We both chuckle in that stilted, child-said-something-embarrassing way. Snagging a couple of menus, I lead them to a table with a view of the boardwalk. As soon as they’re seated, I mumble something about getting them water. Vince’s voice stops me before I can escape.
“Do you surf?” he asks, grinning up at me. “You look like a surfer girl.”
I glance at Leo, who’s watching me with a soft smile that turns my insides to jelly. “I sure do,” I tell Vince. “Almost every day. You look like you surf, too.”
“I do? Yes!” He yelps in excitement and a skinny arm jerks across the table. A proudly grinning Leo fist-bumps his adorable son.
I die a little at the cuteness.
As Vince shimmies in his seat, I tell Leo softly, “He’s awesome.”
Blue eyes twinkle up at me. “He is.”
“Hey, Dad! Why doesn’t this lady give us lessons?” Without waiting for a reply, he swivels toward me. “He keeps saying he’s going to get us lessons but then forgets. He’s rich, too. He’ll pay you.”
How many feelings can you feel at the same time? A goddamn landfill’s worth, that’s how many. Shock at the proposal. Excitement at the idea of spending time with them. Arousal—Leo Chastain shirtless and wet and in daylight? Yes, please. Embarrassment, too, because Vince clearly thinks I’m a broke waitress and could use the money. Which is sadly true.
And shame. Shame that even for the briefest of moments, I forgot that Leo was once my therapist. That he saw me at my worst and knows every dark, twisted corner of my heart and soul.
I’m in hell.
“We can talk about it later, Vince,” offers Leo, handing his son a menu. “Let’s get some food. I told your mom I’d have you home by four.”
Vince shrugs, attention diverted to his stomach.
“Thank you, Amelia,” murmurs Leo. “Could we have an iced tea and a lemonade, please?”
“Sure, absolutely.” I nod enough times that I feel like a lunatic, and finally escape to the kitchen.
“Oh my God, what did you say? What did you do? What were you wearing? Is he still the hottest therapist on legs?”
I shouldn’t have called Kinsey. What was I thinking? I console myself with the knowledge it would have come out sooner or later. The woman has drama radar. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now than to wait until the wound is festering.
Riiiip.
“After I stared at him like a creepy stalker for a minute, I said hello. Then I served them lunch because that’s my job. I was wearing leggings and the café’s T-shirt, and yes, he’s still hot. Five-o’clock shadow, windblown hair, freaking six-foot-two inches of tanned, toned, take-me-home and bend-me-over hotness.”
Kinsey sighs dreamily. “Was he wearing his glasses?”
“Nope.”
Another sigh. “Did he smile at you?”
Jesus.
“Yes, and he still has all his teeth, too. It’s been less than four months, Kins. Not ten years.”
She laughs. “Oh, Mia, you’re so funny. I miss your face! Come over tonight. Nix and I are ordering Thai in a bit.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “We had dinner the night before last. Plus, I grabbed food before leaving work.”
“Whatever. You’re still coming tomorrow night, aren’t you? You promised.” She says the last in a cajoling singsong.
Ah, yes, the much-anticipated Halloween party. Anticipated on her end, that is. I’d rather stab myself in the eye than hang out at Kinsey’s with a shit-ton of Hollywood’s young and restless, but she’s right. I did promise.
“Yes,” I grumble.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re dressing up as? The curiosity is killing me.”
“Not a chance.”
“But—”
“Gotta go! Say hi to Nix and don’t forget to use a condom.” I hang up before she can reply.
Ferdi’s head lifts from my lap, disturbingly perceptive green eyes meeting mine. I sigh. “I guess I should think about a costume, huh?”
Slow blink, which I translate as cat-speak for Duh.
31
walk the plank
“Are you serious?” deadpans Kinsey.
I look down at myself, then frown at her. “What do you mean? This costume is classic.”
