Chapter 1

MELODY

"So…What do you think is the problem?" Dr. Aretha Stenson, a woman in her late thirties and one of the best psychotherapists in Manhattan, asks.

With a sleek bob haircut, a belted, tailored mauve dress, an expensive ruby–encrusted watch around her slender wrist, and cat eyeglasses highlighting her symmetrical face, she sets down her notebook and engraved pen before leveling her eyes on me.

Despite her surging frustration, she seems genuinely interested in my opinion.

My eyes hover over her impeccably arched eyebrows, painted with stencils and patience I don't seem to have these days.

I like spending time with her.It's one of my favorite pastimes, helping me decompress while fucking with someone else's mind for a change.

An absolute reprieve.

Out of habit, I drag my hand to my designer bag, an indecently expensive piece that matches my gravity-defying crimson heels.

‘The bag has timeless appeal, I was told.

Like everything else these days.

Color me unimpressed.

Her eyes slide promptly to my hand, which makes me lift it to my hair, concealing my intentions.

Fingers carrying the tension of my day slide through my long, damp hair.

"It was your idea," I murmur, listening to the monotonous pitter-patter of the rain as thoughts swirl in my head.

Snapshots.

Snippets.

Pieces of a glamorous life.

Money. Big money.

Good things. Bad things.

Meetings. Cocktail parties.

Nights spent at the clubs with high-power men.

Some eager to date me––fuck me.

Then…

Work, work, work. Stiff competition.

Me always on my toes.

And me vulnerable… At times.

Aretha's office is in a magnificent building overlooking one of the few serene streets of Manhattan.

A dog park is around the corner, and my place is only a short drive away.

Empty sidewalks, leaves lining the concrete, and glowing streetlights paint the view.

I'll walk home tonight, and this weekend will be all about me. I'll be sleeping, ordering some food, and watching movies.

Maybe I'll rent a car and drive to Connecticut.

Aretha's lips move.

"The idea was to have cigarettes in your purse so you don't obsessed over them," she says, pulling me out of my head.

I clutch my studded bag.

"I'm not obsessed with them. I slide my hand into my bag out of habit. I haven't thought about smoking in a, uh… I don't know. A few months?"

My hand drifts away and moves over my pencil skirt.

I square my shoulders, tip my gaze to the sweetsin front ofme, pick up a butterscotch candy from the bowl, and fuss with the cellophane wrapper before popping the candy into my mouth.

Leaning back, I suck on it and mull over a good answer, still busy with the wrapper.

I notice irritation in her eyes.

The noise is admittedly annoying, so I drop the wrinkled cellophane on the table and press my back into the couch.

Seeking a more comfortable position, I press my knees together and point them to the side.

She gives me a discreet once over, her eyes paired with curiosity and puzzlement.

I get that from men and women alike.

"What makes you want to smoke now?" she asks.

I hold her eyes for a few long seconds, my lips curved into a smile.

"That's the reason I am here. You're supposed to tell me what the problem is with me."

My jab at her professional expertise doesn't go unnoticed, her eyebrows wiggling up in disbelief.

"You and I have gone over every scenario. And you've dismissed all of them. So it's your turn now. What is the problem in your opinion?"

Absently biting my lip, I glance around the room, taking inventory of the wooden floors, comfortable armchairs, lanky floor lamps, and rain misting the windows.

"You know why I love coming here?" I ask, anticipating more frustration from her.

Perfect silence follows my words, making mebring my gaze backto her.

"How long has it been? Four, five years?" I murmur.

She flashes a relaxed smile.

"Four and a half."

"Do you remember all our sessions?"

"Most of them."

"Why are you still taking notes then? You know my life like the back of your hand."

She shrugs.

"Habit?"

"Do you remember all your clients?"

She sips tea, sets it down, and fishes a butterscotch candy from the bowl.

"Only a few special ones."

"What's so special about me?"

She slides back into her seat.

"Your mind reads like a novel."

"A poorly written one, I bet."

She gives me a smile

"A frustrating one, for sure."

"The kind that makes you throw your tablet against the wall," I comment.

A soft laugh peels off her lips.

"Something like that. But I don't mind."

"Of course. It's all about optimizing your revenue."

She doesn't take offense at my jab.

Only smiles.

"We both know why you're here…" she says, her eyes moving swiftly over my face. "You might find a friend, a family member, or even a work colleague to listen to you, but most wouldn't know what the problem is."

"Like you now," I joke.

Her smile vanishes.

"Seriously, now."

"Seriously," I say. "You're right. I can't find people to talk to, and most of the time, I'm embarrassed that I need to talk about something so silly."

"In your opinion."

"Yes, in my opinion," I say, flicking my hand dismissively. "If only I could just forget about men. I have everything else. Right? Money, a nice place to live, a fantastic job.If I play my cards right, I will replace the company"s CEO in a couple of yearswhen he retires.And I'm a woman, okay? A thirty–four year old woman who has everything."

I stop before glancing away, bitter.

"I even have men. No?"

My eyes go back to her.

"I do," I continue and she nods in acknowledgment.

Her eyes express sympathy I honestly don't deserve.

"Something's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you."

"I pay you to say that," I mutter.

She gives me a quiet laugh before drinking tea again.

"You have no idea how many times I said the exact opposite to my clients. There's alway something wrong. At least, in this office… Truthfully now," she droneson, placing the tea back on the table. "Nothing is wrong with you. You just have a different set of expectations––"

‘See. That is the problem," I cutheroff. "My expectations. I don't want to have them. And I try not to have them. I don't want to disappoint anyone."

"You're only responsible for yourself.Theirlife is their business."

An uncomfortable pause prolongs.

"It's not only about that…" I say, disheartened. "I'm wasting my time and theirs." I gesture. "I know, I know… It's not aboutthem. Whatever. I just want to fix this and move on."

"You can't fight fate."

"Right. I can't fight fate. Then what am I supposed to do?I've tried, haven't I?"

She nods.

"I almost got married twice."

She tilts her chin again as I go down my list of failed attempts to build a life with someone.

Maybe I'm doing it all wrong.

Maybe this isn't what I want.

Perhaps I'm trying to emulate my parents, who are still in love with each other.

They've built a familyand cherishedeach other, andthey haven't evenpressured me into doing the same thing.

In fact, Antonia, my beloved mother, has told me to stop worrying and leave it to fate.

‘It's all about fate and luck,' she said.

I couldn't agree more.

But how could luck and fate work in my favor when my taste in men is so twisted?

"Plenty of men looked good on paper," I say in my defense. "Some had even surpassed my expectations—for a while, at least––before little things started to gnaw at patience and everything unraveled."

"They weren't so little," she argues, and I stay quiet. "I see those things all the time."

The thing is… I don't.

And yes, sure. They weren't––aren't––so little.

Lack of commitment––the way I understand it–– is a big one for me.

Something is fake about these hookups, and it surfaces rather quickly.

But everything looked good otherwise.

Sure.

And let's talk about sex.The bedroom activities were likemagazine ready,perfectlylooking cakes with flawless icing and no taste.

I gesture in defeat again.

"I know. I know," I say.

My gaze goes blank on thebowl of candywhile her stare burns holes into my face.

"That's why I asked…" she murmurs.

"You want my honest opinion?"

"I want you to acknowledge what we both know. And then maybe you can make peace with what this is."