Or so I thought. Because despite him always being there for me, no matter what shape I was in, doing his best to provide for me, convincing me it was not foolhardy to put my trust in him…once I had placed my life in his hands and felt relieved to be doing it, he left. Abandoned me. Took that precious gift I held sacrosanct in my cupped palms and smashed it. Years and years of carefully cultivated belief in not only him, but also in my ability to be loved. Yes, loved. Because there was something more than a professional obligation there. And then there was nothing.
I was not lovable, I was not even tolerable. The one person who had successfully convinced me I was couldn’t stand to be around me anymore. The weight of my issues was too heavy, I had asked for too much, been so needy and desperate that I sickened him, forced him to leave.
He broke my heart and I believed it was my fault. That I deserved it, that I could expect nothing more from anyone. I was a failure and would continue to be one for the rest of my life.
I’m not sure why that didn’t result in another suicide attempt. Given the circumstances and the fragility of my mental health, that would have perhaps been predictable. But the combination of a full course of ECT and Lowry’s success in convincing me that killing myself wasn’t an option meant I didn’t. It was perhaps too all the therapy I’d done that helped me recognize the difference between rightful sadness and depression. What I felt when Lowry left was abandonment, grief, heartbreak, anguish, and desolation. Not the insidious whisper of depression, so I’m the girl who lived. Who is alive. And, despite the loss of my father and the other hardships I’ve endured since, will continue to live.
Having dinner with Lowry has become one of the best parts of my week. I enjoy his company very much and have allowed myself to enjoy it, to trust him this far. But while my fantasy life of handing him every delicate part of me yet again and having him cherish and keep it is very much alive, that’s what it is. A fantasy. While I enjoy daydreaming about Lowry—and yes, getting myself off to the many episodes I’ve crafted of Lowry Loves Starla in my mind—I cannot risk even imagining that could be a reality.
So, to be given a chance to effectively play house with him? To have so many parts of my fantasy come true, to be so tempted to disclose the rest of it? To believe in him and place myself in the hands I once believed would treasure and nurture me, hand him every fragile part of myself? I don’t think so.
I can’t stomach the possibility of floating that offer to Lowry only to have it sink like a paper boat in a hailstorm. Again. This time it would be worse too. A rejection so thorough it would not only split me down to my core, but likely crumble that part of me as well. A girl can only take so much. And apparently, so can a man, because Lowry looks like I’ve slapped him in the face.
Chapter 7
Lowry
The look on Starla’s face when I suggested we go on vacation… How quickly it went from the purest wishful delight to the most profound horror.
And here I am on a rowing machine at the gym on Harbinson’s campus at three o’clock in the afternoon, rehashing the whole thing in my head. I am here because of her wise counsel, and she… I don’t honestly know where she is, what she’s doing, or who she might be doing it with, and it seems as though she would like to keep those things true.
The rest of our dinner had been eaten in near silence and we hadn’t said anything about next time. Me because I wanted her to be the one to initiate our next meeting since I wanted to know if she wanted there to be a next time. And her…apparently because she didn’t want there to be a next time.
I overstepped my bounds. Asked far too much of her. Asked her to trust me with her safety after a handful of dinners. What was I thinking? Oh, I know very well what I was thinking. That I could have more time with her, that I could provide a sense of security so she could run about and make her world bigger without a care, that perhaps being together like that would let her see me in the way I see her: as a possibility. The brightest, boldest possibility, one I am terrified of, because of how perfect it has the potential to be.
Yes, it feels dangerous. I don’t like the implications of what I want from her. But I do know I want her. It’s been two full weeks without her and I feel like one of those trees that’s rotted from the inside—the only thing holding me up is an exoskeleton of bark. Without the structure of how I’ve arranged my life, the fact my patients need me, I would have collapsed because I miss her so. Miss her smile, miss her sass, miss her darling outfits, and how she gives me no quarter, challenges me all the time.
It feels eerily similar to when I’d left for Chicago, a darkness I never thought I’d have to endure again. Does she feel anywhere near the same? Or is she glad to have left me behind?
Though I’ve already exceeded my usual speed on the rowing machine, I push harder with my quads and calves, pull with my arms, shoulders, all the way through my back until my muscles burn and scream for relief. But I will not give in. Not when the sweat courses down my forehead and stings my eyes, not when my shirt is plastered to me with the truly excessive amount of perspiration this workout has engendered. Not even when my stomach has started threatening a revolt—it doesn’t scare me because it’s got nothing to throw up. Which is what finally makes me slow and then come to a stop, slip my trainers from the toeholds and try not to stumble when I push to my feet. I’m not keen on the idea of fainting in front of my colleagues.
I have thought about texting or calling Starla many times over the past two weeks, but haven’t because I don’t want to be pushy. Perhaps if I stand very still and hold my hand out, she will nudge against it. But I can’t bear the idea that she might not. Besides, I remember how much effort it took for her to knock on my door at Harbinson. It might take even more if she wants to see me now.
