11. Winter

ELEVEN

WINTER

G enevieve gave me homework after the weekly Friday session we had today, which she hasn't done in a while.

Her challenge for me is to come up with ten things that would make me feel like I'm living full-out.

"Don't limit yourself," she said, "put down the things you think are small and the scary-as-hell things that make you feel like you're gonna throw up just from writing them down. Go wild."

I tap my pen against the leather Moleskine journal on my lap. I've just come in from Kitty's afternoon walk, and he snoozes happily in the corner.

At the top of the page, I write "Winter's Life List" and underline it. A car honks outside my window, laying on the horn. Another vehicle picks up the battle, and soon yelling joins the noise. Kitty lifts his head but settles back into sleep when everything is silent .

1. Explore U Street

Even though I've lived here for almost two years, I haven't explored much past my building. These days, I go out an acceptable number of times every week.

Hell, I even go to work now.

I smile at the thought.

But the fact is, my default mode is to limit myself to short jaunts to specific stores, and only when I can't coordinate delivery.

I tap my pen against the notebook again and groan in frustration when I can't think of a second thing.

And you're supposed to come up with nine more.

I flop against my bed, throwing the notebook next to me.

A citrus essential oil blend swirls around me. I draw in the scent, feeling the burn of the trapped air, then force all of my breath out of my lungs.

Orange gives clarity, but I feel as clear as mud.

Breathe.

Repeat.

Repeat.

What do you want, Winter?

Slowly, images form, becoming vibrant the more I focus on them behind my closed eyelids.

Cherry blossoms.

Taking a picture of my passport as I board a plane.

Getting a manicure and pedicure with Veronica.

Laughing.

Loving.

Blue eyes flash in my mind, and I snap up on the bed.

"No good will come from fantasizing about your boss, Winter," I say out loud. Kitty huffs in response in his sleep.

I grab the notebook again and revisit my list.

1. Explore U Street

2. Take a cooking clas s

3. See the latest art collection at the museum

4. Visit the Cherry Blossom Festival next spring

I chew on my pen, thinking about the crush of travelers who will flood the Tidal Basin for the festival.

Genevieve said to be wild.

5. Kiss someone on New Year

6. Run in a marathon

7. Go sailing

8. Visit Paris again

My breath catches in my throat.

My eyes snap toward the wall and lock on the image of me and my mom. We're standing in front of the Louvre in Paris, and I have my arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She stretches her arm out high with the digital camera in her hand as she tries to capture both of us in the picture. She's wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt—casual for the Representative. She put her curly hair, which naturally straddles the border between blonde and brown, in a high ponytail. A relaxed, happy aura fills her light brown eyes. Her smile, usually absent under the constant stress of her work, lights up her chestnut-colored skin. I love this city. I love this moment.

And then he…

I put the journal down again and lean over my thighs, resting my head on them. Breathing is hard at this angle, but taking a break from the biological need of inhalation feels soothing. When the strain is too much, I sit back up.

I am here. I am safe.

Kitty hops on the bed, snuggling into my side. I pick the notebook back up again .

9. Go on 15 unique dates

10. Have sex

I look at the last one again. There are a lot of ways I can write the last entry. Ultimately, I revise it.

10. Have sex Make love while in love

A few hours later, I take Kitty out for his evening walk and lose my mind.

Or, more accurately, decide to face the crush of U Street on a Friday night. Kitty trots down the sidewalk, his head held high and on a whole ‘nother level as his paws tap against the pavement. He's focused because his harness is on, therefore he's working, but I can tell he's excited to experience something new.

I've been depriving him of so much with my reclusiveness.

I don't have a target in mind. I just want to see the few blocks around my apartment building. After crossing the main street— since when do our crosswalks talk at you and light up when you walk across? —I spy a cute indoor–outdoor café that doubles as a bookstore…and wine bar?

I stop in front of it and look at the marquee illuminating the store name: Dichotomy.

