The Fall of Legend

by Meghan March

  What in the actual fuck?

  The question repeats in my brain over and over as I sit on the comfortable sofa in the bright library-like office on the ground floor of a townhouse in Chelsea that has been turned into a therapy center. I stare at the woman seated in the chair across from me, who has two fingers curled around a stylus, and the other hand supporting a tablet on which she’s making notes about me for our session.

  The woman who just finished introducing herself as a sex therapist.

  What in the actual fuck?

  “Ex—excuse me? What did you say your specialty is?”

  “Sex therapy. That is why you’re here, correct? Because you’re having some issues with desire and inhibitions?”

  My mouth hangs open so wide that I would actually catch flies if they were buzzing about the room. I blink twice, trying to compose myself, but I obviously fail as her expression grows more and more concerned.

  “Ms. Priest, I’m getting the impression that you are surprised by my profession. Didn’t Mr. LaSalle explain the nature of the appointment to you? Because he was very adamant that you needed to be seen as soon as possible before you lost the nerve to talk about your issues.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose and release the breath through my mouth, like they taught in that yoga class I got too busy to keep attending. “You might say there’s been a bit of a miscommunication, Dr. Grand. I . . . I thought this was couples counseling . . .”

  “I do offer couples sessions, but I insist on meeting with each individual alone first. I generally find that partners may need a safe space to express their concerns without judgment first, but if you’d prefer to have Mr. LaSalle present—”

  “No.” I interrupt her, throwing up a palm in a gesture that absolutely says stop right fucking there. “I don’t want him here. As a matter of fact . . .” I try to figure out how to say what I’m thinking without insulting the silver-haired woman across from me.

  “You didn’t know what you were walking into. Did you?” she asks with interest, as opposed to judgment, in her tone.

  “Not even a little bit.”

  She flips the cover of the iPad shut and slides it onto the coffee table between us. “I discourage surprising someone with this type of discussion, so that’s problematic.” She crosses one ankle over a knee and leans back in her chair, her eyes on me. “As I see it, you have two options—walk out of here and forget this happened, except for that part where you need to discuss it with Mr. LaSalle . . .”

  “Or?” I prompt when she goes quiet.

  “Stay and talk to me about the relationship you’re in, and how you happened to find yourself on my couch without knowing your boyfriend thought you needed to talk to a sex therapist.”

  Humiliation burns through me, along with the greasy, oily feeling of shame. Right after that is a raging inferno of anger and betrayal. I can keep it inside . . . or I can vent to someone who’s already being paid to listen. My choice is easier than one might think.

  “This is all confidential, right? You can’t tell Chadwick anything I say?”

  “Of course, Ms. Priest. Nothing said in this room will ever leave its four walls. And I promise, they won’t talk.”

  “Good, because I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and I’m so pissed right now, I don’t even know what to say to him. He springs sex therapy on me? Who does that?”

  Her lips purse to one side. “More people than you’d think, but I understand why you’re upset. This is the kind of appointment it’s better to be prepared for, rather than surprised by. How long have you and Mr. LaSalle been together?”

  I scratch my head but do my best to avoid messing up my hair. “A year and a half.”

  “And this is the first time he’s suggested any kind of counseling?”

  I straighten on the couch, grabbing a pillow from the corner to wrap my arms around. “He’s never suggested counseling. Ever. Not even Wednesday night when he handed me this card and told me I had to be here, despite the fact that Friday is my busiest day of the week. If he paid attention to a single bit of what I said, he’d know Fridays are no good for anything but work.”

  Dr. Grand’s thumbs tap together, and I would bet money that she’s wishing she had her tablet in hand to write notes, but she abstains.

  “How is your relationship in general?”

  As soon as she asks the question, I cringe. “Clearly not good, if he thinks I need help in the bedroom.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe that asshole thinks that this is what’s wrong with our relationship. That we don’t have enough sex? And instead of talking about it, he sends me walking in here blind?”

