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The events surrounding my most recent birthday are still a little foggy and unclear. But completely forgettable? How is that even possible?
We were on the road, in New Orleans. I remember that much for sure. There were drinks, heaps of drinks. There may have been a nightclub involved and a naked pole dancer. There was weed. I definitely remember smoking the weed. There also may have been a can of Reddi-Wip involved? But that’s not a definite.
Sienna raises her brows, straightening her skewed glasses. “There’s no point hiding anything from me, it’s all in your file. Like I said, I’ve done my homework. My guess is I know more about you than you know about yourself. Her name was Trinity, by the way. The stripper. She works at a wonderfully upstanding establishment called Glitter Bomb right there on the corner of the highway. The photo she posted to her Instagram account got more than three thousand likes in the first hour. You’re not lactose intolerant. Good to know.”
Oh, yeah.Trinity. Bless her heart. Accommodating to say the least. And I fucking knew there was Reddi-Wip involved.
“Are you single, Jonesy?”
Yes, I’m trying to change the subject. A poor attempt, I agree. But the question comes so far out of left field that Sienna isn’t the only one surprised by the fact that I just asked it.
She doesn’t answer me, but I can feel her death stare boring into the middle of my forehead like one of those little red laser dots.Sniper. Abort mission.
Of course, I noticed that she’s not wearing a wedding ring. It was the first thing I looked for when I locked eyes with her earlier this morning, but hey, it’s a modern world we live in. Nothing is off limits anymore. Not wearing a guy’s ring doesn’t mean she’s not engaged, or hitched, or even living with someone.
A gentle reluctance finally settles over her and she says with a deep exhalation, “I’m divorced.”
“Why?”
“Why am I divorced?”
“Yeah.”
“Because my ex-husband is a sorry sack of—” She falters, catching herself before she says too much.Smart cookie. “Let’s just say, there are certain things that should remain firmly inside a husband’s trousers.”
“He cheated on you?”
She bites the inside of her cheek, and I grumble beneath my breath. I want to say more on the subject, so much more, but I can tell she’s getting uncomfortable with me probing into her personal life. I should probably stop. It’d be the decent thing to do, the right thing to do.
But, yeah, screw that.
“You got kids?”
She looks down at her hands. “No.”
A touchy subject. I’ll leave it alone.For now.
“We’re not here to talk about me, Kael. The less you know about me the better. That’s the way therapy works. I want to know what brought you to Rochester and what you want out of your life once your time here is done.”
I grow quiet for a long time, glancing at the rows of text books neatly stacked on the bookshelf behind Sienna’s head, buying myself some time to think.
What do I want out of my life? Isn’t that the million dollar question?
Six months ago, I thought I was on top of the world—playing music, partying, adoring fans falling at my feet. But if I’ve learned anything at all since I’ve been here, it’s that the fall from the top is a long way down, and once you hit rock bottom, there isn’t anywhere else to go.
The cold hard facts are this. If I don’t change my lifestyle, and soon, then I’m going to either end up on the street, in jail, or dead. End of story. However, as it turns out, acknowledging this inside my own head is a far cry from admitting it out loud.
“Did you learn that in psych 101?” I say because yep, I can be a sarcastic bastard when I want to be. “Tell me more about you. I want to know everything there is to know about you,”I mimic, in an overly girlie voice that sounds nothing like Sienna’s voice. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jonesy, but there’s really not that much to tell. I had a shitty childhood. I drown my sorrows with whatever I can get my hands on. Make of that what you will.”
The mention of my childhood sparks something in her otherwise somber expression. What is it with therapists and fucked up childhoods? It’s like porn to them. They get off on this stuff, and I can bet my left nut she’s going to ask me all about it in three… two…
“Tell me more about your childhood.”
And there it is. Disappointing really. I was hoping for a little more from this one, but it turns out they’re all cut from the same cloth.
More silence rings out between us.
Deathly silence.