“Classic like boring.” Laughing, she tugs at the zipper of my wetsuit that sits near my throat. “Zombie Surfer? Really?”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s not original, but my makeup is on point. I freaking spent two hours watching YouTube tutorials.”
Her nose scrunches. “Yeah, the makeup is pretty good. You look freaky.”
I know exactly why she’s giving me a hard time, but it’s more fun to skirt around the issue. Her own costume is a sexy version of Alice in Wonderland, which means Nix is probably the Mad Hatter. With a quick sweep of the room, I confirm that the ratio of exposed skin to clothing is drastically skewed. I, on the other hand, am wearing my full wetsuit, which covers me from wrist to ankle.
The weather took a dive today and it’s actually chilly tonight. I’m going to be nice and comfortable hanging outside, where the main party is going on, while everyone else is going to freeze.
Basically, I’m a genius.
Turning back to Kinsey, I open my mouth to compliment her costume—or maybe point out the goosebumps on her arms—but before I can get a word out she grabs the zipper at my neck and yanks it down to my belly button.
“Hey!”
Kinsey grins at my exposed bikini top and corresponding cleavage. “Much better.”
I pull the zipper back up.
She pulls it back down.
It happens three more times before we hear Nix’s loud laughter. “Leave the girl alone, Kins!” he says, draping an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. He squints at me. “Zombie surfer, huh? Cool.”
I arch a brow at a scowling Kinsey. “See?”
She’s unswayed. “Friendship is about compromise, Mia.”
I begrudgingly lower the zipper to my cleavage. “Fine, but only because you told me fifty times how important this party is to you.”
Her features soften. “Thanks.” She glances around the beautiful backyard. There’s a live band playing, a ton of quality Halloween decorations—including performers whose sole goal is to scare the bejeezus out of partygoers. Servers dressed as ghouls carry around trays with themed appetizers, and the bartenders are all dressed up as vampires.
“Does it seem like everyone’s having fun?” she asks, glancing nervously between Nix and me.
“Of course, babe!” Nix says quickly.
“I just got here, but there are probably a hundred people in your yard.” I point toward a nearby group. “Look, people laughing. Laughing means fun. Oh, and dancing. Dancing is fun, too.”
Kinsey nods, tension releasing from her shoulders. Nix kisses her temple. This is the first year her annual party hasn’t been geared toward outright depravity. No drugs. No hard alcohol, only beer and wine. The guest list was whittled way down from prior years, too, from a whopping three hundred to a mere one-fifty.
“Thanks, guys, I feel better.” Kinsey gives herself a shake and grins up at Nix. “Time to mingle!”
I point in a vague direction. “I’m going to, uh…”
They laugh at me. Kinsey blows me a kiss. “Try to have fun, Mia. And remember, you can’t leave before midnight.”
I give her an ironic salute. “You got it, boss.”
I head for the nearest bar.
At eleven thirty, the party is still going strong. For the most part, it’s stayed classy. No broken glass or calls to the cops. That being said, the Incredible Hulk is holding Wonder Woman’s hair as she pukes into a bush. A werewolf is fondling Betty Boop’s breasts near the fence, and there’s a couple in the hot tub who may or may not be having public sex.
I’ve been camped out on a lounge by the pool for the last hour or so, nursing my third beer, people-watching, and generally enjoying the repellent effect of my scary ma
keup and covered body. Contrary to the pitying looks from passersby, I’m not bored or lonely. I’ve been texting with friends at various bars and other parties, hassling Jameson for staying home to hand out candy, and basking in the knowledge that I’m off tomorrow and can sleep in.
“Is this seat taken?” asks a muffled, male voice.
I don’t look up to see whatever mask he’s wearing. Eyes on my phone, I wave at the empty lounge beside mine. “Nope.”
The man settles with a sigh, tossing legs and booted feet onto the lounge. He smells good. Weirdly familiar. Ignoring the urge to glance at him, I text Jameson.
MIA: Will Jessica be at the house Sunday?
JAMESON: I think so
MIA: Should we start calling her Mom?
