Chapter 23

MELODY

Thursday evening

"What's the occasion?"Aretha asks, glancing at me from behind her desk.

"I could ask you the same thing," I toss at her, smiling and perusing her two-piece skirt suit that sets off her body.

Her hair is all brushed back, and statement earrings emphasize her earlobes andherneck.

"I had a business dinner," she says while I drop my designer bag on the coffee table.

"What's your excuse?" she asks, rising to her feet but not before grabbing the notepad bearing my name and a pen from the drawer.

"I'm celebrating the new season," I say facetiously.

"It was nice today, wasn't it?" she agrees, her question rhetorical.

Moving toward my favorite couch, I remove my short white trench, revealing a red skintight dress accessorized with a narrow belt.

I place the coat next to my bag and take a seat across from where she usually sits.

She gives me a double take.

My hair is all lazy rings, gathered in a complicated bun at the top of my head, some stray strands touching my neck.

"You wore that to work?"

"Uh-huh," I say, holding her gaze.

A knowing smile touches her lips.

"It's not against our dress code," I say.

"That's not what I had in mind," she murmurs, setting everything on the coffee table and returning to her desk to collect her eyeglasses.

She slides them on as she takes a seat in front of me.

"Drinks?" she says. "I always forget to offer you something to drink."

I stop her with a flick of my hand.

"Don't worry. I'm good," I say, wondering what Jax London drinks when he is here.

And does he sit where I do?

It's been a week since I met him and five days since I talked to him, and I've become obsessed with him.

Now, that would be aninterestingtopic to talk about.

Too bad I can't tell Aretha everything.

"So, how are things?" she asks. "Not much has changed," she murmurs, writing something down.

"What makes you say that?"

I lean back, keeping my legs crossed and my back tense.

"You're still very much pissed."

I smile.

"It shows?"

"What do you think?"

She lifts her gaze and points to me.

"Your red dress and matching heels. Unless you go to a club later, you're in the same vengeful mood."

"Who says I won't go to a club?" I mutter, realizing how far away we are from talking about what we're supposed to.

High-quality men and all that crap.

We're no longer even mentioning it.

"There's someone else," I announce coldly.

"Are you meeting him tonight?"

"No. Next week… On Wednesday, at his place. It's my neighbor."

"Oh."

"Yes. We're not even going out.Hethought drinks and perhaps sex would be enough. I'm so slipping away from finding a good man; it's not even funny. But I don't know how to stop."

"Quit," she says.

She dares me again or wants to start an argument.

"You quit smoking cold turkey."

I had a relapse a few days back.

"It's not the same thing. Quitting won't solve my problem or bring the right man to my door."

She moves her eyes to her notes and writes some more while I wait for her tobring her gaze back to meand give me some pointers.

Luckily, I get it before she does.

"So you're saying that…" I murmur. "You think this process is essential. I need to kiss many frogs before I find my prince, but I'm not looking for a prince."

The thought annoys me so badly I could go through a pack of cigarettes right now, but I'm not glancing at my bag.

Besides, I no longer carry them with me.

What's the point?

"I'm not looking for a prince," I say again in a softer voice.

I lean forward, wincing as if I'm in pain.

"I don't think it's a matter of quitting," I go on. "I don't think I can do this for much longer. I don't want sex. I mean, I do, but I don't like this… process. And I don't know how to find and then connect with a high-quality man. I'm wasting my time, and it's distracting and tiring to always have my guard up. I mean, look at me," I say, straightening my back and taking a short breath. "I'm worse now than I was last week. I have a meetup with the Frenchman tomorrow evening and then a booty call with my neighbor."

"It's not that yet."

"Yes. It is. It's a scheduled booty call."

"As you say."

She gives up on taking notes.

I begin to feel that spending time together is pointlesstoo, and I'mactuallythinking of cutting this session short and just going home.

Not waiting to run into Jax again.

If he indeed is supposed to come tonight.

She sighs, and it's never a good sign when your therapist loses her hope.

"What about this?" she says, sliding the notepad and pen onto the couch. "Let me make some tea, and we can talk some more. I won't take notes. We'll just talk. Okay?"

I agree reluctantly, and she moves away while I slump back when I open my mouth and speak.

"Men pick us. Why do men have to pick us? It drives me nuts."

My stream of consciousness brings her to a halt.

"What makes you say that?"

"It's true. That's how it is. I can't be upfront with any ofthem. I mean, I can, but they won't stay. Too much truth, and they're gone. Too much reality, and they'd rather spend their time elsewhere with someone else."

She turns to me and clasps her hands on her hips.

"But that makes things easier for us, doesn't it? Your man will never do that. He wants reality, the truth about you. He won't walk away from you or spend time with someone else."

Regret blossoms in my chest, as if I've gotten so close to that and screwed it somehow.

"I've made some mistakes," I say, staring at her.

She unclasps her hands and crosses her arms over her chest.

"What mistakes?"

I chew on my lip in silence.

"With whom?"

"The last man…?" I murmur.

"Who is the last man? Sorry for having a hard time keeping track of them."

It's not a joke, and I don't take offense.