  I launch myself off the couch and toss the pillow down so I can pace her office. “He is such an asshole! Who does this to someone? No, seriously. This is fucked up!”

  I stop at the corner table and grab the disordered stack of magazines, straightening them into a neat pile before I turn to pace back toward Dr. Grand and her couch. When I finally meet her brown eyes again, there’s empathy and kindness in them.

  “Do you always straighten things when you’re upset?” she asks with a grin.

  “Yes. It’s my coping mechanism. It helps me calm my thoughts, and I find it useful on multiple levels. So, respectfully, I’m not looking to work on that either, Dr. Grand.”

  “Fair enough. Is there anything at all I can help you with during the rest of our session? Or would you prefer to leave and discuss this all with Mr. LaSalle instead?” Her question is polite but to the point.

  “If you’re looking for an honest answer, I have absolutely no idea what to do right now.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll just chat for a few minutes until you’ve sorted through some things.”

  It’s her eminently reasonable tone that convinces me. I reach for my shield pillow before settling back into the corner of the sofa.

  Dr. Grand gives up her fight and picks up her tablet. With both of us armed, we stare at each other in silence for a few beats.

  Before she can ask me a question, I blurt out, “For the record, I’m not broken. I’ve been masturbating to videos of a man cage fighting, and I yell his name when I come.”

  My cheeks burn with the embarrassment of my confession, but Dr. Grand just nods and makes some notes.

  “I see.”

  “I met him once. He’s scary . . . dangerous, but seriously attractive. It’s like . . . primal. Raw and animalistic. I don’t even know what to call it.”

  “Primal works,” she says, glancing up at me from her screen. “And I agree that you’re not broken. Modern research shows that even when women think they have sexual dysfunction, they’re often incorrect. What they have more often are thoughts and beliefs that act like roadblocks to the process of sexual arousal.” She taps the stylus on the screen once, and it bounces. “For instance, a lack of trust or feeling of safety in a relationship may make it difficult to think about sex, and would likely prevent you from initiating it with your partner.”

  I think for a moment about my relationship with Chadwick. “But I feel safe with Chadwick. Physically, I mean. I don’t think he’s going to hurt me or let someone else hurt me.”

  “But do you feel emotionally safe with him? Can you be yourself and express your deepest fears and hopes and biggest dreams without worry?”

  “Oh. Whoa.” I loosen my grip on the pillow. “I see where you’re going with that. And no, Chadwick and I don’t really . . . I mean . . . Big conversations about our hopes and dreams aren’t really part of our relationship.”

  Dr. Grand puts the stylus down. “Then what is part of your relationship?”

  Fuck. Of course she had to ask the hard question.

  “Clearly not enough sex,” I say with a half laugh.

  But Dr. Grand doesn’t laugh with me. She has this expression on her face that makes me want to cry. Like she sees something, and she’s waiting for me to reach the same conclusion.

  “I don’t . . . I mean, Cha
dwick and I don’t have a very deep relationship. He does his thing, and I do mine. We meet up for dinner on occasion . . .” I trail off because other than me using Chadwick to keep my father close, there is literally no other reason I’m with him anymore. I’m not even attracted to him.

  “It’s okay to admit when a relationship is no longer serving you, Ms. Priest. It happens to many people and is usually no one’s fault.”

  I jerk my head up and meet her gaze. “Then . . . where does my physical attraction to a complete stranger come into this? Why am I suddenly feeling like I need alone time when I shouldn’t be thinking of this guy at all?” I know I’m being cryptic, but she’s picking up what I’m putting down.

  “Maybe he represents something your brain thinks you need more of in your life. Is he intriguing to you only on a sexual level?”

  A vision of Gabriel Legend sweeps into my head. Him, standing in front of his desk, torn jeans covering his thick quads, and his messy blond hair falling into his face. His mouth as it repeats threats, which don’t scare me right now at all.

