Therapy (23 page)

I’ve never really had a guy talk to me like that. Sure, I’ve been disrespected, degraded even, but this is very different. He’s aggressive, but not abusive. More like to the point, even a little playful. It’s like he saw right through my bullshit and called me on it from the get-go. It’s refreshing, and I have to admit, extremely hot. I think Kingsley can boss me around any time he likes.

“Fine, jerk. I’ll wear the helmet, but my hair better not stink afterward,” I joke as I pull my hair back out of my face.

He laughs, loving the fact that he has won this small battle. “Do you always talk to guys like that? I’m a very sensitive guy, Jessica. I’m wounded. I really am,” he mocks.

“Ha, ha! Suuuuuure you are,” I say as I fix the helmet on my head. “You have
sensitive guy
written all over you. Just like I have
lady
written all over me.”

He straddles the motorcycle and starts it up. The unmistakable roar of the Harley’s engine is loud, exhilarating. I swing my leg over the back of the seat and make myself comfortable. The heat of Kingsley’s body combines with mine as he reaches around and grabs my hands one by one, placing them around his waist. I can feel the hardness of his abs and that heat between us creeps up to my cheeks, making me flush. He turns his head and gives me a smile that’s sexy as fuck.

“Ready?” he asks.

“I guess so. You’ve already got me into your sweaty helmet and on your bike. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Well hold on tight, then. Here we go.”

He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. As he picks up speed, the warm wind hits my face. I interlock my fingers in front of his waist and hold on for dear life. He lowers one hand to cover mine with his. It’s a strange thing to notice when you’re flying down the road on a Harley, holding on to the extremely trim waist of a hot guy you’ve just met, with the wind whipping your hair around the both of you, but his skin is rough and warm on mine. It’s an amazing contrast to what I’m used to. After a gentle squeeze, he brings his hand back up to the handlebar and we speed down the road without a care in the world.

The breeze in my hair and the hot Texas sun beating down on me feels perfect. It’s freedom, a feeling that I haven’t felt in a very long time. I think getting on the back of this motorcycle may have been a very good idea after all.

Kingsley rockets up into the parking lot of a local Starbucks and parks. He’s already kicking out the kickstand when I realize I still have a death grip on him. I quickly remove my arms from around him and start to take the helmet off.

“How was that? Not too bad, huh?” he asks.

“Nope, not at all. Even though I still could’ve done without the helmet.” I joke, handing it back to him.

He hangs the helmet off his bike and motions toward the entrance. “Non-ladies first,” he teases.

“You’re such a smart-ass. I think we’re going to get along just fine,” I say, arching my brows with a mischievous grin on my face.

“I think you might be right.”

“Sooner or later we’ve all got to let go of our past.”

—Dan Brown

I HAVE NO idea why she had a change of heart—something to do with that phone call—but I’m glad she did. Ever since I saw this girl, I knew I had to get to know her. Yes, of course, the first initial reason I noticed her was because she looks so much like my Lily; that inky black hair reminds me of my Lily’s hair. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. I can’t keep my eyes off of her, and, for some reason, I feel like she’s supposed to be in my life. As crazy as that sounds and as ridiculous as it may be, I know that this girl is someone that I really want to get to know.

The feel of her arms around me is amazing, but over far too soon. We pull up to the Starbucks and as her touch disappears, I feel a pang of loneliness shoot through me. I haven’t been touched by a woman in nearly a year. That’s how long it’s been since Lily took her life while carrying our unborn son inside her.

No matter how many months go by, the sting, the pain, and horror of that day never subsides. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully come to terms with how she could be so selfish. I’ll never understand how someone could fall so deep into the depths of hopelessness that they would choose to end their own life. I loved her, cared for her, and I was a good husband to her. Why she didn’t come to me, or tell me she was feeling that way, I’ll just never understand.

I go to open the door for her, but she grabs it before I do and walks on in like she owns the place. It’s almost as if she’s trying too hard, like she’s trying to prove something to me or to herself, or both. There’s such a hard exterior on this girl, but I get the impression that it’s all a façade hiding something much deeper.

