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remained silent for the rest of the short drive, and he wondered if this counseling would be a waste of time. Even if it was, he had to try.
    They stepped into a small, dimly lit waiting room full of plush, pale green furniture and an artificially floral smell. The adjoining door opened before they could sit, and Tom was relieved. The sooner they started, the sooner they’d be done.
    Yes, he wanted this to work, but he wanted it to work fast.
    A woman dressed in shades of pale cream crossed the room and extended her hand. “Hello. Are you Tom?”
    He shook her hand. “Yes. And this is Rachel.”
    “Hello, Rachel. I’m Meredith Brandt. Why don’t you both come into my office? It’s right through here.”
    The next room had more overstuffed furniture and shelves full of books and plants. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window letting in the golden afternoon sunshine. It was a beautiful day outside, the kind of September afternoon that clung to summer, but Tom felt a chill in this room. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, not sure what to do next.
    “Sit wherever you’d like. Would either of you like a bottle of water? Or some coffee?”
    Whiskey. Straight up. That’s what he needed. “No, thank you,” Tom answered, choosing a brown leather chair closest to the exit door.
    Rachel dropped her gray backpack on the floor and flung herself into the seat by the window. She kicked off her little black shoes and pulled her feet up on the upholstery, wrapping her arms around dark-clad knees.
    Tom frowned and gave a slight shake of his head, triggering the requisite eye roll from his daughter. She crossed her arms and frowned back. With exaggerated motions, she unfolded her legs and jammed her feet back into her shoes.
    Dr. Brandt slid gracefully into her own chair. “We’re very informal here. Rachel, if you’re more comfortable with your feet up, feel free.”
    Rachel tossed a look of triumph his way and pulled her bare feet up once more. His own eyes might have rolled just then, before he sent his gaze toward the counselor.
    Dr. Brandt was younger than he’d expected, maybe in her mid-thirties, like him. Everything about her was a generic sort of creamy beige, fromher bobbed hair to her tiny tortoiseshell glasses. Even her voice was soothing, probably cultivated from years of talking to unstable adults and hair-trigger adolescents.
    She smiled at him and then turned to Rachel. “I’ve spoken with your dad on the phone briefly, Rachel, about his goals for us. So why don’t you share some thoughts on what you hope to gain from these appointments, too.”
    Rachel looked down at her black-polished fingernails. “Nothing.”
    “Rachel!” Tom’s embarrassment flared, but Dr. Brandt raised her fingers from the arm of the leather chair, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. “Tom, here in this office, there are no incorrect or inappropriate answers. We are each entitled to feel what we feel. You don’t have to censor what Rachel shares.”
    Rachel relaxed more in the chair, flipping her thick hair over one shoulder.
    “And Rachel, I hope that when your father shares his thoughts, you’ll keep an open mind as well. Can you do that?”
    A lifetime passed in a breath before Rachel finally said, “Sure.” Her half-shrug, quasi-nod was not encouraging to Tom, but Dr. Brandt’s smile brightened.
    “Excellent. Now keep in mind, if you expect to gain nothing from these appointments, that’s likely what you’ll get. But since we’re here, I’d hate to waste your time, so if you had to come up with something you’d like to work on, what might that be?”
    Rachel’s glance flicked over him, light as a mosquito and just as hard to capture. She wouldn’t even make eye contact. She looked at the counselor instead.
    “Fine. I guess we’re here because even though I’m perfectly okay living with my grandparents, my dad thinks I should move in with him. I don’t want to, so I think you’re supposed to referee