  There is something seriously wrong with me. Maybe Chadwick’s right, and I do need therapy. And he doesn’t even know about Legend!

  I clutch my purse, pop out of my seat on the couch, and shoot to my feet. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time, Dr. Grand. I think I need to go. Please send me a bill for a full session. I want to make sure you’re compensated for your time.” I rush toward the door, but Dr. Grand’s voice stops me.

  “Ms. Priest.”

  I stop, and it takes me a second to summon the courage to turn and glance over my shoulder at her. “Yes?”

  “If you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, I really am good at my job. Just because my specialty is sex doesn’t mean I don’t spend a lot of my time discussing more mainstream issues. Including why you’re in a relationship that doesn’t serve you. Please feel free to call anytime.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Grand. I appreciate that.”

  I find the knob as I give her a gracious smile and let myself out of the room. I’m so focused on getting the hell out of this office, I don’t even notice the brunette sitting in the waiting area.

  “Scarlett? Is that you?”

  As soon as I hear my name, I’m tempted to run, but the familiar voice stays my impulse. I turn slowly, keeping my face partially shielded by my hair.

  “Flynn?”

  My former stepsister rises and comes toward me. “I didn’t know you come here. Although I’m not surprised you need therapy, considering your father. I’m so glad my mom finally divorced his ass. What a tool, am I right?”

  I find my voice again and manage to put words together that make sense. “I don’t go here. Total misunderstanding.”

  Her gaze narrows, and she tilts her head. “I just watched you come out of a therapist’s office. But it’s cool if you want to pretend you didn’t. I get it.”

  I don’t know if it’s the fact that we have a few shared years of history or that I’m so freaking pissed about what Chadwick did to me, but my better judgment gives way and I spill.

  “My boyfriend made me an appointment with a sex therapist without telling me who I was meeting with, and now I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill him and break up with him. I’m rolling the dice on which is happening first.”

  Owning what I’m going to do gives me a sense of power that I desperately need right now.

  “You’re finally going to dump Chad-the-douchebag?” Her bright green eyes light up. “Good! He’s a fucking tool, and you can do way better. Did you know he hit on me at Thanksgiving last year? It was fucking gross, but I didn’t want to tell you and have you blame me for egging it on like Mom would do.”

  I try to remember last Thanksgiving, but it’s a blur in my mind, except for the part where my dad told me he’d have his chef save the wishbone for me like Mom did when I was a kid. But Chadwick wanted to leave before dessert because he had to watch football, so we left. Asshole.

  I meet her sharp gaze. “I know we’re not technically related anymore, but regardless, I would never blame something like that on you. You have to believe that.”

  Flynn shrugs, but I can tell what I said matters from the way her expression changes. “You never know with crazy families. Still, I’m glad you’re finally breaking it off. There’s a better guy for you out there. I have no doubt. Half this city would jump at the chance to even be in the same room with you. So, how are you going to do it?”

  The receptionist lifts her finger to her lips, and I move us closer to a corner with two chairs and a potted palm. “Do you want to get out of here and grab some coffee instead?”

  Flynn glances down at her watch, which is a really cool artsy piece that I’d love to have in Curated. “My appointment starts in less than twenty minutes, so I’d better not. But . . . I’m here at the same time every Friday if you ever find yourself in the neighborhood.”

  She says it casually, as though she doesn’t want to get her hopes up, and I feel like I’ve been a shit stepsister, even if we aren’t related anymore. I always liked Flynn, probably in part because she’s mouthy and bold and doesn’t seem to give a shit what anyone thinks about her.

  “I’ll make sure I’m in the neighborhood one of these Fridays soon. Take care of yourself, Flynn.”

  “You too, Scarlett. And make sure to tell handsy Chadwick to go fuck himself for me.” With a bright smile, she winks and makes her way back to her seat, crossing one knee over the other so that she looks like the perfect prim and proper socialite.