"The one I spent the night with last Saturday. He came onto me strong. Too strong, I have to say. And I pulled back. I thought he was fucking with me, using big words to mess with my head… I don't know. It sounded like that."

"Was he messing with you?"

"That's the thing. I don't know. All I know is that I can't stop thinking abouthim. At the same time, it's possible that what he said was only words."

"What did he say?" she murmurs, concerned.

Uncrossing her arms, she slides back into her seat.

"We talked about serious things. Life…" I say, gesturing, wishing to have a cigarette between my fingers and feel the smoke in my nostrils. "He's the one who asked me to give him a chance."

The memory of our last conversation brings a change of expression on her face.

"Oh, the outsider, if I remember correctly."

She scoops up her notepad and flips the pages over.

"Yes, that's him," I say. "It's not only a matter of money. There are other things that don't make us a good match—things I'd rather not get into."

She places the notepad down and gives me her full attention.

"You feel trapped."

"I'm not trapped. It's impossible. Whathewants is impossible."

"It no longer feels that impossible a week later," she points out.

"It's not about that.Hevanished like all the others, andheprobably said whathesaid to get in my pants."

"You said––"

"Yes. That's the other thing. I didn't want to goall the waywith him because something inside me told me he was important. And then… I tried to convince myself his words bore no meaning, but that stubborn voiceinside my headkept telling me they were real. See how confusing this is?"

"I sure can. You're in a fight with yourself. Your values are at odds with your instincts. It's usually confusing as hell."

A few moments pass.

"Well… If your instinct is right, he'll be back," she says.

I'm waiting.

"And if your beliefs are right…You know the rest. I think I need some tea,"shesays, pushing toherfeet and making a beeline for the other room.

MELODY

The water runsin the next room before she puts the kettle on. Aretha lived in London for a few years, and unlike me, she's a stickler for tradition when it comes to making tea.

Soon after, her phone rings.

She takes the call, but her voice moves away, which makes me think she needs some privacy and is headed to the hallway.

Her voice hums quietly in the background when I look around the room.

The curtains are pulled to the side as the beautiful view of the street streams in.

Streetlights glow along the sidewalks, illuminating the historical buildings.

I push out of my seat and move closer. The street is quiet, and to my chagrin, it's also empty.

My mind goes to Jax and that fateful night when I met him last Thursday.

So many things have happened since that night, mainly in his absence.

I pivot slowly,and inspect the room.

My eyes fall to Aretha's notepad. I'm not interested in what she thinks about me.

She usually gives me a copy of her edited notes. I never bothered to read them, and she never asked me to do so.

But as I look to my left, I notice her planner on her desk. It's open, face up, with a pencil on it.

I listen to the noise outside before inching closer. At first, I peer atherschedule upside down before moving behindherdesk and moving my finger down the list.

She's seen six clients today, and I spendverylittle time on their names. They're notimportantto me.

And then I freeze. What?

I'm the last client of the day?

Has she moved Jax's session to another day?

I leaf through her planner, feeling horrible for spying on my therapist.

I check every day. His name is nowhere. Does he use a different name?

I go back to last Thursday.

He must've been on the schedule. Even if he used a different name, she must've written it down.

My fingers creep down to my name.

Melody Hill.

And then nothing.

She doesn't have him on her schedule. Yet she confirmed he was her client.

That is odd.

I'm so tempted to go through her drawers and check the notepads. I'm sure that's illegal, but I don't want information on anyone else. I justwanthim. And so I go. Set myself in motion. Cross the line.

Become a thug.

I bend a little to reach the drawer where she keeps the notepad with my name.

If she has like thirty of them, I'm screwed.

Luckily. Aretha is organized, and I quickly find all the files stacked alphabetically.

It takes me five seconds not to find a notepad with his name.

Maybe it's not a notepad.Hejust started seeingher. How do I know?

Have no clue.

But something tells me that I'm right.

I would've run into him earlier had he been here before.

Why?

Fate, I guess?

Nothing.

There is nothing.

And then Aretha's voice is louder as if she's entered the room and has started handling the kettle.

When I hurriedly check the stack of papers on her desk, she soundslike she is about to endher phone conversation.

A file slips out of the stack.There's no nameon it, but this one was stuck inside a book.The book's title–a professional book–tells me everything I need to know.

It's about anger management issues.

When my eyes fall to the first line on the page, I expect to find a bunch of notes about the material in the book.But, no.

JAX.

That's it.

JAX.

Like he'sa special client. Likeshe is close to him.And nowI envy her for having that man on her couch being forced to tell her things that normally people wouldn't say, not even in private.

Some things are only safe with your therapist, and I'm sure he has a few things like that himself.

I wish I could go down the page and read all her notes, acting unlawfullyall the way, but the window of opportunity closes as she moves closer.

So Islidethe file back and put the book where it was, hoping tocome back some other day andread more about him.

I barely make it to the window when she enters the room with tea for both and a tin of cookies.

She casts an inquisitive look before I offer to help and take the tray from her hands.

"It looks yummy," I say, enthusiastic, garnering a curious look from her.

Later, we sit and drink tea.

Craftily, I squash my unnatural enthusiasm and slide on a mask of indifference before we start talking again.