Group Therapy, page 12
Thomas folds his arms across his chest and shrugs, his shoulders already tense from the cold.
Say something!
“So, you weren’t freaked out by what happened in there?”
Please say no. Please say you’ll come back next week.
“Actually”—Thomas gives me a crooked smile—“it was kind of fun.” The corners of his mouth drop along with his gaze as it drifts slowly to the ground. “I wonder what it’s like to feel that free.”
“You only say that because you weren’t the one in a headlock.”
He laughs silently, and it’s the perfect example of the self-control he wishes he could let go of.
“Maybe that’s why you write about psychopaths,” I say, missing the weight of his eyes on me. “So you can experience what it’s like to be that … uninhibited.”
A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Wrote,” he says, his eyes darkening as they travel to a place even farther away from me. “Past tense.”
With that, Thomas turns to open his car door, and I panic. I panic, and I do the dumbest thing I’ve done yet, which is saying a lot.
I reach out and grab his hand.
Thomas goes completely still.
I go completely still.
Even the wind, which had been swirling brittle orange leaves around our feet, goes completely still as the words, “Will write,” leave me on a shaky breath.
I try to let go of Thomas’s hand, but he laces his fingers through mine, holding me captive. Then, he turns and captures me with his eyes as well.
“Future tense,” I add, unable to look away from the restraint and madness I see warring in his eyes.
Thomas’s gaze drops to my lips, and when I run my tongue along the seam instead of screaming or slapping him or prying my fingers loose, he begins to lean forward. No. He is being pulled forward. By me. By my actions. By my confusing fucking mixed signals. I invited this. And I have to stop it.
Now.
Riiiight … now.
Now, bitch!
But I can’t. My brain is barking commands that my body is no longer listening to. Dee and Courtney were right. I’ve denied my own needs for way too long. And now, I’m starving.
I watch helplessly from inside my traitorous body as Thomas lifts his other hand, slides it beneath my curtain of hair, which is still tucked inside his shirt, and cups the side of my neck.
His thumb caresses the ridge of my jaw, and like the strike of a match, my neglected husk of a body goes up in flames. The heat engulfs me, spreading like a forest fire as it burns away the fingerprints of every man who’s ever touched me before. It ignites something deep inside of me—an inextinguishable need. An excruciating singular desire.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. And I hate myself for it.
I can’t do this. I can’t kill my career. I can’t sabotage his treatment. But as I stand here, rooted to the spot, with Thomas’s fingers laced in mine and his hand splayed across my skin, I can’t even make myself exhale, let alone walk away.
Just as Thomas’s breath, warm and sweet, dances over my parted lips, as my body tenses and braces for the impact of this wrecking ball of a man, it is the voice of another man that finally breaks the spell.
“I smell like brine, bitch. Let’s go.”
My eyes pop open, landing first on Thomas before darting over to a six-foot-tall redneck standing next to a three-foot-tall car.
Thomas lets out a frustrated laugh and gently presses his forehead to mine instead of his lips. “Pickle juice waits for no man.”
With one final squeeze of Thomas’s hand, I force myself to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I let go, and I take a step back.
When Thomas’s palm falls away from my neck and his fingers slide out from between mine, the loss I feel is sharp and swift, like an amputation. Like something that should be there but isn’t anymore and never will be again. I stumble backward another step or two before realizing that the extraction isn’t over yet.
“Oh, here,” I say, trying to keep the anguish out of my voice as I shrug off his warmth and his scent as well.
“Keep it,” Thomas says, holding up a hand to stop me from returning his shirt. “It looks better on you anyway.”
Despite my best efforts, I can’t suppress the smile that spreads across my face as I clutch a piece of Thomas O’Reardon to my chest and skip backward a few more steps. “Uh … thanks …”
“Ahem!” Mark clears his throat loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “Tonight, please.”
“I better … you know.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of my ornery-ass roommate. “Good night, Thomas.”
It’s hard to tell in the dark, but I swear I see a whisper of a smile belie his infuriatingly unreadable, perfectly poised face before he nods once. “Good night, Dr. Sterling.”
God, I am so fucked.
Lou
IT’S BEEN A LITTLE over seven hours since I forcibly extracted myself from the clutches of Thomas O’Reardon. I slept for three of those; stared at the ceiling, overanalyzing, for four; and spent the last ten minutes or so waiting in line to order a latte from some fancy Midtown coffee shop with one of those names that has a plus sign in the middle of it. Cradle + Ox or some shit like that. They probably got it off one of those hipster business-name generators online.
This hole in the wall is so small that we have to wait in line outside, which Mark seems to find invigorating. Inhaling the crisp air through his nose, he sweeps his hands up over his head, practically showing his nipples in that camouflage midriff sweater, before lowering them back down to his sides with an appreciative exhale.
“I just love sweater weather,” he sighs, twisting left and right as he checks out the other twelve-dollar coffee consumers in line.
I hardly notice the spectacle he’s making of his calisthenics, not only because everyone in line is stretching and praising the autumnal gods while wearing athleisure and waiting half an hour for a pumpkin-spice-cinnamon-chai whatever, but also because I’m still very much back in The Yacht Club parking lot, reliving every single second that I spent alone with Thomas.
