by I. A. Dice
“You don’t like him?” she asked.
“It’s not like that. It came as a bit of a shock; that’s all. I didn’t expect Claudia to date.”
My mother sipped on her wine, her eyes not leaving my face. “That’s not why you’re here.”
I covered my face with my palms. “No. It’s not.”
How was I supposed to explain the mess I was in without confessing what kind of a jackass I was? She raised me to respect women and take care of them, not to use them for personal pleasure, or to distract myself from the pain that ripped my chest wide open.
I kept my face buried in my hands. “I’m here because I met a girl.”
I didn’t need to see my mother to get an idea of what her facial expression looked like, and surely, when I put my hands back on the half-empty glass, Monique looked stunned.
“Who is she?” She aimed for casual but failed.
“It’s Nadia. The one you helped me pick out a gift for the other day. She’s Nick’s sister. My business partner slash best friend’s sister. But that’s not the worst part, mum.” I raked my hand through my hair and squeezed the nape of my neck. “I don’t know what to do. I’m losing it. She’s going through some things. I’m helping, but she doesn’t want more than help from me, and she doesn’t even want that half the time.”
I expected many reactions, but a broad smile wasn’t one of them. She was supposed to comfort me and give me advice, not laugh at my misery.
Way to kick me when I’m down.
I drank the last of whiskey and got up for a refill.
“Wasn’t she supposed to come back two weeks ago?” Monique asked, her voice filled with poorly concealed amusement.
Nice one, mum.
“She did. Why?”
“Two weeks, Thomas.”
I clenched my teeth. “Yes, two. I hope you’re going somewhere.”
She laughed shaking her head as if dealing with my ten years younger self. “Sweetie, you just met. If she’s going through things, then help her, and wait until she’s ready. She knows nothing about you. These things take time, honey. You can’t expect her to fall in love with you after two weeks.”
Bingo. That’s why I came to see my mother.
I smiled, twisting her words to fit the situation. Nadia knew a lot about me, well not me, the playboy side of me. She knew next to nothing about the guy I was without blondes, or the guy I was before life dealt me the shitty cards. Maybe she wanted nothing to do with me because she thought there wasn’t much more to me apart from sex. Maybe she needed time to get to know me.
New hope flooded my mind and the grin on my lips made my face hurt. “I love you, mum.” I kissed her cheek.
“Care to tell me more about the girl who has my son so disturbed?”
I didn’t know where to start. It would be best to introduce them so my mother could see for herself how mesmerising Nadia was. There were already so many things I liked about her that it was unreal.
I sipped on the whiskey and looked into my mother’s eyes… Eyes which were the same unique colour as mine.
“She’s like quickly progressing cancer, mum. She’s invading my whole world.”
CHAPTER 17
NADIA
Women drivers
Thomas entered my apartment on Sunday evening, not bothering to knock. He found me on the couch, smelling a cup of peppermint tea—another grounding technique. I alternated between different ones all day, waiting for a sign from Thomas.
“I didn’t expect you to come back,” I said, eying the muscles visible under the thin fabric of his long-sleeved white t-shirt.
He hung his jacket on the back of the wing chair. “Why didn’t you?”
I sipped from the cup, inhaling some more. “I thought you’ll change your mind about the friends-with-benefits idea after last night.”
“Yeah,” he dropped his keys on the coffee table, “don’t count on it. Whatever your issues, you’re better when you’re with me. And I’m better with you, so let’s quit running around in circles like we don’t give a damn and just agree to use each other.”
I was done fighting. Done denying myself the help he carelessly offered. Last night should have scared him off; he should have reconsidered after witnessing my meltdown, but he wanted to follow me into the labyrinth of my issues. I was too weak to stop him.
“We need ground rules,” I said.
“Okay.” He sat beside me, then helped me onto his lap. “I have one—no more dates with Ethan, or anyone for that matter.”
“Done.” I knotted my fingers on his neck and leaned in to kiss him. “No questions. No guessing. No pushing, and Nick can’t find out.”
“Deal, but you don’t pretend when you’re with me. And you call me whenever you need a distraction.”
So, all day every day?
“Careful what you wish for. I’m off the meds. Hence the meltdown last night. If James won’t have a prescription ready for me tomorrow…”
“Then you’ll call me, and I’ll make sure you don’t have to smell peppermint tea to feel safe.”
I cocked my head. “How do you know that’s why I do it?”
“Told you you’re not the only one with issues.” He patted my bum to make me move, then stood, and pulled me with him.
“Turn around,” he said, and drew me closer, forcing me to rest my back against his chest. “Do this if I’m not here when you need me.”
“I don’t need you,” I snapped on autopilot.
“Keep lying to yourself.”
Yep, and I didn’t plan to stop anytime soon.
He caught my hands in his, moved the right one to rest on the side of my ribcage, close to the heart, and the other on my right arm.
“Close your eyes, baby doll.”
I did as I was told, lacing our fingers when he hugged me tighter.
