I did the easy math. “You married at eighteen.”
“Right. We met at school, fell in love, and we knew that was it. Our parents, our aunts and uncles, all of our teachers, everyone we knew was like, you can’t possibly know what you want at seventeen. You’re too young, yada yada yada. We didn’t believe them. We’d known each other a total of four months when we got married. We ran away and lived in his car until we turned eighteen, got married by a justice of the peace, and that was it. Is that feasible for everyone? Obviously not. But I knew, and Jake knew, and it didn’t matter how young we were or how long we’d known each other. When you know, you know.”
“I don’t know, though, Dr. Hines, and that’s the issue.”
She nodded, twirled the pen between two fingers. “So, let’s imagine for a moment that he changes his mind from what he said in the note you shared with me. Let’s say he does ‘ghost’ you, as he put it.” She used air quotes around the emphasized word. “You never see him again, you never hear from him again, that’s it. Over and done. What then?”
My heart pounded, and my chest got tight, and it was hard to swallow. “I would be devastated. I haven’t seen him in three weeks, and I won’t see him for another week, and I…” The lump in my throat was hard to swallow past. “I miss him. I feel like I messed up the last time I saw him and I haven’t spoken to him since then and I…I miss him.”
“Have you ever missed a man before?”
I cackled at that. “Hell no.”
“You say that with such vehemency, as if the very concept is laughable.”
“Because it is, Dr. Hines. I use men—use ’em and lose ’em. I’m guilty as hell of treating men like little more than walking penises, essentially. I’ve never…there has never been a man in my life to miss.”
“And Titus?”
“For the first time in my entire life, I see a man as a person, as someone worth knowing. He’s more than just sex to me.”
“But?”
“You’re relentless, you know that?”
“It’s my job.” She smiled encouragingly.
“But…it’s scary. Because…because I don’t feel like I have anything to offer him.” This was nearly a whisper.
“Laurel, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re successful. And he clearly sees something in you.”
“I don’t mean like that—I know I’m all those things.”
“So then when you say you don’t have anything to offer, what do you mean?”
I swallowed, but the tears trickled down anyway. I tapped my chest, over my heart. “I meant here. I don’t have anything in here to offer him.”
She frowned. “You mean emotionally.”
“Right.”
She was silent a moment. “Laurel…what is love? To you. In your own words. What is love?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Has anyone ever told you they love you?”
“My girlfriends.”
“Okay, so…who was the first of them to say it to you?”
“Lizzy.”
“When Lizzy told you she loved you, how did you know she meant it? What did you think? How did it make you feel?”
I laughed. “I got angry, actually. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to think. Like, yeah, we’re friends. Yeah, I care about her. But bitch, you love me? The fuck does that even mean, between two straight women?”
“And?” she prompted.
I sighed, shook my head again, tugging my ponytail to the other side. “And what?”
“And what does that mean? Anyone can say they love you, but how do you know Lizzy means it? And what does it look like?”
I groaned. “She’s there for me. She doesn’t put up with my shit—she tells me when I’m full of it, tells me when I’m being stupid. She laughs at my antics, which can be pretty ridiculous. She takes care of me if I’m sick or something, and gives me grace when I’m being a bitch, which is often. I can be me with her, and not apologize or explain—and she’s done so for years even though I haven’t been precisely forthcoming about my past. She just…accepts me.”
Dr. Hines smiled at me, and that smile had a way of making you think, making you realize what she was leading you to. “Sounds like you do know what love is.”
“But it’s different, with men.”
A tilt of her head. “Is it?”
“I don’t know—you’re the expert, here.”
“Not on love. I’m an expert on healing from severe sexual trauma. But I have spent the last forty years being loved well and truly by a good man, through many different phases and seasons of life. That doesn’t make me an expert, though.”
“So is that different from being loved by a best friend?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Hey now, I ask the questions around here.” She arched an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
I groaned a laugh. “In psychologist school, is there a class on how to turn everything into a question, and every question back onto the subject?”
Another dry chuckle. “Yes, there is—it’s called psychology.”
I cackled. “Smart-ass.”
She laughed, clicked her pen, made a note. Glanced at me. “I will, in this instance, give you what you would call a straight answer, but being a psychologist, I’m going to do it in the form of a question. Are you ready?”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “I can’t wait.”
“In what way is a romantic relationship with a man different from being best friends with a woman?”
“I mean, they’re completely different.”
“Are they?”
I huffed. “Well now that you ask that, it makes me rethink my answer.”
“I’m not say anything either way—I want your answer.”
“You make my head spin, Dr. Hines.” I considered the question. “How is a romantic relationship with a man different from a platonic friendship with a woman? Um. I don’t even know how to answer that. I’ve never had a romantic relationship with a man.”
“Never? Not even close?”
“No.”
“Every interaction you’ve ever had, with every male in your entire life, has been either professional or purely sexual?”
“Yes.”