  But I know the truth. Flynn is way cooler than any boring socialite. I definitely need to get to know my former kinda little sister better . . . and soon.

  Next up, a trip to Dad’s building so I can see Chadwick and tell him face-to-face exactly what I think of his sex-therapy surprise.

  Twenty

  Scarlett

  Well, that was a hell of a letdown. I hoofed it all the way uptown to Priest Pharmaceuticals, only to be met with disappointment.

  “Sorry, Chadwick’s out of the office in meetings all day. Can I give him a message for you?”

  The receptionist was incredibly apologetic, especially because she knows exactly who I am, but it doesn’t change the fact that my trip was a complete waste. As I walk out of the lobby into the glass atrium of the building, I tap the screen of my phone to pull up Chadwick’s contact. I’m not waiting until tonight to tell him what I think. Hell. No.

  Shockingly, he picks up on the second ring. “Hey, babe! How did it go with the counselor? Did you talk to her about your problem?”

  My back goes poker straight and my response is clipped. If he thought I was cold before, he’d better watch out. “Exactly what problem are you talking about?”

  “Your problem in our relationship.”

  A wave of crimson washes across my vision.

  “My problem in our relationship? You’re going to have to be more specific, Chadwick, because I’m pretty sure there’s more than one.”

  I hear some garbled words and then the sound of a door opening and closing. Finally, he comes back to the line.

  “Sorry, I had to step out of the meeting so we could talk.”

  One part of me wants to apologize for the fact that I interrupted the meeting, but that’s the same accommodating part of me that didn’t ask questions when Chadwick set me up on a surprise date with a sex therapist. I stay quiet, letting my anger build as I wait for him to continue.

  “Good, because we definitely need to talk about what the hell you just sprang on me. I came to your office to tell you in person, but obviously you’re not here.”

  “Wait, you’re saying you left the appointment and didn’t talk to her? I paid three hundred bucks for that slot, and if it didn’t fix you, then you’re going to have to pay for the other appointments.”

  The anger rising in his tone makes me see red.

  “Oh, I talked to her,” I say, enunciating more clearly than I ever have before. “But I’m curi
ous about exactly why you thought I needed a freaking sex therapist?” My voice rises at the end, and I remember that I’m in public. I scan the atrium and spot a few people watching me.

  I shove through the glass doors and walk out onto the sidewalk where I can disappear into a sea of New Yorkers who don’t give a damn who I am or what I’m talking about.

  “Because we hardly ever have sex, and if it were up to you, I wouldn’t get laid at all. Because, trust me, I’m all for it, all the time, but you’re never in the mood, which means you’ve got a problem, Scarlett. I’m not going to put up with it anymore. Either you fix this and start getting with the program—which means putting out or at least sucking dick a lot fucking more—or we’re done. I’ve had it.”

  A sense of cold calmness settles over me, like a blanket of freshly fallen snow has just cloaked me and the city streets. It’s like I’m staring out at a landscape that’s pure and unspoiled and full of second chances. This is my out. Right here. And I’m taking it.

  “Then we’re done. Good talk, Chad. Glad we worked that out so civilly. I’ll mail anything I have of yours to your condo.”

  The other end of the call goes silent for a beat until Chadwick starts sputtering. But there’s one difference now. I don’t have to listen to a single word of it.

  I hold my phone away from my head and tap the screen to end the call.

  Just. Like. That.

  In the middle of the plaza, in front of the building housing my father’s company, I double over—with laughter.

  It was so easy. So effortless. So perfectly final.

  I straighten and fling my arms into a triumphant V in the air. “I am single!”

  A woman in a suit turns to me, and her fuchsia frown turns into a smile. “Get it, girl.”

  I spin around in a circle and dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, feeling utterly and completely free for the first time in years. Like I’ve just broken the chains holding me down, and now I can soar.

  Power fills me, bubbling to the surface until I’m fairly certain I’m a 100 percent badass.