Therapy (19 page)

“I don’t ever want to be you, man, so I think I’ll stick to what I know. Watching you sulk around for all this time has been some depressing shit,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You’re nineteen years old and you live like a damn hermit, always huddled up in the room moping. How long are you going to let that chick keep you in a chokehold? I’m not saying you need to go out and get laid every weekend, but fuck, don’t you want to get some ass? You do have needs; lefty and righty can’t handle things forever you know.”

I glare in his direction. “Screw you, man! Unlike you, I actually have some damn respect for women. I’m not going out and getting action from anyone unless I can give them more than that. Otherwise, I don’t want anything to do with it—needs or no needs. So, get off my jock about it already. I’ll move on when I’m ready to fucking move on.”

“You’re a damn sap, J. I hope I never let a chick have me by the balls like that! No pussy is that good, dude.” Trent shrugs and I roll my eyes at him.

“Whatever, man. You just don’t get it.”

Even though I wish I didn’t, I do still love her. I hate that I do and with every day that goes by, the sting of it remains. But I have a feeling I’ll never stop missing her. Soon enough, I’ll have to wake up and realize that some people can stay in your heart, but not in your life.

Team workouts haven’t been too bad lately, but this one was brutal and I’m drenched in sweat. Trent stayed afterward to lift some more, but I said screw that. I’m beat. I wipe the sweat from my brow and walk through the parking lot. I look up to see Victoria leaned up against my truck with her hands shoved into little jean shorts’ pockets. She’s got a Baylor shirt on and aviator sunglasses. She’s relaxed, ankles crossed, and looking at me with a flirty grin on her face. What is it with this girl? Every time I see her she looks different. Club Victoria was hot and dripping with sex appeal, TA Victoria is always smart and professorial, and library Victoria was cool and composed. The girl so casually propped up against my Ford is refreshingly cute and easygoing. She looks like a girl, not an older woman.

“Looks like you had a demanding workout today,” she purrs.

I walk around her and throw my bag in the bed of my truck. As I pass, the sweet smell of her perfume makes its way through my not-so-well-built barrier. She smells good, too good. This girl’s going to make me crazy; I can already feel it. She just won’t take a hint, and why does she have to smell so good?

Shit!

“They’re always pretty damn demanding, but I like it that way. What can I do for you? Seems like you’re following me.”

“Not following, just persisting,” she taunts, and the corner of her mouth turns up slightly. She purses her shiny lips and then deliberately bites her lower one. Yep, this girl has
danger
written all over her. Big yellow caution lights are flashing all around her tight little body, which I can’t stop my eyes from roving over like a horny teenager.

Don’t do it, Jace, just walk away.

“Some girl did a real number on you, huh?”

I’d like to reach out and unlock my door, but she has her ass leaned up against it. No way am I putting my hand anywhere near that. So, I just stand here trying to figure this girl out.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say, shuffling some gravel around with my foot as I stare at the ground.

“Well, how long do you plan on allowing her to keep making you miserable? Just so I can have some sort of timeline, you know.”

I look up at her and notice the way the sun reflects off her skin, the way the light breeze gently lifts her shiny black hair. The skin on her neck is creamy white and smooth, and, for the first time in a long time, I feel a sudden twitch behind my zipper.

I need to get the hell away from this girl, like yesterday.

“And you need a timeline, why?” I ask as I pull my keys out. I push the automatic unlock button before she responds, hopefully giving her the hint that she needs to move her ass off my door.

“Oh, just because I need to have a general idea of when you’re taking me out. You know, so I can be fully prepared.”

I raise my eyebrows in reaction to her forwardness. She gives me a cute, crooked smile and I shake my head, smiling back and letting out a little laugh. She definitely deserves credit for self-assurance, that’s for sure. It’s sort of sexy. She’s confident, but she doesn’t come off as bitchy. Not like Liz. Liz was a bitch because she was insecure; I always knew that about her even though no one else ever did. Mrs. Brant treated Liz like a trained poodle, always insulting her, telling her she wasn’t good enough, how she needed to be perfect. So Liz just created that mean girl shit to block out the insecurities she felt from home. At school, she wanted to be the queen bee; unfortunately, she went about it all wrong. Victoria just seems genuinely sure of herself, even though I sense a little spice in her too.

“You’re pretty cocky, aren’t you Ms. Ward. Who says I’m gonna ask you out? You’re my TA; I’m pretty sure that’s frowned upon. And shouldn’t you be hitting on juniors or seniors anyway?”

She leans forward. “I won’t always be your TA,” she whispers. I feel her breath on my skin and I’d have to be dead not to react to her close proximity and the promise in her words. Thankfully, she straightens up again, giving me some room to breathe. “Plus, I didn’t take you for a guy who’d be scared of an older woman, Mr. Collins. But maybe I’ve been all wrong in my assumptions about you.” She pushes off my truck and slants her sunglasses slightly down the ridge of her nose, looking up at me with those chocolate brown eyes. I have to blink a couple of times to snap myself back to reality.

