DOCTOR MARLY EVANS LIVED in a town called Grove, a little beach community north of Chicago. According to Thompson, she was the best psychiatrist in the state, her alternative methods highly effective. I’d make the forty-five-mile trip twice a week to see her. Which was fine; I had nothing else to fill my time. Plus, I could run the forty-five miles in about ninety seconds easy.
I’d been there once before, on a call—a couple of dogs trapped on the ice a few hundred yards into Lake Michigan. When flying out there on my jet pack proved to panic the dogs too much to catch, I resorted to swimming out to them. I was a powerful swimmer, and I could break through the ice well enough to get to the dogs quickly, but I’d caught a nasty case of hypothermia in the process. I’m resilient, but still very much human.
Grove was a far cry from the city, the energy slower and more relaxed. Moving through the streets, I thought it kind of resembled an old Ray-Ban ad, teeming with beachcombers when the weather was warm, while only locals remained during the winter months.
I stood out in my jeans, road boots, and baseball cap. Most people didn’t recognize me without my mask, and even more wouldn’t care much if they did, but I hated getting stopped, so I did my best to not draw attention.
I walked through a group of twentysomethings drinking on a restaurant patio, the men in linen shirts and shades, the women in summer dresses and strappy sandals. The stores spilled out to the sidewalks, and I glanced at the swimsuits, dresses, and colorful trinkets as I walked past. But I didn’t stop; I had no use for such things.
Walking through the restaurant’s sidewalk seating, I was surrounded by groups of laughing friends and families taking a break from the beach to fill their bellies. My brain wandered, and I imagined that, in another life, I’d have lived here. Maybe I would have had a handsome husband who worked in one of these shops. He’d be kind and funny—not a super, just tan and fit. And I’d be polite and less foul-mouthed. Well, a bit anyway.
We’d walk through the streets together and sip wine at a cafe while picking actors to play the tourists who walked past. We’d people-watch from under a sun umbrella, like the couple currently across the street deep in conversation at their café table. He wouldn’t even realize when his hand rested on my bare leg, his thumb absently caressing the skin.
“You all right?”
A woman’s voice broke me out of my trance. I’d stalled in the middle of the sidewalk and zoned out.
Shit. I glanced at the woman before I gathered myself and started to walk away.
“You look familiar. Do we know each other?” she called after me.
“Nope,” I said without turning back, making my way to the address in my email.
DOCTOR EVANS’S OFFICE was located off the main street of Grove’s downtown in an old Victorian home painted the same color as the yellow daffodils that grew in the front yard, with bright white trim that made the house hard to miss. Her name was displayed on a sign out front, along with an optometrist, a chiropractor, a massage therapist, and an accountant. I opened the white picket gate into a vast, immaculately maintained yard with summer buds starting to push past the maturing spring growth. It looked the same now as I imagined it had one hundred years ago, with a massive porch, shutters, and ornamentation at the peaks. A small group of women were drinking wine off in the corner of the wraparound porch, each dressed in shorts or dresses with pastel sweaters to protect them from the early June breeze. They looked like a bunch of fucking ice-cream cones.
One of the women smiled as I took the stairs to the porch. I flattened my lips and tipped my head in response but didn’t stop. The scene was a little unnerving, a little too familiar. Because this could have been my mother’s house. Her yard. Her life. She was so meticulous about presentation, the flowers in the windowsills, the perfectly mowed grass thick and satiated.
I stared at myself in the mirror. “This is my favorite,” I said to my mother as she eyed the purple dress, a knee-length halter with a small flair at the waist.
Mother shook her head, her perfectly curled hair swaying gracefully with the movement. She caressed my shoulder in examination.
“Too much swimming, dear,” she said. “The boys prefer a lithe girl.”
She held up a sparkly silver dress with capped sleeves and low back.
“You’ll look more feminine in this one,” she said. “A lady only ever displays one feature. Arms, legs, cleavage, or back. You have a lovely back. But you really should pick more feminine hobbies.”
I smiled. I liked the dress. I liked my arms. And I liked my hobbies. But I didn’t tell Mother any of that.
These women could have been part of her social circle, all sitting cross-legged and sipping from their wine glasses. The youngest woman, maybe seventeen, looked about as bored as I remembered feeling when surrounded by a group of my mother’s friends.
It felt good to clash with the scene of it now—it felt appropriate. Because I wasn’t one of these women, not anymore. I never really had been.
I looked for a doorbell but found nothing.