"What do you think, Kitty? Should we go in?" I'm murmuring, talking under my breath to my dog. He's a quiet pup, so when he lets out a quick, loud bark, I laugh.

"I'll take that as a yes."

I walk into the store, and immediately I'm smitten with this place. It's dimly lit to set the mood, and dark wood bookcases line the shotgun-shaped store. Like a booklover's dream, a ladder runs across the entire right side, and higher shelves house more books and other bookish items.

On the left is the wine/coffee bar, and the barista— or bartender? Bartendista? —presents a flight of red wines to a group of women.

The coffee side is closed, but the wine bar is fully open. That makes sense, seeing as it's 7:30 at night.

"Are you sitting out on the patio?" a voice calls from my right. I choke, clutching my chest when I practically jump.

"Are you following me?" I take three quick steps back as Kitty immediately moves in front of me. I stop when I realize: one, the man is wearing a striped apron, and two, he has a name badge that says, "Marcus."

"No, I'm not?" he says with a healthy dose of confusion. Luckily, Marcus doesn't seem to take offense at my idiocy. Instead, he smiles. Those goddamn dimples pop again.

"I—I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to see you here after seeing you in the dog park all those weeks ago."

"It's all good. I work here. Actually, I own this place. But we're a little short-staffed tonight, so I'm manning the bar and the store's cash wrap." I nod for entirely too long.

"This place is really, really cool!" I say a little too enthusiastically.

Jesus Christ on toast, get a grip!

"Thanks a lot." Pop goes the other dimple. "I haven't seen you here. Is this your first time visiting?"

I keep on nodding.

"Well, look around. If you'd like a glass of wine, it's on me."

"Oh, I don't drink," I say, starting my sentence entirely too loudly but finishing in a small voice I'm sure he can barely hear.

"That's okay. We have mocktails and a few other nonalcoholic drinks." He waves his hand toward the chalk menu posted above the bar .

I smile again, feeling more relaxed. A little bit. Marcus is nice. And he smells like my dad's beard balm, which calms me.

This is what making friends feels like. Flex the muscle.

"Nostalgia requires me to order a Shirley Temple," I say, turning back toward him. He smiles down at me, and again, I wonder if he's a little unhinged or maybe he finds me amusing?

…Attractive?

"Coming right up. I'll bring it out to you." He nods before going around the counter to talk to his other bartender.

I make my way back outside, finding a spot away from the foot traffic. I sit at a wrought-iron table, taking in the scene as Kitty sits on the ground behind me. The patio has three other pockets of customers seated—two couples and an older man reading a Bible. The couples are engaged in deep conversations by the looks of it, and one pair holds hands over their wine glasses. The man leans in to kiss the woman for a few long seconds.

I look away.

"Here you are, one Shirley Temple. I added a few more cherries to it. I thought you'd maybe like them." Marcus places the drink on the table with a napkin and a wicker coaster embossed with the Dichotomy logo.

I look up at him, and he winks at me.

He just fucking winked at me.

"Thank you," I say. I'm not sure if I'm smiling or frowning or what the hell my face is doing, so I grab my drink and move to take a massive gulp before I say or do something embarrassing.

More embarrassing.

"Let me know if you need anything else," he says, walking away.

I sit stunned for a few minutes.

Was he…was he flirting with me ?

My phone jumps in my back pocket and rattles against the iron chair. When I unlock the screen, I fight to resist a gasp.

I have an email from Hunter Brigham.

I contemplate whether or not I should open it for two minutes before snapping out of it.

I'll take you up on the session. Tuesday at 11 a.m. is free for an hour. Talk to you then.

H

I curse the word vomit that's resulted in Hunter Brigham signing up for a session with me. The ethical and legal thing would be to refer him or see if another colleague could take him on.

I feel entirely too attracted to him to make this a good idea. But at the same time, the thought of not spending more time with him feels devastating.

Is this the start of a new obsession, or is this just lust? He probably isn't even interested in me like that. I mean, why would he? He probably has wealthy socialites and celebrities on his arm and warming his bed every night.