“You have my number. When you stop licking your wounds, give me a call. You could learn a thing or two from an older woman. And who knows? You might just enjoy the education,” she jeers. Then she strolls across the parking lot, never looking back. I rake my hand down my face and lean up against my truck as I look up to the sky.

Damn!

“The only impossible journey is

the one you never begin.”

—Tony Robbins

AFTER VICTORIA MADE her little insulting comment to me, I matched her barb with equally venomous remarks. I’m not in high school anymore, and not even some snooty, well-educated doctor is going to bully me. I have gone from floor mat to raving bitch over the past six years and I have no shame about it. Six years of building defenses, six years of emotionally fortified walls have been built and the good doctor was certainly not going to scale those walls today. On the inside, I felt inferior standing there in her grand office, which was adorned with her prestigious accomplishments, but she’d never know I felt that way. Never! My words were emotionally charged and impulsive, but it was my way of putting her in her place. It wasn’t the most tactful way to do it, but, then again, tact was never my forte. My last boss told me I needed to get a filter for my mouth, so I tactfully told him to fuck off. That was my last day at that job. My angry defensive mechanisms are firmly in place, and have been for a while now. Every time someone attempts to lash out at me or hurt me, I respond accordingly—by overreacting.

Black and white—no shades of gray anywhere in between.

I can go from zero to one hundred in an instant. The guy I’ve been seeing, who’s not my boyfriend, says I'm emotionally volatile. I can't disagree with Donnie on that point. Keeping my emotions in check at this group thing will certainly be a challenge.

I walk into the therapy group room and all I keep thinking is how bad it might be if someone says the wrong thing to me. I could end up thrown out of this place before it’s all said and done. I slowly glance around the room. This entire process is terrifying and intimidating. There are chairs in the center of the room set in a semi-circle with one chair facing the others set in front. Off to the side is a table with water, coffee, and a fruit bowl sitting on it. There are a few people already here that obviously know each other. They chat and several more people enter the room as I walk over to grab a bottle of water. My throat feels like it’s drying up and I feel the nerves as they attempt to uncomfortably settle into my body.

“Hi. You must be a newbie,” I hear a voice say. I look over to see a petite girl with black-tipped blond hair that falls just below her neckline. She has on a tiny miniskirt and a white tank top. There must be more necklaces and bracelets on her right now than I have in my entire jewelry box. The diamond stud in her nose twinkles and her left ear has a small black spacer in it.

Great. I'm in the punk rock, goth group.

“Yes, it's my first day here,” I reply unenthusiastically. “Well, I'm Mercedes. It's not my first day. It's my 267th day, but who’s counting, right?”

I gaped at her trying to fathom how in the hell she's endured coming here that long—and why. “Wow. Um...that's a long time. That sucks.”

She grins unapologetically and says, “No, not particularly. I mean, yeah, at first I hated it, fought it every inch of the way, but then I met people who got me, who understood where I was coming from. No one in this group buys the crazy I'm able to sell to everyone else in my life. These people call me on my shit. Ms. Robin and the others in this group have never turned on me, abandoned me, or rejected me like everyone else I know. So I keep coming back.” She shrugs, and then turns to pour coffee in a large Styrofoam cup. “Plus, there's free coffee!”

I’m actually surprised by her admission, but it eases my nerves slightly. Maybe I won't be such a freak in here after all.

“My name is Jessica. I'll be honest, I'm not here of my own free will and I'm not even close to being happy about it. But, nonetheless, I'm here,” I sigh.

“It's cool. Everyone always feels that way. So, whatcha in for? Binging, purging, fucking, starving, cutting, spending, or all of the above?” God, she says all of that like it’s a choice between caffeinated or non-caffeinated coffee. She just casually asked this personal question like it’s no big deal. I have to admit, it takes me completely by surprise. I raise both eyebrows, but avert my eyes as I aimlessly spin the lid on my water bottle back and forth. “Oh, come on! This is a self-harm group. If you're in this group, we all know why. It's not a secret here like it is everywhere else in our lives. So, spill it.” Damn, this chick is a trip. No-holds-barred.

“Cutting,” I say in a low voice.

“See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now, come, let me introduce you to some of the other crazies,” she jokes. I frown at her not-so-funny remark as she grabs me by the arm. “Don't be so sensitive. We’re all a little crazy! If all the so-called normal people of the world were to come here and lay out all the bones that are hidden in their proverbial closets, I can guarandamntee you that you’d find they're all a little crazy too! At least we can joke and be honest about it.”

I don’t reply, but I must admit, in her own bold and quirky way, she makes a shitload of sense. Most people are able to hide the ugliness in their life and succeed at it. I’ve tried for so long to hide mine, but have failed miserably. It’s as if I’ve been using a white crayon on white paper all my life. I’ve had no results, nothing to show for my efforts. We make our way over to the seats and she introduces me to some other group members.

“Jessica, this is Aimee and Chris. Ladies, this is Jessica. It’s her first day and she’s a bit on the shitty side, so you’ll have to forgive her.” Both girls look at me with genuine smiles.

