Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  "Yes. Please," she says, excitement lighting her face. "I've been so lonely since Cassidy moved out."

  "But Cassidy's fun," I remind her. "And I'm—"

  "A total bitch sometimes," she says. "I know. But I could use someone like you around, helping me toughen up a bit. I'm sick of people seeing all my fluff and no substance."

  I gesture toward her pink pillows. "You kind of set yourself up for it."

  "I'm allowed to enjoy girly things and still kick ass."

  And to this, I have no comeback. "True. I got paid today. I can give you rent and a deposit." I'll be back to pennies in my account afterward, but…worth it.

  She stands, dumping her bowl in the sink. "Please. My mom pays for this place. I don't want your money, just your company."

  "I'm not going to live here for free." I stand too, leaning on the table.

  "The only things I actually pay for are cable and internet. You can split those bills with me."

  "I'll pay them fully," I counter.

  "Fine. Then with my extra cash, I get to take you out to dinner once a month."

  I definitely have the better end of this deal. "I love you too, you know." Ugh. My stomach twists. Pills or no pills, this fluffy girly stuff is so not ever going to be my style. "Don't get used to hearing it."

  "Hearing it this once'll keep my soul lighter than air for…gosh…" She slams a hand dramatically over her heart. "Years, at least."

  "Shut up," I say. "Show me my room. Then you can go to sleep."

  "Do you need to get your stuff from your car?"

  This deflates a bit of air from my bubble. "I didn't think to grab anything when I left. I was too mad. And I really don't want to go back there." Then, though, I discover the perfect Band-Aid. "But I got paid today. And I'm skipping work. So I'll go buy new things for now."

  "In that case," she says, "fuck sleep. I hear the word shopping and I don't even need coffee anymore."

  I glance around her apartment. Splashes of pink and black and gold. Feminine and bold. "You do have an eye for pretty things. Maybe you can help me find a dress."

  "For what?"

  "Get changed," I say, grabbing my keys. Springs Corner won't be open yet for the best shopping, but we can hit other, less expensive stores for necessities like underwear and a toothbrush first. "Then I'll drive. And I'll tell you all about Alec in the car." I use my palms to push up from the table and wince at the pain. I forgot about the splinters on the banister in my haste down to Gramps earlier. "Also, do you have tweezers I can borrow? I've got a few slivers of wood to pull from my palm before I do anything else."

  She brings me tweezers—and rubbing alcohol, which stings like a motherfucker. But other than that? My day finishes a hell of a lot better than it started. I end up with the things I'll need to survive the next couple weeks, plus several cute new pairs of pajamas, almost as tiny as Vera's—and a fucking amazing dress. And the bruise on my face fades so much by the end of the day, I bet it'll disappear by Monday and I won't have to answer any stupid questions about it.

  I can't believe Gran kicked me out.

  I can't believe how relieved I am to be away from there. Well. Yes, I can.

  Mostly, though, I can't believe how lucky I am to have someone like Vera in my life to make it all so much less horrible than it could be.

  Cassidy, too. Who knows better than to offer sympathy even all the way from New York when I fill her in on everything. All I get is a series of texts making plans for all the girls' nights we'll have in the future.

  And drinks. Lots and lots of drinks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ON MONDAY BEFORE work, I borrow Vera's laptop for my first online therapy session. Vera fixes me with a stern expression. "You break that laptop, I break you. Capisce?"

  "Being tough only works if the other person doesn't know you well enough to know you're full of shit."

  "Oh. I guess that's why you're not scary anymore." She lets her features fall into the closest thing to smug I've seen her wear.

  "Blah, blah," I say, waving my hand through her words. "You'd still be scared if I wanted you to be." She starts to retort, but I'm running late, so I cut in before she can, gently patting the laptop in my hand. "I promise to take care of your baby."

