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The orgasm, when it hits me, isn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. A groan, a tightening behind my solar plexus, and a soft, wet fall across my fist. I reach for tissues on my bedside table, clean myself up. Then I give up and pad all the way to the shower. If I thought this would help me sleep, I was wrong. I’m more awake than ever now.
More focused on exactly what I’ve lost.
But standing under the pouring water of the shower—set on the coldest temperature I can possibly stand at this hour in the morning—I make my mind up. One way or another, I’m telling Cassidy the truth. There will be consequences, I know. But it’s nothing I haven’t already been through before. If telling her pushes me right back into the hell I only just managed to climb out of, well then…
I gaze around the bathroom, with its simple, minimalist design. A design Sheryl would have hated. The exact style she always seethed about. Even though I had this apartment designed with one goal in mind: starting over fresh, starting over as my own person—there are still vestiges of her in it. Touches I added only because I knew they’d piss her off.
That’s not healthy. That’s not a complete break, not truly.
But what I have with Cassidy? That can be. So I owe it to Cass to walk back into that furnace one more time and claim my freedom once and for all. Even if it means losing this apartment, my livelihood. Everything I’ve worked for. She’s worth the risk.
Where we go after that will be her decision. Our future, if we have one, is up to her. But this? This is the step that’s up to me. And for once, I’m going to rise to the occasion.
22
Cassidy
I take a deep breath. Then another. It doesn’t completely clear the lump in my throat or chase the tears from my eyes, but it definitely helps.
Beside me, perched on her plush chair set next to the couch where I’m currently folded over my knees, my therapist watches me with a half-smile. “It’s normal to feel like this, Cassidy. Even though you’ve made your decision and are on the path to change, it’s completely normal to still have emotions about what you’ve chosen. To mourn the direction you decided not to take.”
I nod, because my throat feels too tight to speak again. I just got through talking about Lark. The breakup, the way I can’t stop checking my phone for messages from him, even though I told him I didn’t want him to contact me, so he’s only respecting my wishes. Some twisted part of me still wishes he’d ignore my rules. Push through the boundaries I set to chase me anyway, even though it’s exactly what I need to not be encouraging right now.
Beside me, my therapist shifts in her seat. “I’d like to talk about something a little different today, if that’s all right with you?”
I take a deep breath and nod again. Different would be good. A distraction from Lark would be good.
“Last time you were here, we talked about recurring patterns in your life. For example, your difficulties in setting boundaries with Lark, and before him with Norman. Sometimes—not all the time, mind you—but sometimes these sorts of difficulties stem from childhood relationships. From the relationships you saw modeled between your parents growing up, or the way that your parents treated you. Does that sound like it might relate to you?”
My stomach sinks. Of course she’s hit directly on the only possible subject that could be worse to discuss than my tragedy of a love life. My parents.
More specifically, my mom.
“Um… Well, my dad wasn’t around. He left before I was born. I know his name, but…” I shrug. “I never wanted to meet him. I never really understood that urge. He abandoned me from the start, so why should I chase him?”
“I see.” My therapist makes a quick note, and I fight the urge to ask her what she’s writing. “And what about your mother?”
“Um… We don’t talk much anymore,” I admit, as I reach over to pluck another tissue from the box at my elbow and use it to daub at my eyes. At least my new waterproof mascara, which we’re launching widely next week, seems to be doing its job. There’s not a smudge out of place, despite my tearing up this whole session. I smile at the tissue for a moment, before I realize the therapist has asked another question.
“Why is that?”
“Well.” I clear my throat. Where to begin with Mom? “She can be… pushy. She has a really specific way she wants me to lead my life, and if I don’t live it that way…”
“What way is that, exactly?” The therapist nudges her glasses further up her nose.
