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“Come here,” he orders me as he tosses his shirt onto the floor.
“My financé is such a bossy bitch,” I laugh and crawl on top of Remi.
My financé.
My husband.
Mine.
13
REMI
I’m not sure what I was expecting from Justin’s therapist. Certainly not this. If he ever mentioned she was a woman of color, I’d completely blocked it out. Though, since even the idea of Justin talking about what goes on between us with anyone, especially a therapist, gave me heart palpitations, he probably told me one of the times I was singing with my fingers in my ear.
Her hair is smoothed back and knotted at the base of her head. Despite the three feet of snow threatening outside, her trousers are off-white and are sure to be ruined the moment she walks out onto the sidewalk. She’s in a warm woolen ice-blue sweater that tucks up under her chin and looks soft enough to sleep in.
Her office is a perfect representation of its owner—all soothing colors and soft angles.
Dr. Miller is watching my knee bounce with a shrewd expression hiding behind a smile.
My palms are sweating, and I fight the need to wipe them on my pants.
“Feel free to move around. Some of my patients struggle to sit in one spot for long. That’s why the room is so large. So there’s enough space for everything you’re feeling.”
I immediately laugh, some of the tension breaking apart in my chest.
Justin probably paces until he’s worn a hole in her floor.
But then my throat closes up and panic begins the slow burn from the pit of my stomach eating it’s way up through my esophagus again.
She taps her pen on her tablet, breaking our silent joint examinations and—
“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, shall we?”
I let my breath out through tightened lips. There are so many elephants I can hardly find a place to sit. I wore what I'm most comfortable in, a suit without a tie, and now I wish I had a tie too because if I did, I could choke myself into unconsciousness and avoid this entire discussion altogether!
“Okay.” I can't believe I let him pin me into this corner. I could scream at how uncomfortable I am. I don’t want to talk about anything, but I don’t have a choice. “I promised Justin I’d take better care of myself, and one of those conditions was my mental and emotional health. He’s right, as usual. Asshole.”
Did I—her face tightens just a tad and she lifts her hand to stretch her fingers over her mouth. Her gaze is dancing with mirth and despite her best efforts, I can see the sides of her lips twitch with the fight to keep her face bare of the impending smile.
I did.
I just said all of that out loud. Look what that asshole has done to me. He’s ruined my life. He’s broken my brain, he’s got me addicted to his cock like it’s fucking crack and now I’m rambling like a mad man to a woman who literally has the power to have me committed for insanity.
Which she should. Because I’ve obviously lost my fucking mind. I sink into the couch, and drag my hands over my face. Here five minutes in, and I’ve already embarrassed myself.
"Sorry," I confirm when it's obvious she's waiting for me to say something else. I twirl my fingers in the air in a carry-on motion. "Elephants..."
“I’m Justin’s therapist,” she begins with a soft smile. Her eyes twinkle. It’s obvious why he likes her so much. “I have been for quite some time. As I’m sure you’re extremely familiar with, he has very little filter. It would be against my oath and my personal morals if we didn’t discuss the fact that I’m already familiar with your particular situation. Of course, everything I’ve heard is colored with Justin’s point of view, but I'm not coming in as unawares as would be typical in a new doctor/patient relationship.”
Shit. I pull what little self-respect I have left around me like I would if this were a business negotiation and sit up straight, running my hand down my chest. Flattening my invisible tie.
“Does that mean you don’t want to treat me?”
Panic claws at my throat. I’m nervous enough about going to therapy, even though I agree with Justin that I need to talk with someone. I had counted on the fact that Dr. Miller was already aware of my…situation, as she called it, to avoid having to admit too much.
Is there anything scarier than confessing your sins?