“You can go in. They only lock it after hours,” one of the women called cheerfully as she took a sip of her wine. Her blonde hair was pinned up neatly, her dress the color of a sprouting green at the first hint of spring. Her friends laughed at something, eyeing me without turning in my direction.
“Thanks,” I muttered, then stepped inside. The large foyer was original, the woodwork gleaming. The various offices were listed similarly to the sign in the yard but on a wooden plaque that was created to mirror the original oak in the home. Doctor Marly Evans’s office was on the second floor. I started up the creaky stairs and walked down the hallway until I came upon an open door with a little sign outside that read Please knock up to five minutes before appointment time. I was about seven minutes early, but the door was open, so I stepped inside. The room was small, with two additional doors that were closed. A loveseat sat against the wall and a tiny refrigerator with a clear door showcased various beverages, including one lone Fanta orange soda. I made a mental note to grab it on the way out.
I took a seat and reminded myself I was there to secure my job, my life. I needed to get back to it. I’d do whatever was needed to get my identity back. That was all there was for me, after all. I’d cooperate and share—with as positive an attitude as I could muster. I stood quickly when one of the internal doors opened and a man appeared. He had his back to me, his voice speaking to someone inside, his hand tightly gripping the door handle.
“This was a waste of time. I appreciate your commitment to her health, but she’s my responsibility, and I don’t need instruction from anyone.”
A woman inside responded to what he’d said, though I couldn’t make out her words. He mumbled something under his breath and stepped outside the door. Catching sight of me, he stopped. We stared at each other, and I was struck dumb.
He was six foot plus, with ruffled medium-brown hair, dark jeans, and a fitted T-shirt that showcased a hard, flat chest and generous biceps that I could only assume came from living a physical life and not from a gym. It was a subtle difference, but one women recognized. One I recognized, anyway. As he stood there, I looked him up and down.
I probably should have felt bad for openly checking him out, for wondering where his chest sat on a scale of bare baby bottom to full bear, but I didn’t. I guessed somewhere perfectly in the middle. I’d never see him again, so why not?
He furrowed his brow as I appraised him, his perfect face morphing from displeased to angry.
“You’ll want to put inappropriate staring on your list of fucked-up shit to discuss with the good doctor,” he said, not taking his dry glare from my face.
“Excuse me?” I said, resisting the urge to take a step back. I wasn’t embarrassed to get caught checking him out, only a little surprised at myself for doing so since I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bothered to take the time to appreciate any man’s physique. “You’d better make your apology now—my appointment starts in four minutes.”
He smirked and leaned down to grab my bottle of Fanta from the fridge before he started toward the door, not glancing back.
“Repressed fucking asshole,” I muttered as he reached it, a momentary pause in his step a clear sign that he’d heard me.
When I turned around, there was a small woman standing there, her hair set into a perfect bun atop her head, a few curls breaking free, her face half-amused, half-something else.
“You must be Birdie,” she said, as though my reputation had proceeded me.
“How’d you know?” I asked sarcastically, and she smiled, inviting me to enter her office with a sway of her arm.
“Would you like something to drink?”
I declined, still wishing I’d grabbed the Fanta first, and she closed the door behind us.
She was small, but she had that air of confidence that said, Don’t try to outsmart me; you’ll fail, and I wondered about the balls on that guy to argue with her. Her cream dress screamed stylish professional as it illuminated her dark skin.
“Who was that guy out there?” I asked.
She raised her eyebrow.
“He’s suffering from a serious case of asshole.”
She frowned, hiding a smile. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll speak to him.”
“Is he a patient of yours?”
“Why don’t you have a seat, Birdie?” She gestured toward two classic wingback armchairs that sat across from each other, a small table between them with water and tissues.
I took a moment to situate myself and didn’t speak as she did the same.
“This is your first experience with therapy?” she finally said.
“No, but I wouldn’t call it therapy per se.” The words came out more disgruntled than I’d intended.
She gave me a warm smile, like a mother to a sad kid. “It wasn’t a good experience, I take it?”
“It was fine,” I said, looking out the window to the landscaping outside. Budding roses lined the interior of the fence, and there was a Juliet balcony outside the French doors. “Nice office.”
She nodded. “I think so. Grove is probably a change of pace from the city?”
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with the lingering silence that often accompanied small talk. “It is.”
“How about you tell me a little about yourself?”
“Don’t you already know why I’m here?” I asked, not eager to explain the reasons.
“Well, yes. I was given a little info, and I do have access to social media. But I’d love to hear from you. I find that most of that other information is pretty useless in the scheme of things.”