My eyes travel down to her tight little ass and I have to force myself to look back up. I can’t go there with this girl; I can’t treat her like some chick I just met in a bar or something. I’ve seen the pain in her eyes in group when she thinks no one’s looking, and I can feel the tension that constantly rolls off of her. I certainly don’t want to cause her any more, so I have to keep my hormones in check.

“You wanna grab us a table and I can get our drinks? What would you like, Ms. Jessica?”

“Oh no, I can buy my own drink, thank you. This is not a date. I’ve got mine, no problem.”

Yep, here she is: Ms. Hard-ass, I can handle myself, independent woman.

“Whatever you say, I was just offering.”

“Thanks, but I got it. No biggie.”

She steps up to the counter and orders, firmly asserting her independence. God, she’s cute.

“I’d like a venti iced passion tea, please, sweetened.”

“Oh, are you not a coffee drinker?” I ask.

“Not particularly. My mom always drank coffee in the mornings and she liked to spike it with booze. That sort of ruined the idea of coffee for me, but I really like their Tazo teas here.”

The tone of her voice changes drastically when she mentions her mother and she becomes even more rigid than she was before.

“Oh, well, that makes sense. I’m not a coffee drinker either. I just like their sweet, frozen drink things here,” I laugh, feeling ridiculous for liking these froufrou drinks.

She giggles a bit and steps aside so I can order. All of a sudden, I’m feeling self-conscious about my choice.

“Um, yeah. I’ll take a grande chocolate chip Frappuccino, please, with extra whipped cream,” I say quietly.

I glance over at her and she has the biggest smile on her face. It’s an actual real smile that meets her eyes. She’s so beautiful; that smile should never leave her face. It looks so good on her and I find myself wondering why she never smiles. I hope I can keep putting it on her face. Maybe that’ll be my new goal every time I’m around her.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

We sit down at a corner table, and though she still has her guard up, I can see that she’s nervous too.

“Do I make you nervous?” I ask her. I’m just a straight-to-the-point type of guy. I don’t know how to be any other way.

My question seems to throw her off-kilter and I like it. She needs to loosen up a little.

“Um, no, you don’t. Why would you ask me that? Do I look nervous to you? Or are you just arrogant enough to think you would be making me nervous?”

I can’t help but laugh. Unfortunately, she’s pretty pissed off at my reaction.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, yeah. You do seem nervous, and no, I’m not arrogant. There’s not an arrogant bone in my body. Look at me, do I appear to be a guy that’s in love with himself?” I say, quirking a brow at her and gesturing up and down my body. “I’m wearing a ten dollar Walmart shirt and Dickies. I’m the furthest thing from arrogant or self-absorbed.”

She just has no idea who I am.

“What you appear to be is rude. I’m not nervous. You do not make me nervous. I’m cool, no nerves here,” she replies as she crosses her arms and affirms the fact that she is, in fact, nervous.

“So, tell me why you’re in that group. What’s your story, Ms. Jessica?”

She hates me now. The look on her face is priceless. I can’t help it; I’m struggling to hold back a laugh.

“You don’t pull any punches, do you? That’s a pretty damn personal question, Kingsley. Why don’t
you
tell me why you’re in group and we can go from there.”

Obviously, I knew my question would ultimately lead to this question, but the reality of being faced with it is completely terrifying. I haven’t talked to anyone about Lily since she died. I never attended grief counseling and I’ve never spoken at the group meetings. Until this moment, I haven’t really had to deal with the whys of my behavior. I look up at her and I know that she can see the fear circling in my eyes, the uncertainty on my face, and feel the indecision hanging in the air between us.

“Never mind. Let’s not talk about why we’re in that group,” she says, saving me from the demons of my past. Once again, I’m able to suppress it and push it all back to a safe place in my mind. I’m not ready to deal with it yet. Soon, but not yet.

“Okay, sounds like a deal,” I tell her, and I can’t hide the relief that’s so obvious in my voice. I guess I can’t really expect her to share her issues if I’m not ready and willing to share my own.

“Well, let me ask you a less personal question, then. What do you do? Where are you from and what do you do for fun?”

A little smile stretches across her face as she places a small strand of that shiny black hair behind her ear.

