2. the stories we tell

2

THE STORIES WE TELL

DAY 6

There isn't much to the story. My story.

My mother and younger brother died in a car accident when Jameson and I were seven. Their deaths broke something fundamental in my father and he hasn't been the same since. It's nothing external. If anything, his career as a defense attorney took off in the years following the accident. But we lost both parents that day.

Jameson and I are fraternal twins. It's not as bad for him—he resembles my father. But I'm a spitting image of my mother, which is why my father can't stand to look at me.

Yeah, it's fucked up that my father checked out emotionally from his remaining children after the death of his wife and son. It hurt as a kid, and occasionally still does. But as an adult, at least I understand where he's coming from. He's only human.

My teenage years were tumultuous. I didn't have an outlet for channeling my frustration and grief, not like my father did with work and Jameson with sports. So I ended up in a lot of trouble. Misdemeanor stuff and reckless stunts.

My record, though, is squeaky clean. Special thanks go to Harrison T. Sloan, dad-of-the-year, and one of the state's top defense attorneys.

"And that's it in a nutshell." I end my spiel with a sigh. "Just a misspent youth that's finally caught up with me. Sorry to waste your time."

I'm not actually sorry—I'm annoyed.

This is the sixth day, my sixth private therapy session in which I've repeated the same damn story. Thank God there's no therapy on Sundays; I might lose my shit.

This time, there's a ten-second pause, then the figure sitting in a leather armchair opposite me says, "Tell me more about your mother."

I uncross my legs, then recross them. The voice, dark and deep, ripples through the following silence. It's not a voice easily ignored; neither is the attached body. I've always had a thing for men who wear glasses.

I blow out a breath, wisps of hair riding the draft and tickling my cheek. "Look," I begin, staring at my knees, "I already told you, I barely remember her. She sang a lot. Braided my hair. Read me bedtime stories. She died. It's sad. There's no drama there."

"Amelia—"

"Mia," I correct.

Dr. Chastain is a consummate professional. His voice lacks any trace of irritation as he asks, "And what about your father's second wife? Can we talk about her? "

My startled eyes snap to his face. "How the hell do you know about Jill? What did that bitch say?"

He's unaffected by my outburst. An ocean of unflappability. "Ms. Richmond declined to speak with me, but their marriage and subsequent divorce is public record."

Pale blue eyes lower briefly to the notepad in his lap. I breathe a little easier without their attention.

"I did find a picture of her just prior to the divorce."

Uh-oh.

Long, elegant fingers lift a single sheet of paper, angling the printed image in my direction. It's Jill, all right—with no eyebrows, her visible skin a mottled orange.

I bite my lips.

Dr. Chastain's eyes narrow, flaring with something I can't identify. If he wasn't a robot, I might think it's amusement. The image descends back to his lap. Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I wait for the urge to cackle to recede.

"You don't deny you're responsible for her transformation?"

I shrug, lowering my gaze to his chest. Even under the disguise of suit and tie, I can tell he's extremely fit. Promiscuity has never been my drug of choice, but I'm still a red-blooded, twenty-eight-year-old female. And Dr. Chastain is a visual treat.

Allowing my gaze to dip lower, I entertain the fantasy of riding him right in his weathered leather armchair.

"Amelia."

"Hmm?"

"Stop."

The command cracks like a whip. Heat sizzles up my neck and face. I turn quickly to look out the nearest window.

"Sorry," I mumble.

He sighs, leather creaking as he shifts in his seat. "Let's stop for today."

I leap to my feet and am halfway across the office before he even stands. "Thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow."

The door closes on his reply.

Releasing a full-body shudder of nerves, I pace down the elegant hallway toward the Fish Tank, the central hub of the U-shaped facility. The moniker derives from the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominate the northern and southern walls, as well as the multitude of discreet-ish cameras mounted across the beamed ceiling.

Aesthetically, the space looks much like the lobby of a swank mountain resort, all rustic wood, low tables, and squat, understated furniture. But instead of trees and mountains outside the windows, there's desert.

Lots and lots of nothing.

I'm not sure exactly where I am—I fell asleep halfway into the drive here. I know we'd been headed east from Los Angeles, and when we'd arrived, the sky had still held the barest touch of sunset. Somewhere past Palm Springs, maybe? Or the Mojave?