“In this case, it’s pretty accurate. I’m angry and short-tempered. But I’m good at my job, and no one’s ever gotten hurt. No one who didn’t deserve it, anyway.”
I sighed, leaning back a little dramatically. “I grew up in Chicago. Pretty typical. The abilities came on gradually, starting when I was about seventeen and fully developed by twenty.”
“How was that time for you? Through that development?”
“Ha. Yeah . . . not great.” An understatement.
She nodded. “How was it on your family? How did they react to the changes?”
“So we’re really just jumping in, huh?” I said with an awkward laugh while she sat quietly waiting. “Okay. My dad died before it happened, and my mom freaked.”
“Are you close?”
“With my mother? No.”
“Why is that?”
I resituated myself in the chair. “What? No small talk to develop a rapport, gain my trust?”
“Do you want small talk to develop a rapport, Birdie?”
Nope. I didn’t. “She changed when I changed. Our relationship changed.”
“Her perception of having a daughter changed, then? Her plans for your life? I can see how that would be difficult for a mother.”
I huffed. “She called the government. Yeah, it was real hard for her. She found out her sweet, docile, obedient daughter, who she dressed up like a doll, could bench a car, so she had me committed.”
“How old were you then?”
“Eighteen.”
The sheer relief on my mother’s face when three men escorted me from our home to a government facility for supers—that was the image that always came to mind when I thought of her now.
Doctor Evans nodded, looking at me like I’d say more. But that was it. I’d just told her my life story in sixty seconds. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. There wasn’t much left.
“Tell me a little about the final in a series of incidents that led you here. Tell me about the stadium.”
“The guy was verbally assaulting me, and I defended myself.”
She didn’t reply—her body language said I wasn’t done yet.
“He was an asshole.”
“Just like the man in the entry was an asshole?” she asked me.
“Who?”
“The man you spoke to before you came into my office, the one you called a . . . what was it? A repressed asshole?”
“A repressed fucking asshole.”
“That’s right. Do you often have these feelings toward men you just met?”
“What feelings?”
“Do you feel most men are assholes?”
“No. Most people.”
She smiled weakly, like I was sadly funny. “Birdie, I’d like you to think of me not so much as a psychiatrist and more as a life coach.”
“You’re not a shrink?”
“No, I am. I’m also a certified life coach. With some of my clients, I like to mix things up. As part of this process, I think you might benefit from a mix of disciplines. I’m going to assign you some activities to get yourself out of your comfort zone, so you can get to know yourself.”
“That sounds great,” I replied, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “But I think I know myself pretty well.” I uncrossed my legs just to cross them on the other side.
“First, I’d like you to refrain from using your abilities for the duration of our time together.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No. And it’s just for the duration of your vacation.”
“You mean my suspension.”
“Semantics. But yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s clear that you primarily identify yourself with being a super. Tell me, Birdie, what are your interests outside of work? Do you go out with girlfriends? Date?”
Silence.
“Book club?”
I uncrossed my legs and sat back in my seat, my hands on the armrests. Not this again. “I don’t want all that stuff.” I just needed my powers. And my job.
“Be that as it may, I often ask my clients to do things like this. It’s a way to detach from their primary identity marker. It’s a tool for self-exploration, that’s all.”
“What if I’m needed, to help?”
“Mayor Thompson has told me your obligations are being taken care of. Now, if you happen by a life-or-death situation, I won’t ask you to ignore it, but I’m sure you can otherwise handle the assignment. You’ll be inclined to cheat, but I implore you not to. Not if you want to get something out of this time we have together.”
I shook my head in resignation. I wanted to scream. Another person trying to ground me. The story of my life.
I could refuse. But refusing to cooperate wasn’t likely to get me back to work. Knowing I had little choice if I wanted to keep my job, I said, “Okay, I guess I can start tomorrow.”
“No, Birdie. Starting now.”
SITTING ON THE FRONT STEPS outside of Doctor Evans’s office, my gaze targeted my boots. They didn’t look very different from any other boots, although they were a bit bulky at the sole. You could only really get away with them stylistically if worn with jeans; hence the uniform. But they cost about sixty-five hundred dollars a pair, given they were made with the same stuff they used to build jet tires, and the job paid for one pair a year. I went through about three pairs a year with the time I spent patrolling. I’m not bulletproof, and my feet required shoes that could handle my speed.