JAMESON: Wow
MIA: Too soon?
JAMESON: Are you drunk? Leave me alone
MIA: Whatever
I might, in fact, be a little drunk.
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I mutter distractedly.
“Pretty cold, though.”
Mr. Conversation over here.
I lower my phone and look at my companion, prepared to dissuade any notions he has of scoring casual sex. He’s dressed as a pirate, complete with eye patch, bandana covering the lower half of his face, and a fancy hat set at an angle that obscures most of his visible eye. A billowing white shirt is unlaced at the throat to expose a tanned neck and a patch of smooth skin. Snug black pants flatter the hell out of his long legs.
Pulling my head from the gutter, I glance up again, trying unsuccessfully to see his face. Maybe he has a skin condition? And why does he seem so familiar? I’m two beers past answering that question or considering it for longer than a second or two.
“Do I pass inspection?” he asks with a small chuckle.
That chuckle.
My breath catches. My skin prickles. Reaching forward, I yank the bandana down his face. It snags on his ears and he makes a small, pained noise.
“Sorry not sorry,” I breathe.
He laughs, tugging the bandana the rest of the way down and pulling off his hat. The eyepatch is next, flipping up to expose his other bright blue eye. Both of them are now fixed on my face, their expression unreadable.
“Happy Halloween, Amelia.”
Not yet recovered from shock, I continue gaping. “What are you doing here?”
“Kinsey sent an invitation to my office last month. I wasn’t going to come—it’s not exactly professional—but then I realized you’d probably be here and professionalism flew out the window.”
He says it so matter-of-factly, like the words didn’t just explode my brain. “What?”
His gaze lowers to my chest. Electricity follows the path of his visual caress. The zipper is still above my breasts, but I suddenly feel more naked than the skinny-dippers currently in the pool.
Leo drags a hand over his mouth, eyes snapping up to mine. “I’m not good at this, so I’m just going to tell you the truth. I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my life than I am to you. I thought a few months would change things, but it didn’t. Hasn’t. I’m not sure what to do about it, or what I’m asking, or if you even—”
“Are you propositioning me?” I blurt.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He swallows hard. “I’m not sure I can offer you a normal, uh, situation.”
What the WHAT?
His feet hit the ground between our chairs. Propping elbows on his knees, he lowers his head, shaking it like he has no clue how he got here. I want so badly to touch the dark strands, to pull his head up and kiss him until we both go insane, but my emotions are bouncing around like kids on sugar. Not all of them are excited, either. And one of them feels a lot like heartbreak.
“Tell me what to do, Amelia,” he says softly. “Tell me what you want.”
My libido provides a flashback of the hot springs. Warmth surges through me, coalescing in my breasts and between my legs. I’ve relived that night so many times I should own stock in batteries.
Do I want more of that?
Hell yes, hollers Vagina. Best sex ever!
Wait a darn minute, cautions Heart. He’s asking for sex, not a date.
A date would mean… well, dating. A potential relationship as equals. Being seen together in public.
He’s a respected psychiatrist.
I’m his ex-patient.
“Leo?”
He looks up sharply, eagerly. “Yes?”
I open my mouth, then close it and look away. On the other side of the pool, I spot Kinsey and Nix. They’re standing close, smiling and kissing and holding each other. Oblivious to my crisis of conscience, insulated by their love. For some reason, the sight of them calms me. Brain takes advantage, delivering a knock-out punch to Vagina.
When I turn back to Leo, he speaks before I can. “You don’t have to answer. I understand. And fuck, I’m proud of you. My only excuse is I haven’t been thinking clearly since I saw you yesterday. I’m sorry.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “Don’t be sorry. For anything. You brought me back to life.”
He studies me another moment, then nods and stands. “If it’s any consolation, you did the same for me.”
Watching him walk away lands in the top five worst moments of my life.