Wherever we are, it's secluded and fortified. With the sun now shining heavily on the bleached land, I can see the high fence I missed under the cover of darkness.

"What are you doing, Goldie?" asks an amused voice.

I glance behind me at the owner, a tall man with mussed auburn hair and a teasing grin .

I match his ironic smile. "Whatever I want."

He laughs and walks forward until we stand side by side. "Think it's an electric fence?" he asks, squinting.

"Nah. It's probably just to keep the paparazzi off your ass."

The man beside me, Callum Rivers, happens to be one of the highest paid models in the world.

He huffs. "This place is like Area 51. No way they'd find me. I'm on an Indonesian retreat, anyway. Soaking up spiritual vibes."

I laugh, but it feels forced. Born with the gene for aggressive curiosity—read: nosiness—it's growing increasingly difficult not to ask why he's here. But digging into each other's pasts is a big no-no. It was drilled into me during my orientation six days ago, and is reinforced constantly by the facilitators of our group therapy sessions.

No questions or specific comments about the past. If we veer toward any topic other than the right here, right now, they interrupt or call on someone else.

Only Dr. Chastain knows our secrets.

"How was your session?"

"Transformational," I answer flatly.

He smiles knowingly. "I'm telling you, just dump all your baggage. It's all he wants, and you'll feel better. He's a magician. The shit he picks up on… It's worth it, trust me."

I give him the side-eye. "You've been drinking the Kool-Aid."

He bumps my shoulder with his. "Better than vodka."

My head turns sharply, but he dismisses my interest with a wave of his hand .

"Just messing with you. It was cocaine." His head tilts. "Or was it porn?"

I shake my head chidingly. "Tease."

He smirks, hazel eyes glittering with magnetism. I recognize it as the trademark, panty-melting expression that made him famous. When I roll my eyes instead of swooning, Callum finally smiles like he means it, wide enough for me to see his slightly crooked bottom teeth.

"I like you, Mia."

"Yeah, yeah," I say dismissively. "You only like me because I'm the only one here who hasn't tried to get in your pants."

He says nothing, but I can tell he wants to ask why. Not because he's interested in me sexually—though I know he finds me attractive—but out of simple curiosity.

To a man used to having women of all ages and walks of life fawning over him, I'm an anomaly.

In another life, I'd probably be first in line to tackle him naked. Callum is physically breathtaking, smart and charming, and has a great sense of humor. But this isn't another life, and the crude fact of it is I don't fuck men I like. Not for years. Not since Kevin.

Callum, responding to the prickly mojo I'm giving off, asks, "Wanna go for a swim before lunch? Nix and Kinsey are already out there."

"Sure." I don't actually want to be around anyone else. Callum is the only resident here who doesn't get on my nerves.

"Great. I'll get my trunks and meet you there."

His footsteps fade, but I stay at the window a few moments longer, staring across the dystopian landscape. In the bright afternoon sun, the distant fence looks like a mirage, blinking in and out of existence.

A weird sense of disassociation tingles through me—I'm that fence, visible one second and invisible the next. Impossible to pin down. Impossible to reach.

The muted sound of footsteps breaks my trance. I turn, thinking Callum is back already and I've been staring at the fence for minutes instead of seconds. But it isn't Callum.

Dr. Chastain strides across the Fish Tank toward the opposite wing housing the kitchen, dining room, gym, and various rooms for meditation, group therapy, and art. He walks with his chin down, glasses hanging from his fingers while his other hand rubs a spot on his forehead.

Still resonating with the feeling of invisibility, I watch him, appreciating his smooth stride, the cut of his suit, his perfectly combed dark hair, and the way his starched white shirt sets off his strong, tanned neck. His last name, Chastain, is French, but besides the blue eyes the man is all Italian. His mother, maybe?

He's steps away from disappearing into the adjoining hallway when he comes to an abrupt stop.

I'm invisible.

He speaks to the empty room. "Did your mother call you Mia or Amelia?"

I blink back into existence but can't open my mouth. My legs are solid wood, rooted to the floor, my heart a trapped and pounding presence in my chest.

"Amelia," he says softly, nodding to himself.

Then he's gone.