“That’s more than one question,” she says, tilting her head to the side, looking at me with those sad eyes. Her eyes rarely change, but in those rare moments that they come to life, it’s something to see. Still, I want to know why she’s so sad. For some reason, I really feel this need to reach out to her, to be there for her.

“I guess you’re right. It is more than one question,” I concede. “I can go first if you want me to. My answers aren’t all that interesting, though. I’m a pretty boring dude,” I tell her.

“Kingsley, I seriously doubt you’re boring. You don’t seem to be the boring type at all.”

She thinks she has me all figured out: the arrogant bad boy who talks rudely to females. That’s what she’s got me pegged as, but she couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Well, allow me to enlighten you to all of my excitement. I’m a welder by day and I do personal training in the evenings and weekends on the side.” She smiles a little and I like that she likes what she’s hearing. “I do the training more as hobby than anything else. I like helping people to be healthier and I love being in the gym. It’s a win-win situation for me. I write and play acoustic guitar for fun. I’m not a good singer at all. Matter of fact, I suck. But I really love playing, it relaxes me and it’s very therapeutic to write songs. Other than that, I pretty much keep to myself. I don’t barhop or party it up. I’m just a simple dude living my life the best I can.” I take a long drink from my straw before saying, “Like I said, soooo exciting!”

Her big smile is back and I fucking love it.

Fuck, get yourself under control, Kingsley.

“It all sounds pretty exciting to me. Sounds like you actually have a life. That’s more than I can say for myself,” she says, but her words trail off with her smile as she looks down at her tea. She twirls the straw around and I can almost see through that barricade she has herself locked up in.

“Why do you say that? Why do you say you have no life? I’m sure you have hobbies. Everyone has something that they like doing.”

She doesn’t look up, but shrugs her shoulders a little.

“I like to write too. Poetry. I like to write poetry. I guess that’s my hobby, even though it doesn’t seem like a real hobby to me. It’s just scribbling in a journal. Nothing special.”

She glances up at me as if she’s looking for validation or something, but that’s not fucking happening.

“Umm, are you joking? Writing is an art form, whether it’s music, novels, poetry, or news articles. Anytime you start with a blank page or canvas and create something from nothing it’s art and it’s beautiful. Of course, not everyone will agree because we all like different shit, but it’s still art. It’s your art and you should be proud of it even if it never sees the light of day. So don’t ever say it’s nothing special. That’s just shit talk.”

She stares at me intently as she tries to formulate a tough-girl response. “Kingsley, it’s just a journal and some words. That’s not art. You’re taking what I said way too seriously. It’s nothing artistic, really. I promise you.”

“Do you play this
feel sorry for me
card with everyone or is it just me? You come off as this hard-ass woman who can take on the world, but then you sit here and act all defeated when talking about your poetry.” I lean in toward her, undeterred by the scowl currently taking over her face. “Do you think saying it sucks makes me want to say it doesn’t? Do you want someone to tell you that your writing has worth or that you have worth by putting yourself down? Because if that’s the case, I’m not buying into it.” I’m irritated that she’s refusing to see her own strength. I know it’s pissing her off, but I won’t coddle her. “Okay, your poetry is shit. You shouldn’t write another poem for as long as you live. There, feel better?” I say, looking at her dead on.

Yeah, it’s a crude thing to say, but, for some damn reason, I feel like someone needs to snap their fingers in this girl’s face, tell it how it is, and stop allowing her to put on this front.

“You know what? Screw you! I’m not going to sit here and let a guy I barely know talk to me like this. Who the hell do you think you are, huh? Let me tell you something, I spent a huge portion of my life letting people talk to me like I was shit and that’s no longer something I tolerate. This,” she gestures animatedly between us, “is done! This little coffee shop convo is over. I’m going to catch the bus and you can kiss my ass. You’re a total douchebag, Kingsley!”

She huffs and puffs as she grabs her bag.

I don’t move from my relaxed position in my chair. I lean back a little and grin at her. She’s so pissed, but all I want to do is laugh. That was way too easy. She may have been able to hide from everyone all her life, but I’m not blind to what’s beneath that hardened exterior that she seems to think she needs around herself.