It’s freezing outside but I still consider ducking out without showering first because now that I’ve decided on a course of action, I want to get on that as soon as possible. But Starla believes me to be a practical and responsible man, and if she did the same, I’d be tempted to scold her. If I were too distracted to think better of it, I probably would. Far better to wash the grime away and outfit myself properly for the cold than to go out in weather like this and end up a sweatcicle. As if Starla would be able to sense such a thing. She’s clearly no mind reader, but better safe.
* * *
Starla
I know on Wednesdays we smash the patriarchy. Would it be possible to arrange to stab the patriarchy on Thursdays? Because the only weapon I have right now is a really nice fountain pen my father gave me. I’d be loath to ruin it on these fuckfaces, but it would be worth it.
While my daddy kink for sure extends outside the bedroom, it does not extend into the boardroom and it makes my blood boil that these people still treat me as little Starla Patrick. As if at any moment, I’m going to take a doll from my satchel or perhaps crayons and a coloring book to camp out under the boardroom table. Have I done those things in the past? Of course, as a child when my father toted me around as his kindergarten-age protégé. Would I perhaps participate in those activities even now? Yes, but not in a boardroom where I am functioning as a major stockholder in an international conglomerate. For fuck’s sake.
I am however, verging on hangry, and am definitely wound tight from the stress of managing never-ending statistics and balance sheets, real estate agreements, legal matters… everything. I have a sneaking suspicion this doesn’t have to be so onerous except Tad wants me to feel overwhelmed. Is in fact using his knowledge of my shortcomings against me. He wants me get rid of my shares. I suspect he would like it if I sold enough directly to him—or whatever partnership he put together to actually come up with that much money—that he would have a controlling interest in Patrick Enterprises, and that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t trust him. And I like him even less when he clears his throat and levels me with a look that says he doesn’t think I’m very bright.
“Could we all flip to page eighty-three of the quarterly repor
t? I think Ms. Patrick could use yet another review of our cash flow.”
Seriously. Violence has never been a symptom of the mental health issues I have, and given the expressions on the faces of the other board members in the room, it appears that most rational people would love to shiv this asshat through an eye. Annoyingly, I know they’re making a judgment about me and not that annoying sack of shit Tad.
I’m about to say so, when my phone buzzes in front of me on the table. It’s Lowry.
Thrill and dread run up my spine in equal levels. I’ve wanted to speak with him. Have missed him since we last spoke, have clutched tightly to my daydreams about him even as I’ve tried to shove them from my mind. Is the universe trying to tell me something by having him call at the very moment I would most like to escape this godforsaken room? No matter if it is or not, I’ll take advantage of the excuse to get the heck out of Dodge.
“I don’t need to go over those cash flow numbers again, Tad. What I need to do is think about what I’d like to do with the information those numbers are giving me and I don’t need the board sitting around this table and staring at me while I work it out. Also, I’m getting a phone call from Harbinson which I ought to take. Excuse me.”
There’s a murmur of surprise from the room and I barely refrain from rolling my eyes as I push back my seat. They all know I have serious mental health issues, so I’m not sure why that ripple went through the room at the mention of Harbinson. Wouldn’t they rather I seek treatment and manage my depression as well as I can than not? Though it occurs to me like a punch to the gut that perhaps Tad would not prefer that. He’d be able to sue for control by citing my instability. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. Yes, better to be transparent about the fact that I receive the finest psychiatric care in metro Boston and not leave any room for doubt about my competency.
I leave nineteen pairs of staring eyes behind as I stalk to the door, answering my phone as I do.
“Hello, this is Starla.”
“Starla, it’s Lowry. I’m so glad you’ve picked up. I thought…”
The air still feels stifling in the fiftieth floor hallway of what I will always think of as the John Hancock building, so I head to the elevator and slip open the first two buttons on my blouse.
“You thought what?” That I would like to be your darling little girl and the idea of you rejecting me makes me want to hide in my bathroom forever so I’ve been avoiding you? Correct!
“Ah, perhaps we could talk about it later,” he offers. Or never, which would be my preference. “But I wanted to ask if you were free this evening. Or perhaps you’ve already rebooked your Thursday evenings?”
Maybe I should get a cat. A cat wouldn’t judge me for scooping tuna salad out of the bowl with Doritos. They’d probably want to share. I could move into my father’s house, get a shit ton of cats, go all Grey Gardens on the place, and let’s be real—very few people would be surprised.
Or I could have dinner with Lowry and be a functional adult. I do enjoy giving the finger to the haters…
“I haven’t rebooked. What did you have in mind?”
I’m expecting him to give me the option of several cuisines or perhaps say he’ll text me with the name and address of the restaurant, but instead, he surprises me by asking, “What do you say instead of dinner, we go ice skating?”
“I say I’m terrible at skating.” I only ever went a few times as a kid, and mostly I remember the bruises I got from falling on my ass repeatedly.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to try out for the Olympics. I asked if you wanted to go skating. I used to go pond skating with my brothers near our house and it was always a good time. Course, mostly we ended up having a snowball fight.”