I groan softly and rest my head on the table. This is so inappropriate. And the fact that I feel so goddamn conflicted, torn between what I want and what's right…

What Would Veronica Do?

I respond to his message.

I've got you down.

Winter

Then, as if summoned, Veronica calls me.

"How has your first week gone? I haven't talked to you in forever, it feels like," Veronica asks .

It has been forever—or at least it seems that way. Between Veronica's doctor visits and my traveling back and forth to the Brighams, we've struggled to stay in contact outside of a few texts here and there.

"It's been great," I say. I'm not exactly lying, but I'm not telling the truth, either. Going through the family and therapist reports gives me a solid picture of who August Brigham is. But so far, August hasn't engaged with me much. Or at all.

And the fact that his father is never around when I am, but I can always smell his cologne throughout the house is…

"Why do I feel you need to say more, bestie?"

By the sound of rustling and cursing on the other end of the line, I can tell that Veronica dropped her phone.

"Veronica?" I reply once I hear her breathing in my ear.

"Yeah, I'm here. What's with the new job? What aren't you telling me?"

I take a sip of my drink. "Well, it's fine. The client is great. It's just the family is a little challenging," I say.

"Say more," she replies.

"Well," I pick a safe place to start. "His aunt is a little eccentric."

"Hmm, okay. But then, you're eccentric, right? Is that such a bad thing?"

"Maybe so, maybe no," I reply.

"Okay, sooo…" I visualize her on the other end of the call, circling her hand in the air to urge me to get to the fucking point. "What's the real issue, then?"

I take in a deep breath and take another drink to stall.

"Well, the client's dad is…" Hot. Brooding. Makes me cream my panties.

What the fuck, Winter.

"The client's dad is a little difficult sometimes."

"Is he bullying you?" she asks, the words bursting over the phone.

"No!" I reply a little too loudly, and the old man looks up from his Bible over the rim of his glasses. I mouth "sorry" to him before continuing.

"No, Veronica. He's not bullying me. He just makes me feel a little…" I search for the word.

"A little what? " Veronica adds.

"A little unsettled." I finish.

Veronica is silent on the other line for several seconds before saying, "Please be specific about what that means." Her tone is serious, dropping a few levels and I press the phone tighter to my ear.

"I'm unsettled because he's a very handsome man." I will not tell Veronica about starting one-on-one sessions with him. I absolutely will not.

Because you know it's wrong.

She takes another few seconds before responding. "How does that make you feel? To be ‘unsettled,' I mean."

I think about it. Genevieve and I started to talk about my attraction to H, but I quickly changed the subject. One, because there's an ethical gray area. While he isn't my client, he is my client's father.

And two, because I have never talked to Genevieve about sex like that. And it feels awkward to start having those conversations now, so far into our relationship.

"I feel okay with being unsettled," I say. "I think I'm ready to be unsettled."

Veronica goes mute again until I hear her sniff.

"Rons, are you crying?"

"I've told you once, I've told you a million times. I'm hormonal, bitch!" We both laugh over the line.

Finishing my drink and fishing out the last cherry, I ask, "How was your visit with James?" I tie the cherry stem into a knot with my tongue—a trick my mother taught me when I was a kid on a trip to the Kentucky Derby. They'd served Shirley Temples, and I had so many I got a stomachache from all the sugar .

"It was fine," she says.

"Just fine?"

"Yeah, it was a quick trip," she finishes.

I twirl the knotted stem between my fingers and mull over her words. The last time I tried to press her about her husband, she shut me out. I don't want to push her emotionally right now, especially since she's pregnant.

"When will I see you next?" I change the subject.

"Next weekend sometime?"

I smile. "Sure, I'll take you to this great little café, slash bookstore, slash wine bar. It's right down the street from my house. In fact," I pause for dramatic effect, "I'm there right now."

"You are not!"

"Yep, I sure am." A taxi presses its horn as a pedestrian jaywalks. "Did you hear that?"

She sniffs again. "I'm happy for you."

I'm happy for me too.