“Angry. Hurt.”
“Angry?” Her tone rises, questioning my words.
“I was pissed at Alistair for being such an inconsiderate asshole at dinner. He invited a potential business partner to what was supposed to be a quiet dinner with his son.” Not to mention his constant ability to never remember a single detail of his son’s life, and his disgusting use of words.
“And what about hurt? Where do you think that feeling stemmed from?”
“I don’t know.” I cringe, eyes tightening in discomfort. Sharing my feelings and emotions with someone I’ve known all of a few weeks is not easy.
“Brooke, your feelings—whatever they were, or maybe still are—are valid. Feelings aren’t right or wrong, good or bad. They’re just our internal reaction to something. We can’t help how we feel, and that’s okay. It’s okay to feel something,” Susan encourages. Her voice is soothing in an odd way—rough around the edges yet tender in its approach. “So, tell me, what made you feel hurt last night? Was it Alistair?”
Shaking my head, I scrub my hand down my face and swallow past my discomfort. “I was hurt that Jamie shut me out. I feel like he’s usually so good when it comes to opening up to me, but last night, he didn’t. He just put up his walls. Closed me out completely.”
“And that made you feel hurt,” she validates. “What else did it make you feel?”
“Hopeless. Like I couldn’t help him. Couldn’t fix whatever was eating away at him.”
The scratch of her pen sliding across the paper fills my ears. A part of me would love to see what notes she’s jotted down about my psyche, but another part of me is scared shitless to really know what my therapist thinks.
“I understand Jamie is very important to you. And it’s normal to want to help those we care about, but do you really think it’s your responsibility to fix his problems?”
Isn’t it my responsibility? I think a large part of me feels like it is my responsibility to help Jamie with whatever he needs. He’s always been there for me, always been my shoulder to cry on. He’s the one person who got me to open up about Ivan. And he listened to those disgusting parts of my past without judgment. So did Dylan…
“I know you love Jamie. And from what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s obvious he loves you too. Brooke, it’s one thing to be a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, or even just someone who’s there to listen, but we’re not responsible for our loved ones’ problems. We aren’t meant to fix them. We can provide support and offer advice. We can do everything in our power to let them know we love them and will always be there for them. But we can’t be held responsible to provide a solution for their problems.”
Her words crash into me, fast and without remorse, damn near taking my breath away. Everything she said makes sense, but I can’t stop my subconscious from reaching back into my brain and pulling a dark memory out of storage.
We were only fifteen.
It’s when I realized Jamie wasn’t as strong as he let on.
It’s when his Pandora’s box of hurt and pain finally opened.
This memory contradicts what I know Susan would like me to understand.
What if I’ve already made a promise to fix Jamie’s problems?
I clear my throat, fighting the tears bubbling up from my lungs. The urge to cry is strong, but I refuse to break down. For some reason, I can’t let myself go there while I’m sitting in her office.
“Have you been writing in your journal?”
“Everyday.”
“That’s really good, Brooke. I’m happy that you’ve found something that allows you to let your emotions out. It’s important for us to find ways to open ourselves up.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “I wouldn’t exactly call it opening up. I mean, I’m writing in a journal that no one else sees.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re still working through your feelings. You’re taking the time to reach inside of yourself and write things down that would otherwise be bottled up. Even if you’re writing entries about your disdain for chicken salad, you’re still writing about something that is affecting you. No matter big or small, it’s a good thing, Brooke. A great thing.”
I nod, fidgeting with the frayed edges of my jean shorts.
“So, tell me, what is your shitload of baggage?” Susan asks, a smile in her voice.
Shitload? Man, I really did that say that a few minutes ago. In my therapist’s office, no less. I grin, peeking at her for a moment before closing my eyes again. It’s easier to pour your heart out to someone when you don’t have to look them in the eye. I know therapists are probably born with excellent poker faces, but I’d hate to see her poker face slip, revealing what she really thinks about me—my past, my life, all of my horrible decisions.
“Did Annie tell you about my past?” I ask, curious what Susan already knows.
“No. She kept your confidentiality and didn’t reveal anything from your previous sessions. And honestly, I never asked for her to do that. I prefer we start on a clean slate and get to know each other in a way that works best for both of us.”
Annie was my therapist as a child, mandated by the court after Millie adopted Ember and me. Even though I only went to her for a short period of time, she was a very positive force in my life. I’m still thankful for the progress she helped me achieve. And once I decided in Paris that I would start therapy again, I called Annie, who is now retired, and asked her for a recommendation. Susan was her immediate response.