“Now breathe in,” he whispered, inhaling in sync with me through his nose. He tapped his index finger on my palm four times before exhaling through his mouth. “Remind yourself who you are, and where you are.” He bent down to kiss the nape of my neck. “And then recall this moment—my lips on your skin; the sound of my voice; the way your body relaxes under my touch.”
The hold he had on me loosened and his lips worked their way across my jaw.
I turned around, fisting his t-shirt. “One more rule. Don’t hope for more.”
He helped me out of my sweater a smirk on his lips. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me and I’ll make the best use of it for us both.”
And he did. Every evening he entered my apartment, took care of my demons, then left me alone, sleeping under the sheets that smelled of his cologne.
***
James retained most of my meds. All he gave back was diazepam with clear instructions not to abuse it. He also prescribed me with new antidepressants and told me to stock up on vitamins and minerals. I took them religiously every morning before I rushed out to take care of the list of tasks Mel texted me every evening.
She started working as a Marketing assistant at the record label last week, no longer having time for all the wedding details, and the responsibilities fell upon me. Under different circumstances I would have hated the fast-paced days, but it was a good distraction and kept me off diazepam until Thomas took over in the evenings. I was adamant to steer clear of the anxiety meds unless I was desperate.
So far, the strategy worked well. It was day twelve, and despite overusing the grounding techniques I knew, the box of diazepam remained unopened.
My phone rang when I emerged from a coffee shop nearby James’s office, a half-caff, half-sweet, non-fat caramel macchiato in one hand and an extra shot, extra-hot, extra-whip, sugar-free vanilla latte in the other; a bag over one shoulder, two folders under my arm, and a bag filled with two hundred and fifty fandango pink organza gift bags for wedding favours dangled from my wrist. I had yet to pick up two hundred and fifty of each: personalised, hand-made lollipops, test-tubes filled with loose-leaf tea and wooden
puzzle pieces with A&N engraved on them.
Oh, and, obviously, I was the one tasked with preparing the gift bags.
I growled, and stopped in my tracks, trying to move things around and free one hand to fish the phone out of my bag. I placed the latte on top of the macchiato, but dropped the folders, and my exasperation kicked up a notch. Careful not to spill the coffee, I kneeled on the pavement, set the things aside, then rummaged through my bag in search of the phone.
It stopped ringing the second I found it.
“Hey!” Mel chirped when I redialled. “I know you’re busy, but could you please meet the band straight after your therapy session? They want to go over the evening in detail to make sure they’re prepared.”
“I was supposed to finalize the menu with the catering company,” I huffed, collecting my belongings.
“No worries, I rescheduled. Hannah will meet you at two.”
“Two? Jane is coming over at four.”
She was kind to offer help when I mentioned the two-hundred and fifty gift bags that required assembling. I wanted to start ticking things as done rather than pending.
“Hold on a sec,” Mel said, and a voice I knew so well sounded loud and clear in the receiver.
“You got the posters for The Crooks?” Thomas asked, so I guessed Mel had me on speaker phone.
“No, I don’t, but they were delivered yesterday. Check with Nick. Sorry, Nadia, yes, I know, but the meeting won’t take long. I’m sure you can make it back home in time.”
The light turned green, and I rushed across the road, glancing at the watch on my wrist–ten past nine.
Surprise, surprise—you’re late.
“That would be true if I had a car. I’m relying on public transport here, and I need to pick up the lollipops and the rest of the gifts at some point today. I’m already like a packhorse.”
“Oh,” she uttered. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might be too much for you.” The teary tone to her voice had my shoulders sag a couple of inches. “It slipped my mind that you don’t have a car, sweetie.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it all done.” I knew damn well “no” would have reduced Mel into a sobbing mess. “I’ll just cut my session with James short today. Text me Hannah’s number.”
“Thank you,” she breathed down the line.
I cut the call balancing both coffees in one hand while tucking the phone away. It didn’t work. I had to once again drop everything onto the pavement, my cheeks turning pink with exasperation. By the time I stepped into James’s office five minutes later, the coffees had gone cold.
“Sorry I’m late. It’s been a busy morning.”
Intense too. Thomas couldn’t keep me company last night but made it up to me bright and early. He showed up at my apartment twenty to seven and demanded to use both, my shower and me.
“No problem. You want to tell me more about your day?”
I debated whether to let James in on the secret since we re-started the sessions last week. So far all we talked about were things that surrounded the two years I spent in New York, although Adrian’s name or our relationship hadn’t yet been mentioned.
Every day I wondered how to tell James about the abuse I suffered at the hands of the man I loved, and I realised something disturbing.
Every imaginary conversation about Adrian began with assuring James that he was a good person. That he loved me and would do anything to make me happy; that he was the only reason I survived the grief and mourning. I made him sound blameless, made excuses for him and kept repeating over and over that Adrian laid his hands on me while on drugs, but never when sober. It was true. Sober Adrian was an impersonation of every girl’s dream boyfriend.
The demarcation my mind created scared me. I tried hard to combine sober Adrian with what he did to me while high, but I couldn’t admit that sober Adrian was the same person who made every one of my breaths painful for weeks when he broke two of my ribs.
I glanced at James, and put my trust in him, hoping he could help me erase the line I drew between my Adrian and the drug addict.
