten. With Harry she walked with her hands in her pockets, casual, unassuming; but with Will, her arms were crossed across her chest, almost as a defensive, protective stance.      "So what did you talk about?" he asked, probing, but in a polite, unassuming manner.      "With all due respect Will, I'd prefer to have a few more sessions with him before I make any comments."      "I understand." They walked in silence for a few more moments.      "Will?"      "Yeah?"      "Tell me about your mother." He stopped, abruptly.      "Why?"      "Because you never do, and when you do its short, quick and then you move on. I get the feeling that you never fully came to terms, because if you had, you'd be able to at least breech the subject." His body tightened, she could tell he was moving from the offensive to the defensive.      "What happened to my mother was terrible, the most horrifying moment of my life! What on earth would make me want to talk about it? To deal with it? Because dealing with it means talking about it, and remembering it! I don't want to do that!"      "I can understand that. I know how difficult it is to lose a parent."      "How could you possibly know that?" he asked, walking over to a bench and sitting down. She walked over, and sat down next to him.      "When I was thirteen my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer." He looked up at her, his face softening a bit; he was beginning to see where she was coming from. "For over a year, we did everything; surgery, chemo, radiation, vitamins, pills, you name it, we tried it. But, um…after a year and half of trying and fighting, the doctors told us that there wasn't any hope for recovery, the cancer was too advanced." She took a deep breath, tears rising in her throat. "So we made her as comfortable as possible, and for six months I watched my mother die. I wished everyday that it could have be quick, painless; but it wasn't. I would wake up in the middle of the night, and run into my brother's room, because she was screaming and crying in pain. My father did everything he could, but she was still in so much pain." By now she was crying and Will and taken her hand in his. "After her death, I stopped talking to people, I wouldn't talk about her or the disease, I wouldn't cry, I'd just try and act like it was some sort of bad dream. But, keeping emotions like that trapped up inside, Will it takes its toll on people! It really does! I finally decided that I couldn't keep it locked up inside me forever. So, I joined a support group and talked. I got angry. I kicked things, I cried, and I asked questions that I knew were unfair. But I needed to do that." She had composed herself enough to stop crying and her voice had evened out a bit.      "I miss her," Will asked.      "I miss my mother too," Ellie replied back.      "So how does this whole, moving on thing work?"      "First step is to talk. You have to get it all out of your system. You don't have to talk to me, but you have to talk. Talk to yourself in a journal, or talk to your dog, that's how I started. I would pull my dog up on the bed with me, and I'd talk to her. I know it may sound stupid, but I worked."      "It doesn't sound stupid."      "Thanks."      "So what do I do after that?"      "Cry."      "Crying isn't for me."      "It's for everyone Will. My father's a Navy Seal, the toughest, strongest man I know. But he cried at my mother's funeral; brave men cry, Will. It's not a sign of weakness, hardly. It's a sign of mourning, of healing."      He nodded his head in understanding. They sat silently for a moment. His two hands were holding her right one, and her left hand was gently rubbing his forearm. She felt this desire to lean in and hug him, but she resisted. She was his psychiatrist; there were rules.      "I think, maybe, we should talk after I have my sessions with Harry; at least for awhile, okay?" he nodded. They unclasped their hands and he stood to leave. He offered her his hand, and she took it as he helped her up. "Thank you," she said softly as she stood next to him, close to him. He smelled like a rich mix of a musky aftershave and a light fruity shampoo. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes momentarily.      "You okay?" he asked, as she swayed a little.      "Yeah, fine." They walked back to the house in silence. He held the door open for her as they walked into the house. She walked over to the staircase, heading up towards her room.      "See you tomorrow," she heard from over his shoulder as he headed into the study.      "See you in my dreams," she whispered softly to herself as she climbed up the stairs. .:. back