Did you notice that he called you Dr. Sterling?
So? That doesn’t mean anything.
He called you Doctor because he likes that you’re off-limits. That’s all you are to him now. A challenge. Some unavailable piece of ass for him to chase while he’s in town with zero risk of commitment. God, you are such an idiot.
God, he’s so perfect.
I can’t believe you almost let him kiss you!
I can’t believe he almost kissed me!
Why don’t you just roll your degree up and flush it down the toilet when you get to work?
Why don’t I just Google him a few thousand more times to see if it makes me feel better?
A sudden hip bump disrupts my game of emotional ping-pong, but luckily, I’ve been keeping score.
Self-loathing: 3,000,582
Heart-wrenching angst: 3,000,583
“Looks like Daddy Harry Potter cast a loooove spell on somebody last night,” Mark teases, twiddling his fingers at me while he holds the door open.
I shoot him a murderous glare as I pass, but my mortified magenta cheeks really take the edge off my malice.
Mark steps up to the counter. “Good morning! I’ll have a grande nonfat, one-pump mocha, and she’ll have a tall vanilla Englishman. I mean, latte. With extra whip.”
Mark cracks an invisible whip.
“That’ll be eighteen forty-seven,” the apathetic, purple-haired barista drones.
“It’s on her.” Mark grins. “You owe me for savin’ your ass last night.”
I hand over my nearly maxed-out credit card with a sigh. “Thanks for that, by the way. I just … froze.”
“Oh, I did that for me, not you. I can’t have you losin’ your job. Believe it or not, findin’ a roommate who’s okay with weekly Shania karaoke isn’t as easy as you’d think.”
We head over to the napkin/condiment counter to wait for our drinks. Mark goes down the line, grabbing both of our cup sleeves and napkins and whatever else because it’s obvious that I’m too frazzled to function right now.
“Why does God hate me?” I ask out loud, more to myself than anyone. “I finally meet the actual, literal man of my dreams, and if I sleep with him, my career is over.”
Mark smirks at me over his shoulder. “Only if you sleep with him now.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Mark turns toward me with an annoyed eye roll. “Think about it. If you can get that man … to write that book … on time—”
“I’ll get licensed. Yeah, I know.”
“No, dummy. Then, he won’t be your client anymore. And then you can bump uglies with him all you want.” Mark thrusts his hips a few times for dramatic effect, completely unconcerned about the crush of people surrounding us. “Fix him, and then you can fuck him.”
I nod slowly, his words bouncing around in my sleep-deprived brain until they finally hit their mark. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny kernel of hope begins to bloom.
What if I don’t have to choose between my career and my crush?
What if I can have them both … just not right now?
It’s a long shot—one that would require Thomas to not only write a damn book, but also decide that he actually wants to date me once he’s done with it, never mind the whole we live on two different continents thing—but it’s still a shot.
Fix him. Then, fuck him.
My eyes flick back to my roommate’s beautiful, bearded face. “Mark, you’re a genius.”
“You just now figurin’ that out?” Mark rolls his eyes like he can’t believe I’m the one with the PhD in this equation, and honestly, I can’t either.
I’ve been so focused on the fact that I can’t have Thomas now that I never stopped to consider that maybe … just maybe …
As a smile gradually spreads across my face and my heartrate increases to a level that probably makes caffeine consumption a bad idea, a pierced, pouty barista approaches the counter and calls out the names on our cups. “Lou and … Markle? Meghan Markle?”
I glare at Mark.
“What?” He shrugs, turning his face sideways to show off his profile. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
Thomas
I’VE SPENT THE LAST five days in a state of self-flagellation. When I wasn’t beating my head against a wall for nearly kissing my therapist, I was forcing myself to write in order to atone for nearly kissing my therapist.
What is wrong with me?
I’ve always put my career above everything else. No, not my career—my work. My writing. I love it more than anything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to get it back. So, why am I spending what little time I have left of this more than generous extension with an inexperienced, unlicensed therapist who—
I walk into Lou’s office and find the answer to that question before I can even finish asking it.
Pacing the floor in black high heels and black leather leggings, Lou has her long, dark hair pulled up off her neck with one hand and is flapping the bottom of her white button-up shirt with the other. She looks like she’s having a hot flash or a panic attack or both, but all I can focus on is that shirt in her fist.
I’m transported back to the car park Sunday night when Lou had a very different crisp white shirt draped over her shoulders. When, instead of a degree on the wall behind her, it was a pub. When her cheeks were flushed pink, not from heat, but from the cold November air. When the scent of my cologne on her skin sparked something primal in me.
Something I vowed not to let happen again.
I can’t be the reason Lou loses her job. I won’t be. Not because I can’t write and definitely not because I can’t, as she says, keep it in my pants. I can, and I bloody fucking will. I’ve achieved everything I’ve ever set my mind to, and making sure I don’t ruin this woman’s life became my primary goal the moment she walked away from me last weekend.