Ugh. Picturing little ginger Lowry out on a picturesque pond in some scuffed up skates taking a snowball to the face is… Goddamn the man. And it does sound nice. If I couldn’t let myself go on vacation with him, I could at least let myself have this, couldn’t I? Indulge that little part of me, which he’d never have to know.
Of course, it could turn out to be one of those things that looks fun in the movies and then is quite terrible in reality. But at least if he asks me to go skating again, I can say no without him being all reasonable and asking, “How do you even know you won’t like it if you haven’t done it in twenty-five years?”
His presence is twisted so deeply into my grey matter I make arguments for him. I’ll save my fighting for a battle I want to actually win, like the one against Tad and company, the people who have no faith in me and are likely rooting for me to fail.
“Fine. I’ll see you at the Frog Pond at seven thirty.”
* * *
Lowry
It’s darling what a terrible skater Starla is. I mean, really, truly terrible. She said she’d be bad, but I didn’t expect this. The woman can’t keep her feet under her to save her life. Of course, in addition to being adorable, it has the perk of her clinging to me as though I’m a life preserver on a frozen sea. My arm’s getting a bit sore from where her fingers are digging in hard even through the layers I put on so I wouldn’t freeze to death, but I don’t mind. Means I get to be close to her, feel her pressed up against me, and also smell her.
She smells like sweet almond cookies, like butter and sugar and all the good things. I could eat her up, but I won’t. That’s not our relationship, and though she’s given me far more than I could’ve ever expected from the way she reacted to seeing me on the plane, I won’t push for more. Especially after what happened when I suggested she could have it. So I will enjoy what I can, the way she swears under her breath as she inches along on the ice and clutches my arm, her chest snug against my biceps.
“When is time for hot cocoa? I was promised cocoa.”
She’s looking up at me, eyes round, tip of her nose red, and her cheeks rosy. This has got to be at once the best and worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Are your feet frozen blocks of ice? Do your toes feel as though they could snap right off? Because that’s when it’s time for cocoa, not before.”
“I feel like my nose hairs are frozen, is that good enough?”
I snort, and yeah, my nose hairs are feeling like tiny icicles too.
“I suppose. Let’s try to get you off the ice without a tumble, shall we?”
She glares at me, and if I were frozen all the way to my heart, that one wrinkled-nose glower would thaw me. Starla is like a bunny. An incredibly rich and powerful bunny who could have her henchbunnies end a person in a second, but with me, she seems only to want her ears stroked. “Oh, shut it. I haven’t fallen at all. I’m pretty impressed with myself.”
I am smart enough and fond enough of my own hide not to return that she’s been using me as a crutch the entire time and it would take a truly cursed skater to fall whilst doing that. And indeed, after another couple of minutes of shuffling, we do make it off the ice and onto a wooden bench.
It’s probably not comfortable, but my arse is so cold I can’t honestly say if that’s the case. Starla’s cheeks are a pretty shade of pink above the scarf she’s got wound round her neck, and there’s a glisten of perspiration at her temples and on her forehead.
“How is it possible,” she mutters, “to be so cold and yet sweaty at the same time?”
“Talent?”
She elbows me, but it doesn’t hurt since we both look like marshmallows in all our layers. When we’d exited the rink, she’d let go of my arm—much to my dismay—but now she’s leaning against my shoulder and gazing at me with imploring eyes.
“Can I be done now, please? If you get me some hot cocoa, I’ll sit and watch you skate if you want to go out without an anchor holding you back, but I’m dying here.”
I am in the worst shit if Starla’s going to start asking my permission to do or not do things. Makes my voice come out all gruff and stodgy. I suppose that’s better than cracking which is the other possibility, given how I feel so light inside. I may as well be stuffed with helium.
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br /> “Aye, you can be done.” I tip my head in the direction of the concession stand where there’s a bit of a line but it’s not awful. “I’ll get your chocolate while you take your skates off.”
She has the prettiest smile when she says thank you, and it makes me glad I’m walking away from her. Because I can hear her saying, “Thank you, Daddy,” and I could collapse from horniness right here. Which… What in God’s name is that about? Never did I wish for Maeve to call me that. Nor want for her to be the type of woman who would. I liked her toughness, her self-sufficiency, her cutting intelligence and wit. Not that those qualities are incompatible with wanting to call your lover daddy, but…
Christ almighty. That vivid, thrilling sound bite is playing on repeat in my head. It pokes at all of my worst fears about who I am, the things I want, wishes I keep in my darkest heart. Despite all that—and I’m not proud of it—I know what I’ll be jerking off to later.
When I come back from getting her cocoa, she’s sitting prettily on the bench, rubbing her hands together, stomping her feet. The fur-topped boots she’s wearing complete the picture, and I’m glad she’s given me the excuse to go exert myself and also freeze my arse off again because she’s so darling, I’d otherwise have trouble keeping my hands to myself. I would, but I wouldn’t want to.
Once her hands are wrapped around the waxed paper cup, she smirks up at me.
“All right, Campbell. Show me what you’ve got when you don’t have me slowing you down.”
For Her Own Good Page 9