“And to define: purely sexual means you don’t have pillow talk, for example, or see each other outside of sex. Purely sexual means you meet in whatever way, go somewhere, have sex, and as soon as the deed is done, one or both of you leave to go your own way. And you rarely if ever see that person again, rarely if ever even have sex with the same person twice in a row, excepting in the same evening. Do I have that mostly correct?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s about it.”
“You’ve never gone on a date with a man, as in been picked up, had dinner where he paid. Never gone for a long walk on a beach, holding hands and talking about absolutely nothing of any importance whatsoever? You’ve never watched a sunset with a man you cared for? You’ve never woken up at first light and made love and watched the sunrise together without needing to talk? You’ve never just been held at night, without the expectation of sex?”
I blinked hard. Swallowed harder. “No.” I had trouble speaking in a voice loud enough for her to hear. “And that sounds like a completely different thing than being friends with a woman. Apples and…not even oranges. Apples and baseballs.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She smiled at me, handed me a box of Kleenex. “But it’s not. It’s red apples and green apples, Laurel.”
“Well you’re gonna have to explain that one to me, Doc. Because I call bullshit.”
“The only difference is sex.” A pause, to let that sink in. “It’s another facet of the relationship, and it adds complexity, yes. So maybe it is apples and oranges—I guess I have to admit I’m having trouble continuing that metaphor in this context. But think about that, okay? The only difference between a long-term, monogamous, romantic relationship and a platonic friendship is sex. When you really brea
k it all down to individual components.”
“Keep explaining. I still call bullshit.”
A sigh. “Think about it, Laurel. You and Lizzy—are you physically affectionate with each other? Hugs, sitting close to each other or even on each other, adjusting the other’s outfit, maybe even holding hands?”
I shrugged. “Sure. We don’t really hold hands, but other stuff.”
“So you’re comfortable with each other and comfortable enough in your friendship that you show physical affection in various ways.”
“Yes.”
“And you have each expressed, in so many words, that you love each other.”
“Yes.”
“You do things for each other without expecting it to be returned, meaning you don’t keep track of who paid for drinks last, or who owes the other money for dinner, things like that. Maybe you do other random nice things—close up the office so she can meet her husband for dinner after a showing, cover some paperwork because she had an emergency, housesit while she’s on vacation, things like that. Not because it’s expected of you, not because she’s your boss, not because you think she’ll buy you a present or give you a bonus, but because you care about her. You love her. She’s your friend and you enjoy doing things for her, so she knows you love her. Because it makes you feel good to do those things.”
Fuck.
Now it was starting to click.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “All that is true.”
“You do those things, as I said, because you want to. But, the flip side is, you do those things also because you feel safe doing them. You know they’re appreciated. You know she’ll be there for you. You know, too, that she has, does, and will those things for you. You each give to the other without the expectation of repayment, knowing your needs in that friendship will be met.” A smile. “It’s not perfect, of course. She makes you mad, you make her mad. But you’ve learned how to communicate, how to resolve conflict. You forgive each other and don’t hold grudges and move on.”
I nodded, swallows hard, dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. “Yes.” I tried to smile and failed. “I think I get it.”
“Maybe. But let’s really drive this home, huh?” She clicked her pen, which I was learning meant she had a doozy aimed at me. “If you were to kiss Lizzy—or add any other kind of physical touch from the sexual end of the spectrum, what would that mean?”
“It’d mean…we’d be lesbians.”
“Try saying it a different way.”
“Politely, you mean.”
“Just a different way.”
I sighed, adjusted my hair. “It would make that a romantic relationship.”
“Right.” She clicked the pen again, made a note. “Just to be clear, one kiss doesn’t constitute anything. Sexuality is a spectrum, not a duality, an either-or thing. But you see what I’m saying, right? Jake, my husband, is my best friend. I don’t need to have sex with him to know I love him. I can show him in other ways. He shows me in other ways. At the end of the day, that’s the first thing we are, and the most important: best friends. Soul mates. My sexual relationship with my husband is an integral, important part of our relationship. It connects us. Bonds us. It’s an expression of our physical intimacy. But it doesn’t define our relationship. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, Dr. Hines, I see what you mean.”
“Let’s bring this full circle, now.” A pause, her eyes serious, searching. “If you can love Lizzy—if you can say it, mean it, show it, do it—and if you can be loved by Lizzy in return, accept her love, her affection, her gestures, her words, and believe she means it and be comfortable in it…what makes you think you can’t do the same with Titus? You have no problem believing you have something to offer Lizzy, right? So my point is, the only significant difference between letting yourself love Lizzy and letting yourself love Titus is that with Titus, there would be a sexual element.”
“You make it sound so fucking simple.”
“It is, Laurel. It is simple.” She leaned forward and touched my knee. “That doesn’t make it easy. You’ve never seen a healthy romantic relationship. Never had one, never even tried. But you do have an example—six examples!—of healthy platonic friendships.”
“Lizzy and Braun’s marriage is amazing.” I looked up, blinked, dabbed at my eyes. “They love each other. They communicate. It’s…I’m jealous, honestly. I’d never admit that to anyone but you, and you’re legally not allowed to tell anyone. But I am.”