“Rough client?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Lou drops her hair and shirt at the same time and spins around to face me. “Thomas! Hi!” Her face brightens, and the joy she expresses over seeing me feels … real.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestures to the chair closest to me as she grabs a clipboard and pencil off her desk.
I do as I’m told. When Lou joins me, I watch her transform into Dr. Sterling before my eyes. Her back straightens, her knees pull together, her chin lifts, and her pencil goes still. Her eyes, always the last to assume their position, lock on to mine, and when they do, I feel as though time is standing still, waiting to see how I’ll bugger things up this time.
Lou clutches her clipboard to her chest, using it like a shield. Like I’m someone she needs protection from. I hate that my actions made her feel that way.
I don’t even know what came over me. When she touched my hand, it just … it felt different. Most women … all women … want something from me. Even my own mother. But when Lou touched me, it wasn’t because she wanted something from me; it was because she wanted something for me. She wants me to succeed. She wants me to believe in myself. But most of all, she wants me to know that she believes in me enough for the both of us.
But that’s her job, isn’t it? This woman is literally being paid by my publisher to try to get me to write. She’s figured out that I respond creatively to this feeling of longing, so she’s trying to simulate that. For money. That’s all this is—a transaction, just like every other relationship I’ve ever had. I’m just so fucked in the head right now that I mistook her professional attention for a genuine connection.
Lou leans forward slightly. “How was your week? Have you … made any progress?”
I shrug. “Wrote a few chapters.”
“Really?” she exclaims, a grin erasing the tension from her features. “Thomas, that’s fantastic.”
The hope on her face guts me, so I stare at her bookshelf instead. “It’s rubbish though. All of it.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Lou says, a teasing lilt to her voice.
When I don’t reply, her shoulders slump.
“I mean … I’m sorry you feel that way. You sound really … frustrated.”
I cut her a glance out of the corner of my eye. “You have no idea.”
I didn’t intend for that statement to have so much sexual innuendo, nor for the hostility I feel toward myself to be directed at her, but then again, maybe I did.
“Thomas …” Lou’s perfect posture returns. “You have every right to be upset with me. I lied to you about my credentials, I guilt-tripped you into not firing me, and I’ve been sending very mixed signals, which led to what happened in the parking lot. But from now on, I assure you—”
As Lou rambles on in her professional demeanor, it becomes more and more obvious to me that I was right. This whole psychologist persona is an act. A lie. And if this is a lie, then what I feel when I’m around her might be a lie too. A clever manipulation. Nothing more.
“Can I ask you something?” I interrupt.
Lou pauses for a moment and then nods.
“At the end of Ruby Lies, what did you think about the double meaning of the title?”
Lou’s entire demeanor shifts as a smile spreads across her face. “I loved it,” she says, pulling her legs up underneath her like a child. “It was one of my all-time favorite plot twists. Seriously. When he finds that tombstone and it says—”
“Here lies Ruby Donovan,” I recite along with her.
“Yes! Oh my God. I screamed when I read it. You can ask Mark. The way those four words made every single clue click into place at the exact same moment”—she shakes her head, still beaming with excitement—“it was perfection.”
“My publisher hated it. They said it was too ‘on the nose.’ ”
“On the nose? That’s bullshit. Calling it Here Lies Ruby Donovan would have been on the nose. Ruby Lies is brilliant, especially because it sets up the expectation for her to be untrustworthy, so readers don’t realize that the clues she’s dropping are actually true.”
“What about the end of Hope Hollow?” I ask, keeping my expression as neutral as possible.
Lou presses her lips together. “Um …”
I watch as her eyes dart around the room, and I know that I’ve got her.
“It was …” She presses her fist to her lips, tapping them a few times with her knuckle.
Which lie will she go with? It was great. Awesome. Sooo good.
“Unsatisfying.”
Fuck.
My face must broadcast my dismay because Lou frowns and begins to backtrack.
“Don’t get me wrong. I still love that book—”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re right. The ending is completely and utterly unsatisfying. It feels rushed, and anyone who tells me different is lying.”
Lou waits for me to make my point, but I don’t know if I can.
“You wanted to see if I would lie to you?”
“I didn’t want to see if you would lie to me. I wanted you to lie to me,” I correct.
Lou’s eyebrows pull together. “Why?”
Because if you’re just some puppet my publisher hired, I can tell myself this isn’t real.
If this is all some contrived manipulation, then what happened between us wasn’t real.
Because if you’re real and I can’t have you …
My eyes drift to the framed degree on the wall behind Lou’s head as a bitter laugh rumbles through my chest.
“Thomas?” Lou sets her feet back on the ground, knees together, and begins the Dr. Sterling ritual all over again.
“Don’t,” I snap.
She locks eyes with me and freezes just before the transformation is complete.
“Not with me. Okay? Just … be real.”
Lou smiles, but there’s a sadness behind it that mirrors what’s swirling inside my empty chest. Kicking off her heels, she pulls her feet up under her in her chair again and lays her clipboard on her lap.
“Better?”
I nod. “So, what’ll it be today? Hypnotism? Past-life regression?”