“No.” I squeezed the cup tighter and the lid popped out of place. “I think I want to tell you about Adrian now.”
A soft knock sounded on the door.
Daphne entered, an apologetic smile on her lips. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but someone’s here to see you Nadia. He said it’s important.”
I frowned, a little annoyed at my brother for disturbing the session, but it wasn’t Nick who waited for me in the reception. Thomas stood by the door, a three-piece suit hugging his tall, muscled frame, a small smile on his lips. Daphne gave us a false sense of privacy, ducking behind the tall counter.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you need a car for the day.” He held out the keys to his BMW. “Pick me up from work when you’re done.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You want me to take your car? Haven’t you heard stories about women drivers?”
He caught my hand, pulled me closer, and a soft, delicate kiss followed. “You’re not a stereotypical woman, baby doll.”
“But…”
“No buts. You’re not bailing on therapy to accommodate Mel’s every whim. Don’t worry about the gifts, either. My assistant is on it. Now, say thank you, kiss me, and get back to James.”
“Thank you.” I closed my fingers on the keys. “Why do I feel like this shouldn’t be part of the deal?”
“Because you need more time than I do to accept the facts.”
Cue in another frown. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but I wasn’t sure if I were ready to hear the answer. Thomas knew the rules, but sometimes his actions betrayed that I might have been the only one holding onto them for dear life.
“How will you get back to the office?” I asked instead.
He didn’t answer. A sad but knowing look crossed his face. He kissed my head, and left, the faint notes of cedarwood and amber lingered in the air.
“Everything okay?” James asked when I sat down. “Who was that?”
“Thomas, Nick’s best friend.”
No matter how much I tried pretending that I didn’t notice the small things Thomas did outside of our strictly sexual arrangement, I did notice. Something was changing between us. The more I thought of it, the more I understood that although we agreed to sex only, we were much more than that from day one. That scared me more than the inability to see Adrian for the monster he became.
“When I left Adrian in New York, I felt like I jumped out of a plane with nothing to break the fall,” I whispered, picking on my nails. “And Thomas…” I glanced at James, hope blooming in the pit of my stomach. “I think he’s my parachute.”
CHAPTER 18
THOMAS
Asshole persona
Nick had a silent fit when he found out Nadia took my car for the day. It wasn’t like I ever lent him the BMW. No one got to drive my car. No one, but I didn’t think twice about handing the keys to Nadia. Go figure.
It was already half-past three and Nadia was due back any minute. She rang half an hour ago to say she was done with the meetings and only had one more thing to take care of before she would pick me up so that I could drop her off at her apartment.
“Just tell me one thing.” Nick readjusted his tie as if it choked him. “Why? Why are you suddenly so fucking thoughtful? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you helping her, but you’re acting out of character where she’s concerned, and I don’t like it.”
I smirked. Did he hear himself? How was my thoughtfulness toward the light of his life a bad thing? Did he forget who I was?
“Would you rather I treated her like I treat other women?”
“No, but…”
“I thought so. Don’t act like an ass, Nick. If you’re looking for answers, ask the right questions.”
A ringing silence coupled with Nick’s eyes burning a hole in my face lasted a few long seconds. My palms grew cold, and I regretted the encouragement. How the fuck was I
supposed to answer if he asked whether there was something going on between Nadia and me?
Way to dig your grave, Thomas.
Nick crossed his arms and sat across from the desk. “Fine. Why did you lend her your car?”
Phew. Good thing Nick wanted to pretend he didn’t have the slightest idea about Nadia and me just as Nadia wanted to pretend that we were just physical. They were both, consciously or unconsciously, turning a blind eye, too afraid to face the truth.
“Because you didn’t. She’s struggling and forcing her to bail on therapy to run errands is fucking low. I can relate to what she’s going through, and I’m not going to sit back and watch when I can help.”
It took a year before I told Nick about Adam’s death and the darkest times of my life when I wallowed in grief and self-loathing.
The three months I spent in the army after Adam died were a blur. I pressed forward on autopilot: eat, train, kill, sleep. The three months after I came out were filled with images of Claudia, whiskey and pills. If I wasn’t helping Claudia with the baby room or shopping, I washed down the sleeping pills with alcohol to stop the nightmares from waking me up in the middle of the night.
A total of six months passed while I tried to cope by myself—six months while I searched for a single thing that would justify me being alive.
After Maya was born, I couldn’t leave her, not after I promised Adam that I would take care of his girls. Maya was the reason I reached out for help. She deserved better from me.
Four months of weekly sessions with a psychiatrist cured me to some extent: I was no longer tormented by flashbacks and nightmares every day. The feelings of emptiness and worthlessness stayed, along with the notion that I didn’t deserve a meaningful life. It all lingered in the pit of my stomach, holding me back.
The flashbacks of Adam’s lifeless body in my lap still woke me up every now and then, but the pain subsided with time. It was there, but it was bearable. During the last four weeks, the world turned brighter. Colours seeped in, painting vibrancy into the black and white canvas of my mind.
“I know she’s struggling,” Nick said, no annoyance left in his voice.