  "Have a good appointment." Vera loved the idea of an online therapy site. If mine goes well, she's going to sign up, too. Knowing I'm not the only one who could use someone professional to speak with makes it easier for me to close myself in the guest room—or, my room now—and log on to the site. While I wait for the video component to load, I pull my headphones from Alec out of my purse, connect them to the laptop, and slide them on. By the time I'm done, my therapist is logged on as well.

  Dr. Wú looks like she's in her late thirties and has a friendly face. She's thrilled the Zoloft is working already. "So many people have to try different combinations to find something that helps," she says. "It's easy to get discouraged—I'm glad you won't."

  "I've been wondering if it's partly a mind over matter thing," I admit, leaning against the headboard, cringing when it squeaks. "Like I know the pill should help me, so taking one every day puts me in a better mental place before it even takes effect."

  "I'm sure that helps," she says, a strand of hair falling forward when she nods. She tucks it into place. "I went over your questionnaire last night, so before we go over that—is there anything in particular you'd like to speak about?"

  That damn questionnaire took me hours to fill out. And I'm sure it was riddled with spelling errors and incomplete sentences and…whatever.

  My mind flashes to my grandparents. Who raised me on permanent thin ice.

  To my mom. Who never wanted me.

  To a blank spot where my father's face would be if I knew what he looked like. Which is stupid to wish for because he never wanted me either.

  My throat strangles itself when I try to find the words to bring him up. "No. I'll let you lead, if that's all right."

  She tucks more hair behind her ear and takes the conversation in a direction I'm much more comfortable with. "How have you been dealing with Dr. Reyes' suggestion of a possible learning disability?"

  "I haven't really been dealing with it," I admit. "It's nice to know, but the thing is I don't want my life to be about depression. And I definitely don't want my life to be about a learning disability."

  "It doesn't have to be," she says, glancing down from the screen for a moment. "Is your life about having red hair? Is your life about enjoying horror movies?"

  "Those aren't the same."

  "They're a part of who you are."

  "Still. Not the same."

  "Would you say you've felt much of your life has been about your anger?" she asks.

  The answer is simple. "Yes."

  "You wrote on your questionnaire you believe that anger stems from depression and your learning disability. Which means, by addressing them, you're fighting the thing that's made you most upset. Maybe having days where your life is about those things is preferable to the days in the past when it's seemed to be all about anger. Because you're treating all of it now."

  "I don't want to think about it all the time, every second of every day."

  "And you won't. But even with Zoloft, even with therapy, some days, your life will be about your depression. But some days it won't. That's the way this illness works. The good news is you're helping yourself now—and hopefully we can maintain things so that most days it's not at the front of your mind."

  "I need some time to swallow that," I say. "I get that it's true. I knew it coming into this. But…hearing it so black and white is a lot to chew."

  "I understand." She glances down again at something off screen before saying, "Then let's move on to some of the ways you can best help yourself."

  Uncertainty has its grips in me, though, sliding doubts under my skin. Maybe therapy is stupid. Maybe Zoloft is stupid. If I can't get to a place where I never have to think about depression, what's the poi
nt? My mind is forceful enough to move the thought to my mouth. "What's the point?"

  "You can do nothing and let your depression bring you lower and lower—or you can fight it and let it make you stronger in the process."

  I appreciate that she didn't miss a beat, didn't need clarification. "Tell me how to help myself."

  She wants me, it turns out, to more actively deal with my learning disability.

  I'm not surprised. One of the reasons I selected Dr. Wú was for her description on the website. She specializes in depression—and learning disabilities. Also drug use and career guidance and grief counseling. While the time that's passed since Jason's overdose has really helped me heal, I could probably use a bit of retroactive grief counseling anyway.

  I thought Dr. Wú and I would be a good fit. And she's starting to make me think I was right.

  "Self-determination is important when you learn differently than others," she says, her words easy and mild-mannered enough to keep me from feeling bad about myself for being different. And she goes on to discuss the different aspects of self-determination.

