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Chapter Eleven
Frankie
“Dr. Feinberg is constantly asking me ‘how do you feel about it’ after we’ve discussed certain situations in my life, past and present,” Clive said, the derisive roll of his eyes plainly visible through the video chat. “It annoys the shit out of me.”
I slurped up a couple of lo mein noodles and nodded as I poked at the little Chinese takeout carton with my chopsticks. “Yeah, but does he make a point once you’ve admitted how you feel?”
“That’s the worst part,” Clive complained. “He usually fucking does.”
Four weeks of therapy and I didn’t see any miraculous changes in Clive just yet, but he talked all the time about the things he was learning and how he tried to apply therapy to his life. It was encouraging, even if I knew he hadn’t spoken to Denton or Marcie yet. It wasn’t something I would force because I knew he had to reach out when he was ready to really make amends and accept what he couldn’t change. The fact that his daughter and Denton were together for the foreseeable future.
“So do you like therapy?” I asked. “I can’t always tell sometimes. You talk about it nonstop, but half the time it’s complaining.”
Clive looked thoughtful as he took a sip of his long-necked beer. “Like is maybe the wrong word. I’ve cried like a big baby at every single session so far, and it feels like shit, but I’m exhausted like I’ve just gone for a long run or something after. And that feels good, like I’m putting something heavy down when I didn’t even realize I was carrying it.”
I stuffed more noodles into my mouth and tipped my head curiously. “How do you mean?”
He sighed and stroked his square, bearded jaw. “After Amanda died, I used to get up every couple of hours and go watch Marcie sleep. Just to make sure she hadn’t disappeared or died or anything else,” he trailed off, his jaw tightening with the memory. “And when she left for Rainier, I just…couldn’t sleep at all because I was constantly worrying about her. It’s still hard sometimes. And Dr. Feinberg says that it’s a form of PTSD.”
“I thought that was something that mostly just soldiers got,” I said, finding that interesting. “War zone type stuff.”
He shook his head. “Me too, but apparently not. Anyone can get it, and I have it. He says that’s why I freeze up in certain situations, or just…can’t handle some things.”
I set my dinner to the side and gave him a hard look. “When do you plan to talk to Marcie?”
Clive sighed heavily. “I will. Soon.” He paused and looked at me, his lips pursing when he saw my stern stare. “Aren’t you worried? She might be pissed when she finds out that we’re together.”
I shook my head. “This is all a really complicated hairball. But Marcie and me? We’ll figure it out. She’s not stupid, she knows something’s up with me, anyway, but she also respects my privacy. We’ll get there, Clive. She just wants you right now, though—that’s the most important thing.”
A smile suddenly split his face, warm and heartbreakingly handsome. “Okay. How about tomorrow night?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He laughed. “I mean, I want to come and visit you, and try to make amends with Marcie. I’ll be in Seattle tomorrow evening. I’ve already booked my flight.”
I clapped my hands over my mouth to stifle my happy shriek when Pete bolted off the couch from beside me. “Clive,” I hissed. “You jackass, why didn’t you lead off our call with that?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m nervous about seeing Marcie after all this time away, and ignoring her calls and messages. But do you want to meet me tomorrow night after work at my hotel? I’ll be at the Pacific Heights. We could do room service and sex.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
I slumped back against the couch, stifling a giggle. “Yeah. Absolutely. It’ll be late, though—I already have some plans with Kresley, but after that, I’ll be there.”
His eyes glowed with heat. Heat and . . . love. “Just so you know, once I have you all to myself I’m going to pin you down and fuck you until you scream. I can’t wait.”
“Love you,” I murmured, fanning my heated face, my body already tingling in anticipation.
“I love you too,” he replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
* * *
“So,” Kresley said the following evening as she picked up her margarita on the rocks and took a sip. “You’re dating Clive, right?”
I coughed and set my wine down. “What?”
She flicked her blond waves over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Marcie might not notice because he’s her dad, but I’ve been watching you moon over him for years, and suddenly you’re suspiciously quiet about your private life and you hustle out the door every evening to rush home as fast as you can. Good time Frankie, queen of the happy hour, wants to be at home. To talk to your boyfriend, I assume.”
“Boyfriend sounds so juvenile,” I said as my gaze briefly slid over to my phone for the umpteenth time. Still, no text message notifications, and I tried to ignore the swirl of anxiety in my belly.
“I bet,” she said with a light laugh. “How much older is he? Twenty years? More?”