“My point in this entire session, Laurel, is that you don’t have to be jealous. You can have that.” She set aside her notepad and pen, took my hands and squeezed them. “Do you hear me, Laurel? You—CAN—have—that.”
I was weeping openly now, not even worried about my makeup. “What if I can’t? What if I’m too fucked-up? What if…what if he doesn’t want that with me? What if we have that and then he leaves? He cheats on me? He…he fucking dies? Jesus…it’s just so terrifying. What if…what if I tell him I love him, and…and he rejects me? I don’t think I’d survive that.”
“There are just as many opposite what-ifs, though.” She remained where she was, facing me, hands around mine. “What if he’s already in love with you? What if you take this risk—and it is a risk, make no mistake—and you offer him yourself openly and truly and with complete vulnerability, and he accepts you, exactly as you are? What if you develop a relationship as amazing and fulfilling as Lizzy and Braun have? What if you spend the next thirty, forty years together, happy and in love? You’re not even forty—you could easily live to at least seventy or eighty, and that’s a whole lifetime of love for you and Titus to make together. What if you’re exactly perfect for each other?”
I nodded. “What-ifs go both ways, is your point.”
“Right, exactly. You can ask as many negative what-ifs as you want—and they’re endless. Or, you can ask as many positive what-ifs, and those are just as endless.”
She leveled a long, serious look at me. “The real question, here, Laurel, is which are you going to focus on?”
9
It had been a very, very long, and very, very difficult day. I had a listing that was currently Six Chicks’ most expensive property, and I’d been trying to sell it for months without success. I’d shown it half a dozen times without so much as a sniff of real interest—today, I’d shown it to someone who’d come with fully qualified funding, spent an hour showing it to them, feature by feature. They’d expressed interest. Had talked about possibly putting in an offer once they’d seen it in person.
They’d walked away leaving me a distinctly negative impression. The master hadn’t been as big as they’d thought it would be. The views weren’t as impressive as the photography had them to believe. The kitchen and dining room weren’t open plan to the main den.
And then, a sale that had been literally a handful of signatures away from done had fallen through due to financing issues with the buyers.
Titus hadn’t called me, hadn’t sent flowers in three days, hadn’t shown up, hadn’t even contacted me through Alaina.
Autumn was still gone and we were all covering for her, which meant extra paperwork and extra showings and extra phone calls and extra client meetings.
I’d had a killer headache for hours.
I was horny.
I missed Titus.
On the way home, I’d run into an accident and had been stuck in traffic for over an hour, and then I’d finally gotten less than a mile from home, and I’d blown a tire. I didn’t have a spare. I didn’t have a jack. My phone was at two percent battery, I didn’t have a portable charger and my very cool and hot classic Aston Martin DB6 didn’t feature a charging port of any kind that I could even get an adapter for.
So, I sat in my car on the side of the road, a mile from home, and just cried for a few minutes.
And then I’d called Lizzy.
“Hey, you,” she answered. “What’s up?”
“I’m a mile from home with a flat, no spare, no j
ack, and my phone is about to die. I’ve had the worst day. I need help.”
“On it,” she replied. “Girl power to the rescue.”
Twenty-five minutes later, a flat-bed tow truck arrived. The driver was burly and smelled like cigarettes and was super nice, in a gruff, businesslike way. “Been taken care of,” he mumbled to me, an unlit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. “Takin’ your baby here to a buddy of mine, he’ll fix her up and bring her back to you.”
I frowned at him. “Is that how this stuff usually works?”
A shrug. “Nah, course not. But you got friends who like you, I guess.” He gestured at the passenger door. “Climb on up, missy, I’ll run you home. You’ll have this pretty little ride of yours back in an hour or two.”
He dropped me off at home and gave me a two-finger salute. “There you go.”
“I feel like I should tip you or something.”
He waved a hand. “Nah. I’m being well compensated. If I’ve got it right, your friend’s husband is friends with the owner of the company I work for.”
“Well, thank you. I didn’t even ask your name, I’m sorry. I’ve had a really horrible day.”
“Name’s Rob. And you’re welcome. See ya, now.”
He rumbled away in a growl of diesel fumes and noise, and I headed inside. By the time I was in the kitchen, my heels were off and my purse on a counter. By the time I hit my bedroom, I was naked, leaving a trail of clothing down the hall. I may or may not have had a bottle of champagne in hand, from which I was drinking directly.
I started the bath, setting the bottle of champagne on my vanity as I somewhat frantically yanked my hair out of the complicated braid-bun; makeup wipes, meet face. Once the water was hot and filling the tub, I tossed in my favorite bath bomb, which gave off crazy bubbles and a divine lavender scent.
I lit a good half dozen different candles while the tub filled, and then danced and swigged my way into the kitchen where my purse was, so I could grab my phone—I wanted to connect it to my Bluetooth speaker for some relaxing music.
I was searching for the right playlist, standing naked in my kitchen with the champagne bottle in my other hand—now a third empty and nearing the halfway mark.
Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3) Page 16