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I closed my eyes and breathed in as the smell of rain engulfed me. I loved the smell of rain. Something about the earthiness of it made me feel comforted. It was hard to explain . . . and weird. Very weird.
Deep down, I think I did want help. I needed somebody to understand me. I needed someone to explain why I felt the way I did.
I toyed with the edge of the bench, using my nail to run small lines in the soft wood. "I don't nee
d another therapist."
"What do you need?" he asked me.
"A friend?" I said. I blushed.
How fucking sad was I? Did I seriously just ask a shrink to be my friend? His face softened as he waited for me to say something else. I tried again.
"Everything is so clinical. The only people I spoken to—who I've ever really spoken to—were therapists. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I need someone to just chat with about random shit."
"Okay," he agreed, with a nod of his head. I furrowed my brow, watching as his hair flopped over his face. He looked so much like his brother. They both had the same dark curly hair, the same deep, soul-searching eyes, the same sexy, hard bodies . . .
Fuck. Get a grip, Rose!
"Rose?"
"Sorry," I muttered, my face flushing. "Okay, what?"
Could I act any stranger? He must think I’m a complete knobhead!
"Talk about shit." He said it so simply, as if just like that we could move from therapist/patient to friends. "Tell me about yourself. Not your problems. Tell me the good things about Rose."
"I like to sing." I shrugged, remembering Jack catching me the other day. A small smile formed on my lips as I thought about Jack. Way too old for me, but he seemed like a nice guy; the type of person I'd enjoy having as a friend.
"That's pretty cool. I used to play drums as a kid. My brother and I formed a band once," he said with a smirk.
I laughed. "Really? Wow, what happened?"
"Nothing worth telling. It didn't last long. My brother plays guitar really well. He performs at a few places around town. Have you ever sung in public?"
"No." I shook my head. "I'm not really about all that shit. I just like to sing because it makes me feel good."
"What kind of music do you like?" he asked.
"Anything with decent vocals. I listen to a lot of indie music; undiscovered bands, and all that. I write my own songs too," I added shyly.
"Wow, really? That's impressive," he said. And he did look impressed.
I blushed. "It's kind of my release. My way of trying to deal with my feelings. I can lose myself in music and forget who I am, if that makes sense. It’s like reading a book, but requires no energy. I can just immerse myself in the beat and the lyrics, and be someone else.”
“What is it about yourself that you don't like?” Alex's voice cut through my daydream.
What didn't I like about myself? Where did I start?
“I don't know. I have trouble expressing myself. I don't even understand myself sometimes, and that scares me.” And it did. Sometimes the thoughts that came out of my head petrified me, and even more terrifying were the times I acted on those thoughts. Asking Jack out was my way of trying to push through that fear. Only I didn’t know if that was going to work.
Chapter Nine
Jack
Opening night. It had come around so quickly. Nerves, excitement, anxiety . . . hell, I was feeling it all.
I'd been up since four in the morning, making sure everything was set, and the only thing keeping me awake at that point was the adrenaline. Well, that and the endless supply of coffee. This had to go well. I was smart enough to know that I couldn't plan for everything, and that was honestly part of the excitement: not knowing how things were going to go, or how I'd be feeling in five hours’ time.