  Understanding myself and the ways I learn differently and how it all might affect my performance in daily life. Setting goals to keep myself on track with the ability to complete tasks. Learning from my experiences, tweaking and improving processes as time goes on, to make my career—my life—more manageable.

  "Eventually," she tells me, "it will all become second nature. So you won't be living it every day. Or, rather, you will be, but you won't be so aware of it. You'll have set the stage for your own success."

  I can't decide if the work ahead of me makes me excited—or full of dread. When I mention how sometimes I confuse the two, how sometimes I should be thrilled, but get angry instead, she tells me it's common.

  "Sometimes depression or anxiety can make it hard for your body to understand what you're feeling," she says. "Your system can mistake excitement for anxiety, or regret for anger. But this is part of self-awareness, and knowing these things will help to temper them."

  Our session's up after that, but I set my next appointment before closing out. Because while she makes it all sound so easy, I'm sure the moment I'm out the door today, I'll forget it all. Or twist it. Or think of a zillion questions about everything.

  Funny thing, though. When I step out the door, I don't forget it all.

  I drive to work reliving the conversation. Helps that it was face-to-face and I didn't have to read anything.

  Which is a strength I should focus on. I hit the brakes, skidding to a stop behind the car in front of me, which is doing the same thing. Ugh. Traffic. But I have a good memory. If I hear something, I understand it a lot quicker than if I read it.

  I should ask for a tape recorder for meetings, instead of taking notes. Or whatever the modern equivalent is for a tape recorder. Suddenly, excitement dances in my stomach. And this time it doesn't feel at all like dread.

  "They're called voice recorders," Sam tells me later, as we start our computers. "But you don't need one."

  "Actually, I do," I say, snarking a little because ugh. He doesn't get to tell me what I do or don't—

  "No, I mean you can get an app for it on your phone."

  "Oh." I offer my cringe as an apology. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

  "Here." He spins his computer screen toward me. "These are the top-rated ones."

  I can't read them from where I'm sitting, and I lean back like I'm too lazy to get up. "Tell me which one I should get."

  He studies the selections for a few moments and rattles off the name of the one he thinks will be best for recording meetings instead of personal thoughts or dictation.

  "Where's Alec?" I ask, glancing at the clock. "He's late."

  "He's out until Wednesday for his brother's thing in Vegas."

  "Till Wednesday?" A whine forces its way into my tone. Yuck. But I didn't realize he'd be gone so long.

  Ugh. Now I miss him.

  "Yes. So that gives you two full days to catch me up with what the hell is going on with you two."

  I pull my phone out of my bag to download the app Sam named—and, obviously, to avoid answering him. But as if on cue, a text from Alec buzzes in my hands. What are you wearing?

  I bite back a laugh. I'm at work, weirdo. Nothing to see here.

  You're always worth looking at. I need a visual.

  What are you even doing up right now? Isn't it before 6 am over there?

  Haven't been to bed yet. Caught up in gambling. And then maybe a comic book or two. Send me something for sweet dreams.

  Nerd. I shake my head, but I also hike up my skirt. Just a few inches. Just showing a bit of thigh. And I send him a picture of my knees.

  Jesus. Can't want to spread those gorgeous legs again. And a few seconds later: I need to see your face.

  And because he makes a grin start all the way in my chest before it travels to my lips, I give him one. It's harder to take and Sam snickers when he catches me, but I'm too happy to care.

  How are things at home?

  New home now, I write, wondering how to send a tone through text message so he'll know I don't want to talk about it.

  Are you all right?

  I send him a picture of my middle finger.

  A minute passes, and then Alec responds with a picture. His face, his hair all spread out and messy on his pillow, smudges of shadows under his eyes, but a smarmy twist to his mouth. You didn't ask, but here I am anyway.