The blond-haired girl pulls earbuds out of her ears and sticks out her hand. “Great to meet you, Jessica! I’m Chris. The first day is always the hardest, but it gets easier. I promise.” She puts an earbud back in one ear and relaxes into one of the chairs close by.

“I’m Aimee,” the petite girl says, tucking a piece of flaming red hair behind her ear. “It’s not so bad, really. Just give it a chance.” She smiles again, and in it I see reassurance, warmth.

“Come on, you can sit with us. Ms. Robin will be in soon,” Mercedes says as she gestures to the chairs.

I sit down between Chris, who’s lost in her e-reader while listening to music, and Mercedes, who pulls a doodled-up notebook out of her bag.

“Ms. Robin always gives us homework, plus she always posts a quote or something to set the mood for each session. I’m a quoteaholic, so I write them all down.”

I didn’t bring anything with me except my purse and I don’t carry a notebook around in it. I guess I’ll just listen for today. More people file into the semi-circle and take a seat, and even though I know they aren’t, I feel like all eyes are on me. A short, middle-aged lady enters the room carrying an easel, a variety of folders, and a notebook. She has a pen tucked behind her left ear and she’s wearing red-rimmed glasses. She has a calm about her that seems to fill the room. She places her armful of items on the floor next to the center chair and sets up the easel, placing a white board on it. She pulls a dry erase marker from her pocket and writes something across the white board, which reads
An error doesn’t become a mistake until you refuse to correct it
. My eyes scan over the words repeatedly as I attempt to soak up their meaning and how they apply to my life.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Hope y’all are doing well. We’ll get started in a few minutes, so please take your seats.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a tallish guy and turn my head slightly to the side to get a better look. Low-slung, old, faded jeans rest on his hips and a fitted, gray shirt stretches across his broad chest. He’s wearing black Doc Martens-type boots along with a black beanie on his head. Strands of his chestnut hair poke out from under it, falling just above his well-defined eyebrows. Small light brown freckles are sprinkled across his nose and his incredibly strong jawline meets with jaws that clench repeatedly, like he’s tense. Suddenly, he glances up and his dark blue eyes meet mine. A deeply creased frown stretches across his well-structured, golden-brown face and I quickly look away, planting my eyes in my lap. I nervously tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear and wonder why in the hell he glared at me like that. It was as if I’d pissed him off in another life or something. He isn’t familiar at all, but in that short-lived second he looked at me like he knew me, and it wasn’t a happy kind of recognition. It was a look of disdain.

I keep my eyes focused anywhere other than in his direction. I hear the legs of a chair pull out as he takes his seat to my left. I can feel eyes burning a hole through me, and I strain to maintain my resolve not to look back in his direction. Keeping my head down, I shift my eyes to the side just to make sure I’m not being paranoid. Nope, not paranoid. He’s staring directly at me, leaning back with his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles, mirroring the way his arms cross over his chest. His expression is stoic and his lips are pressed together in a hard line.

“That’s Kingsley Arrington. He’s semi-new here,” Mercedes says, apparently picking up on the weird tension in the air. “He’s been coming for about a month now, but so far he hasn’t participated in any of our discussions. He hasn’t spoken one word yet. He just sits over there, all mysteriously broody and moody, and then he gets up and leaves each week.”

“Oh, well I didn’t really even notice him,” I lie.

“Suuure you didn’t. Girlfriend, I may prefer the female sex, but I’m not blind to male sex appeal when I see it. And, clearly, neither are you.” I look at her, surprised by her comment, and she laughs.

“Please tell me I’m not your first lesbian acquaintance. You just looked at me like I grew horns out of my head or something.”

“Oh God, no! I mean, well, yes, you are, but I didn’t mean to look at you like that. It’s just I haven’t had any female friends—ever, gay or straight. And you don’t
look
gay.” She laughs a little louder.

“And what exactly does
gay
look like to you?” she asks, leaning back and quirking a brow at me.

“Umm, I don’t know. I guess I pictured a lesbian as more tomboyish or something. That, and you’re wearing more makeup and jewelry today than I own.”

“Typical.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, really, it’s totally cool. By the way, you’re not my type, so you don’t have to worry about me hitting on you. So relax. I’m just a girl, just like you—only I have a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend,” she says, seemingly not bothered by my reaction.

Thank goodness. I don’t have anything against her or the fact that she has a girlfriend. I’m just surprised, that’s all. She’s very nice and treats me like a normal human being. She’s funny and seems to be completely nonjudgmental—nothing like most of the people I’ve met in my life.

Except Jace.

I shake his name from my thoughts and focus my attention back to the front of the room. I can still feel Kingsley’s eyes on me and I almost want to look right at him and yell “What?” but I can’t do that. I have no idea what his major malfunction with me is, but it’s starting to piss me off.

“Okay, people, let’s get started. We have a few new group members today that I’d like to welcome and to everyone else, thank you for continuing to come back. We’re going to talk about impulsivity today—what drives it and how it leads to errors in judgment.”