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I repeatedly glance at my phone, which is lying on the passenger’s seat. Fleeting glances that achieve nothing but confirmation that there are no messages or missed calls.
That achieves nothing but irritating me. Making me want something. Some kind of connection to him.
My chest tightens and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to concentrate on the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is worse than I thought.
I’m more addicted than I thought I was.
This goes beyond any comprehensible feeling.
This is a wild addiction, one that will never be tamed.
And I love it as much as I hate it.
I can feel it flooding my veins, filling every part of me with a searing need that can only be soothed by his touch. Even his voice—that would take the edge of needing him so completely off.
Because I do. I need him so fucking entirely I almost miss the turn-off to my parents’ place.
I catch it in time and swerve down the old road. It takes me just two minutes to travel down it, and as I slow, I realize that I was doing way over the limit. Shit. I’m lucky a cop didn’t drive past me.
I tug my keys from the ignition and rest my forehead against the top of the steering wheel. Air fills my lungs with my deep breaths designed to calm and sooth.
When my heart has resumed its usual rhythm, I push open my car door and step onto the drive.
The wet drive.
How the fuck did I forget my shoes?
Yet another deep breath happens. Instead of mulling over and reading into this stupid oversight of mine, I run on tiptoes toward the house and ring the bell.
“The door!”
“Who is it? We’re not expecting anyone!”
“I don’t know, dear. Just get it!”
“Just get it, like I’m a flamin’ slave,” I hear my mother mutter as she opens the door. “Liv!” Her eyes light up when she sees me.
“Hi, Mom.” I try a smile.
“Where are your shoes?”
I look at my wet feet and shrug lamely. “At home. I kind of forgot to put them on.”
Her eyes rise up my body slowly. “Forgot? How does one forget their shoes?”
“When one’s mind is otherwise occupied,” I reply. “Can I come in or not?”
She opens the door wide. “Liv’s here!” she calls then leans in. “You know Marchant is here. You know, your father’s therapist friend.”
I swallow my groan. Of course he’d be here, and of course she’d shout my arrival before she told me about him. She’s obviously—correctly—figured out that my forgetting my shoes has to do with my little issue.
“Liv!” Marchant stands, looking much different than he did the last time I saw him. He’s not old—maybe late thirties—but there’s a light hint of silver at his crown and lines around his eyes. “How lovely to see you. You look wonderful.”
Apart from no shoes.
“It’s great to see you, too.” I smile. I like the guy. I do. I’d just like him a whole lot more if he weren’t a brain analyzer.
“What about me?” Dad asks. “Isn’t it nice to see me?”