I stared at them and wondered what the hell to do with myself now. I looked through the contacts on my phone. My favorite take-out places. My mother. Jace. It was a short list. I clicked on Jace and opened our text stream, where his last text from a week ago stared at me. It was a meme of me giving a nasty look to someone with the word Superbitch above my head. His words underneath, Embrace the Superbitch! Jace loved to give me shit about my terrible press. He thought I needed to joke about it, lighten up. Even play into it. But as the most beloved super in the world, it was an easy outlook for him. I typed out: See the latest? I’m off duty. No more Superbitch.
I then slipped the phone back into my pocket and went back to staring at my boots, wondering if I should buy another pair of shoes, like from the department store.
“Everything okay?”
I looked up to see the spring-green lady from the wine club. Assuming I was blocking her path, I scooted to the side. “Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t apologize,” she said, smiling. “No law against relaxing on the stairs.”
She leaned against the post at the base of the steps. She was younger than I’d originally thought. Eyeing my feet, she said, “Killer boots. You military or something?”
“Or something,” I mumbled as I stood and then stepped down to her level. I had about six inches on her, but if anyone was looking at us together, she’d be the first person they’d see. Flawless skin, bright green eyes, light blonde hair, and a warm smile. “Do you know where I can get a taxi?” The words were foreign on my lips.
“Oh well, most places in town are walking distance. We do have a couple pedicabs, if you don’t feel like walking.”
“I have to get back to the city, actually.”
“Oh.” She forced a smile, and I absently tapped my foot. I’d already done more talking today than I normally did in a week, and I just wanted to be back at my apartment, or out running and pushing my body to its limits. “If you search Surdeen’s Taxi Service, ask for Hank. He should be able to help you out.”
I nodded and stepped away. Reaching the little picket gateway, I did a quick search on my phone and found the number. As the phone rang, I considered saying fuck it and running home to burn off the restlessness that was inside me. I didn’t want to be here in this posh town for one more second, with these people on vacation with their families and dogs. Cheerful people.
As I pulled the phone from my ear, ready to hang up, a woman answered. When I asked for a ride to the city, she replied that it would be an hour before Hank could get there. Feeling my frustration boil, I said, “Fine,” and she informed me he’d give me a call when he was on his way.
As I slipped my phone into my pocket, I felt my eyes well up. Shit, what is this? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried. But as I touched my eyes, that seemed to be exactly what was happening.
I didn’t think crying was bad—I just wasn’t a crier. I was a moper, a binger of sugar, but not a crier. Yet here I was—after possibly losing my job; after one shrink session where I was stripped of my only source of power; after a decade of being a solitary person who avoided human interaction—swallowing back my tears all because I couldn’t get a ride and I was stuck in this little town for God knows how long.
The first tear fell as I stared down at the gate without opening it, uncertain where I’d go once I walked through it.
“Hey,” green dress called from behind me. She approached slowly. “You want to get a drink with me?”
“What?” I turned. She stood there with an anticipatory smile.
“Oh. Yeah, no,” I replied in confusion. Her brows rose, and she laughed out loud. I wasn’t sure if I’d said something funny or if I was just laughable to her. I pushed my errant tears away with my thumbs.
She watched me as I mentally sorted through what was happening. I didn’t have a job to do, didn’t have anyone to call for a ride. I couldn’t rely on the only thing I did have, my abilities. I was stuck where I was, like everyone else. And tears, on top of it all.
“Well, how about some company?” she said, her wedge sandals sounding against the pavement as she linked her arm though mine to step through the gate.
Get yourself together, I thought, my tears drying on my cheeks. For fuck’s sake, you’re a super. You don’t cry. Except I wasn’t a super anymore, not for the next eleven weeks anyway. I just had to prove my sanity, clean up my act, and get my job back.
“No. Thanks, though,” I said absently. Yet I didn’t make an effort to move away from her as she led me down the street.
“There’s this place I’d like to show you.”
“Listen,” I said and stopped walking. “I really appreciate it. But I’m okay. Just needed a moment, you know?”
“Do I ever. I have one of those weekly.”
“I do need to get back to the city.” I removed my arm from hers and stepped back. I pulled my phone out like I knew someone to call, but green dress didn’t move.
“I’m Evelyn—Evie to most folks. I’m a good listener. And,” she said as she held her hand up when I tried to speak, “if you don’t feel like talking, I can pretty much carry on a conversation alone. It’s one of my many talents.” Her face was imploring, as though she needed me to come with her. Like she’d be failing if she couldn’t make me feel better.
And because I really had absolutely nothing else to do, I finally said, “Where are we going exactly?”
“You’ll see.”