Free Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu

people need an extra little security blanket during a session.”
    It should piss me off, but it doesn’t. “It was nice to brush him,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. I bury my hand into Groovy’s fur. I don’t care that he’s a trained security blanket and Dr. Greenberg set it all up. It just feels good to sit next to this dog.
    Dr. Greenberg takes his notepad off the end table next to his chair and scratches a few notes with a pencil he has tucked behind his ear. His hair is so wild I didn’t even notice the pencil until he slid it out.
    â€œWe’re getting to the end of our session,” he says, glancing up at the clock I know is on the wall behind my head. “But we’ll be seeing each other soon.”
    I nod. I wonder how long I’ll be seeing him as a patient. Like I said, Dr. Greenberg is nice enough. But these sessions don’t ever make me feel normal. Whatever feeling normal is supposed to mean. And there’s no way that someone as screwed up as me can ever be normal again, probably. I should just accept it already.
    â€œI know I have to get up,” I say, “but I hate to wake up Groovy.”
    Dr. Greenberg grins. He gets up again and goes to his desk, to the glass jar that holds these biscuits Groovy likes. The clink of the lid coming off is all it takes for Groovy to bolt up off the couch and race over to Dr. Greenberg.
    â€œHe’ll eat too many and get fat,” he says, scratching the golden retriever on top of his head. “But I can’t say no to him. Here, you can give him one, too.”
    I get up and take a treat from Dr. Greenberg, and Groovy bumps his wet nose against my hand in gratitude before gobbling the biscuit out of my palm.
    â€œGood dog,” I tell him. “Good dog.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll walk you out,” says Dr. Greenberg as he opens the door that leads into the room where my mother sits, perched on the edge of a chair wearing an anxious smile, waiting for me, her only child, to appear.

 
    CAROLINE—157 DAYS AFTERWARD
    The weekend before Halloween at Jackson Family Farm is like the day after Thanksgiving at Walmart. Which is to say it’s epic madness. Parents from the city come, desperate to capture fifty million photographs of little Sage or little Olivia surrounded by orange pumpkins or taking part in a gen-u-wine hayride or whatever. Pictures they can post online later to prove what amazing parents they are. I’m glad when Enrique puts me at a cash register instead of making me smile and give directions to families trooping out into the patch to pick what they hope will turn into a picture perfect jack-o-lantern. That way I don’t have to engage as much with the Prius and organic snack crowd.
    But it’s hard to focus on my job when Jason McGinty is winking at me from the other side of the barn, by the barrels of overpriced jams and jellies. Jason is pretty cute with a good body. He’s kind of a dumbass, I know. But still. Cute.
    My phone buzzes. I manage to sneak a peek in between customers.
    Let’s go hide behind a hay bale and get nekkid
    I glance up and find Jason laughing at me. I roll my eyes but I can’t help but grin a little.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œOh,” I say, glancing at Mr. Suburban Dad standing in front of me, his harried wife and two blond kids behind him. “I’m sorry. Let me help you check out.” I glance back toward Jason, but he’s not there anymore.
    When the final customers are driving back to civilization in their hybrid SUVs, I get another text. This one is from Emma.
    Hey girl … u done? Meet us in the parking lot
    I don’t know who the “us” is until I find Emma and Jason sitting on the edge of the bed of Jason’s blue Chevy pickup. I know I shouldn’t mind, but I do. I mean, we all go to school together, so yeah, it makes sense we would all hang out. And it’s not like Jason’s