  Send me something a little lower, I respond, my fingers shaking with the sudden flash of hunger for him. And when he does, the image comes in of his bare chest, sculpted abs, the start of his happy trail…and the rest of him covered by a comic book. I take a closer look just in case—but all I get from it is the name of the comic book. Silver Surfer. I crack up because he's such a nerd, but nothing about his reading tastes keeps me from taking another look. And another. And that flash of hunger erupts into something much, much stronger.

  Have to turn my phone off, I say. Otherwise I might combust. Hurry up and come back to me.

  I do turn it off, too, because I'm not sure how I won't spend my entire day staring at those photos. And I swear the deep timbre of his laugh reaches me all the way from the other side of the country.

  I'm eating lunch in the break room when Denise walks in. She acknowledges me with a quick nod and half a smile before hightailing it to the coffee pot. Which, thank God, I've refilled. She adds creamer and sugar and without even waiting for it to cool, chugs.

  "Thank God for caffeine," I say.

  "Back-to-back-to-back meetings all day—all week. I'd be dead without it." She fully smiles this time. "You're Teagan, right? Alec's assistant?"

  "I am." It's like a high school crush, the sort of thrill that jumps through me because she knows my name. I place my fork carefully on my plate, not wanting another bite of salad in case it gets stuck in my teeth. "And you're Denise?" As though I haven't had her name tattooed in my mind from the first meeting she ran. But it doesn't do me any favors to play dumb. "I mean, I know who you are. Sorry. Nice to meet you, Denise."

  Awesome. Rambling on top of wishy-washiness. Her expression's amused, and she leans against the counter, not speaking. Probably waiting for me to keep adding feet to my mouth. I should go back to my salad.

  Then I remember Dr. Reyes telling me to be my own advocate.

  I stand, instead, to face Denise. "I wanted to tell you that… I think the way you run meetings is brilliant. And it seems like you're brilliant in every other area of your job, from what I hear in those meetings anyway."

  "Thank you." Her amusement turns to something else. Surprise, maybe?

  I don't know how to take it, but I keep going anyway. "And Alec's leaving at the end of the summer to return to Harvard…" This gives me pause. I haven't been focusing on it at all—but now my stomach's dropping with the weight of an eighteen-wheeler. He's leaving… I'm staying.

  "And?" Denise prompts me with a kind, bu
t firm, tone.

  Right. Take it one thing at a time. Deep breath. Eye contact. Don't wipe your clammy hands on your skirt… Whoops.

  "And I'm not sure what my responsibilities will be when he goes, but if you ever need an assistant—or any position that would give me the opportunity to work for you—I would love the chance."

  She takes a long glance around the break room. "This place has been a lot cleaner the past few weeks—are you responsible for it?"

  Now it's easy to look her square in the eye. "I am."

  Sam's squeamish about cleaning up after other people, but even at its messiest, the break room is practically sterile compared to my grandmother's house. So I clean it, and he organizes the supply room. It works. And now, I'm even gladder for it.

  "I already have an assistant," she says. "But I like your initiative. I'll see what I can do."

  Her words keep me floating through the rest of the day—and the next one too.

  Then Alec doesn't return on Wednesday.

  My grandfather's doctor had to go out of town, he texts me. I'm on babysitting duty the rest of the week. But I'll be there to pick you up Saturday. Can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing you… Touching you…

  I shiver when I text him Vera's address and tell him I hope his grandfather feels better soon—and that I'm sorry he has to miss work.

  It hits me a few minutes later—Alec is a good person. Down to his core.

  He's demanding and arrogant. He's got more talent in the tip of his tongue than I ever knew was possible—definitely more than any other guy I've ever known. And his family's got some serious issues…

  But through it all, he's good. His heart is good. He's the kind of guy who'll miss work to spend his days with his sick grandfather—who, let's be real, seems like a total asshole.

  I admire Alec.

  I'm going to miss him so much when he's at school. I'm not sure how I'll function. The thought makes a fist in my stomach, clenching so tight I stop breathing. It hurts. The thought of being without him hurts.