The Forever of Ella and Micha

Up.”
    “Hey. There’s one of those in Vegas,” I say over the sound of the paper shredder. “I didn’t know it was a national thing, though.”
    He hesitates. “It’s not a national thing.”
    “You’re in
Vegas
?” My voice comes out high-pitched and the secretary glares at me through her thick glasses as she feeds papers through the shredder. Turning in the seat, I lower my voice and put my finger to my ear to hear better. “You and Ethan moved to Vegas?”
    “Yeah, we’re in Vegas right now as we speak, setting up our stuff in this teeny tiny apartment,” he clarifies. “But it works and I’m happy with it.”
    Unsure how to respond I stay quiet, drumming my fingers anxiously on my knee. The front desks phone rings and the secretary answers it.
    “Tell me what you’re thinking, pretty girl,” he urges and there’s a beep as he switches it off speakerphone. “Ethan can’t hear you anymore.”
    “I’m thinking… I don’t know what I’m thinking…” I drift off as the therapist’s door swings open and she sticks her head out.
    “Ella, I’m ready for you.” Widening the doorway, she motions me in.
    “I have to call you back,” I tell him. “I’m headed into the therapist’s office right now.” I hang up before he can say anything, collect my bag from off the floor, and take a seat in front of the desk.
    Anna sits down in her chair, selects a pen from the cup, and takes her notebook out of the desk drawer. Today, her pantsuit is this bland shade of brown and her hair is pinned back. She puts on her glasses and reads over last visit’s notes.
    “That was Micha on the phone,” I explain before she can ask, because she’s going to. “And I just found out he moved here.”
    “Oh, I see.” She drops the pen and notebook down on the desk, and scoots her chair forward. “By the way you sound, you’re not happy about this.”
    “I’m not sure what I am.” I mull over my feelings. “On the one hand, it’s nice to have him close in case I need him, but I’m trying not to need him, so it could be bad that he’s close. Does that make sense?”
    “It makes a lot of sense.” She fans the pages of the notebook. “How long did you say you’ve known Micha?”
    “Since forever. I mean, I can remember being four years old and being fascinated with how he sat out in the garage with his dad and worked on cars. Although, I was always too afraid to go over there and talk to him—he actually talked to me first.” A laugh tickles in my throat. “Actually, he bribed me to climb over the fence first, with a juice box and a toy car.”
    “Why were you too afraid to talk to him?” she probes.
    “I don’t know. I guess maybe I always felt like I was living in some alternate world that no one understood, not even him.” I shrug, picking at my fingernails. “I still feel that way sometimes, like maybe I see things differently than most people.”
    She thrums her French-manicured nails on the desk. “I think you worry too much about how you think.”
    “But that’s kind of a given,” I say. “I’ve know this for a while, but what I still don’t understand is how to stop worrying.”
    “That’s because I don’t think you understand the original cause,” she states. “From what you’ve told me, Ella, your childhood was full of worry.”
    “I didn’t worry all the time,” I protest. “There were relaxing… moments and I lived my life the way I needed to in order to survive. If I didn’t worry, then no one would have paid the bills, made sure everyone ate, or had clean clothes.”
    “That’s not quite what I mean, but that is part of it.” She removes a photo from the folder and lays it flat on the desk in front of me. “What do you see when you look at this?”
    It’s a stock photo of a man, a woman, and little girl, all with the same blue eyes and platinum blond hair. “Umm… that you like to take the inserts from picture frames and keep them in your office.”
    “Ella, it’s not good to make jokes to hide your feelings,” she insists. “Just tell me what you see.”
    “I see a family, I guess.”
    “Do they look happy?”
    I study the smiles on their faces. “They seem as happy as anyone else.”
    She edges it toward me and taps it with her finger. “Describe the picture to me.”
    It’s a strange request, but I do it anyway. “Well, the man’s got his arm wrapped around the woman’s shoulder and he looks like he loves her, although his