32
grey matter
Making hard choices in alignment with my highest, healthiest self sounds great in theory. In reality, it sucks. Leo Chastain asked me to be his booty call and I turned him down. Why the hell did I do that? Because of some inner-princess telling me I deserve more? The boring ritual of dinner and a movie before sex? Push and pull and ignoring calls and the usual, stupid games men and women play?
More importantly, what if it’s not about me deserving something at all? What if my choice didn’t stem from self-respect or some new, misguided sense of dignity but stemmed instead from patriarchal conditioning that tells me I can’t trust my impulses? That I’m not allowed to follow my body’s desires and have mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex with my ex-doctor?
“Is that all it would be? Sex?” asks Dr. Wilson, one eyebrow arched.
Winded from my tirade, I sink back into the plush couch in her office. “I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not in love with him—I get there was some Stockholmey-ness happening for a while, and that I don’t really know him beyond what he shared in our sessions.”
“But?”
I look out the window at the closest palm tree. “It’s complicated. I have a lot of respect for him. I trust him, feel… safe, I guess, because he’s seen the worst of me already.”
Dr. Wilson makes a noise of consideration. “Finding acceptance is a powerful motivator in the search for relationships. Unfortunately, he implied that he doesn’t want a relationship, likely because of the professional ramifications. Is that something you can live with, or would it make you feel like he was ashamed of you?”
I don’t bother answering.
She doesn’t know Leo’s name or exactly when he treated me, but she’s a smart cookie and has rightly gleaned his personality. She’s also a nonjudgmental cookie, which is one of the main reasons I’ve stuck around.
“Have you ever had the hots for a patient, Doc?”
Like I knew she would, she deflects the question. “Therapy can create a strong, pseudo-intimacy between two people. When those people also have physical chemistry, that closeness can be mistaken for something else.”
“Love?” I ask rhetorically.
She nods. “Obviously I don’t know this man’s inner thoughts and can only speak from my experience. But perhaps his conflict is not too dissimilar from yours. A battle between what he wants and what he thinks is expected of him. Consider his parting words on Halloween.”
You did the same for me.
I shake my head. “He couldn’t have meant I brought him back to life. Right? Maybe he misheard what I said.”
The damn eyebrow goes up. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I have self-worth issues,” I mutter robotically.
Dr. Wilson smiles softly. “I think it’s time to disavow you of the notion that life is simply a series of good or bad choices, Amelia. It’s much more than that.”
“I know,” I parrot.
“Do you?” She waits for me to look at her before continuing. “What if instead of focusing so much on what you should and shouldn’t do or what is or isn’t healthy, you try focusing on what makes you happy?”
We’ve had this conversation before. Hell, Leo said almost the same thing to me at one point.
“You still don’t get it,” I say tiredly. “I don’t trust the things that make me happy. Except for surfing. And sushi. All the other shit landed me in a world of pain.”
“You don’t trust yourself yet,” she replies gently. “That’s okay, Amelia. There’s no finish line here. We have to wrap up, but I want you to think about something for me when you do your journaling tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps all the skydiving, base-jumping, reckless driving, et cetera, wasn’t so much a mission to feel close to your mother and brother, but a search for something else. An aftereffect, if you will.”
I stare blankly at her. “Not picking up what you’re putting down, Doc.”
“How did you feel when you landed on the ground after jumping out of a plane?”
“Invincible,” I murmur.
Dr. Wilson smiles. “You never needed fear, Amelia. You just needed to feel safe.”
When I get home, Ferdi isn’t there to greet me. He loves prowling in the early evening, so I’m not surprised so much as pathetically lonely without him.
To stave off my therapy hangover and imminent consumption of an entire frozen pizza, I light a few candles and put on a Miles Davis record before wandering into my bedroom. I trade my casual, wraparound dress for ripped jeans and a navy sweater, then throw my hair into a messy topknot. For exactly 3.2 seconds, I also consider dealing with the pile of laundry on my closet’s floor.
The Fall Before Flight Page 15