After a few quiet minutes, I finally muster the strength to answer her question. “My shitload of baggage is my childhood. Well, at least the first ten years.”
“What in particular about your childhood?”
“My drug-addict parents. The times I had to step up and take care of Ember because my mom was too high to function and my dad was M.I.A.”
“How old were you then?”
“Young. Too young to be taking care of a kid, especially when I was kid myself.” God, I can still remember being six-years-old, tired and ready for bed. After realizing my mom was passed out on the couch, I took it upon myself to get us ready for bed—drawing a bath for Ember and me.”
“Tell me about the memory you’re caught up in right now.”
Damn, she’s good. Either I’m very transparent or she’s a mind reader.
“I was six at the time. Em was only two. It was dark out, and we were staying in a run-down trailer outside of some city. I honestly couldn’t tell you what city we were living in at the time, but I remember the air always smelled horrible. Like rotten eggs. I’d choke on it the second I stepped out the door. And it always got worse as the temperature got warmer. When the weather was hot, it was a tough call to go outside and play in that noxious air or stay inside and suffocate from the second-hand smoke.”
My fingers fiddle with Millie’s necklace, rubbing across the inscription. “I was tired and Ember was getting cranky, not easily distracted by toys or a game of peek-a-boo. I washed our hair and rinsed our bodies. There was only one clean towel in the bathroom, and I made sure my little sister was dried off before drying myself. I brushed our teeth, and after turning out the light, I tucked us into my bed and told Em a bedtime story about two little girls living in a happy home, where the mom and dad were there every night to read them a book and kiss them goodnight.”
“Wow,” Susan breathes, voice soft. “I can’t imagine a six-year-old child being rational enough to take a bath and brush her teeth before bed, much less making sure she did the same for her sister. You learned to take care of yourself at a very young age, Brooke. What do you think that says about you as a person?”
“I don’t think it says anything about me as a person. I just made the best of the situation. I just did everything I needed to survive.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
I nod. My nervous and uncertain eyes meet hers—steady and unbiased.
Susan smiles, pulling her glasses off and setting them on top of her
note pad. “It means you’re strong. It means you can persevere through anything that life throws your way. It means you’re the best kind of person to have by one’s side when times get tough because you’ll do anything for the ones you love. I’d say, overall, it means your shitload of baggage doesn’t matter because you’re a beautiful, kind, and loving person.”
Driving home from Susan’s office, I switch off the radio, too contemplative and lost in my own head to listen to music. Four visits under my belt and I’m noticing a theme. Every time I leave a session, my brain is overwhelmed with questions, realizations, and various memories that bubble up to the surface.
And today is no different.
I head for Laurel Canyon, intent on spending an hour or two at home before driving back to the studio. The road curves and twists as I pass by the Canyon Country Store, but I’m too exhausted to stop. Not the least bit tempted by their delicious, custom made deli sandwiches.
The fatigue has settled into my bones, aching without remorse. God, these sessions drain me. All I want to do is lie down in my bed and close my eyes. Close out the world. Close out these thoughts. Close out this memory.
Brooke
15 years old
“Lex, I don’t think it’s a good idea since Jamie’s sick. He’s probably not in the mood for company right now, even mine. I’m just going to hang out for a bit, make sure he’s okay, and drop off the crap ton of assignments he missed.” I slide out of the passenger seat of her car, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.
“Whatever,” she huffed, obviously irritated. Sometimes I wondered if Lexi Andrews was my friend because she secretly wanted to bone Jamie. It was odd how she’d go out of her way to meet up with him after class or take the time to drive me to his house, knowing it was a possibility she wouldn’t be invited inside.
Hell, sometimes I wondered why I put up with her bitchy attitude.
She was the complete opposite of me—peppy, flirtatious, and obsessed with being popular. Not the type of girl who would normally want to hang with Jamie and me. It was definitely weird. But Lex wasn’t always a bitch. She had her nice moments. And occasionally, she could even be considered sweet. It was rare, but it happened.
Plus, she was sixteen—a whole year older than me and she had a driver’s license. That’s top priority shit when you’re a teenager.
She flashed me her infamous puppy dog eyes. “But, I thought we could all hang out.”
I grimaced, feeling bad, but knowing Jamie wouldn’t be in the mood for her bubbly personality. “I’m sorry, Lex. Rain check, okay? I promise I’ll make this up to you.”
“Whatever, Brooke. I’m headin’ to Cash’s house. See ya later.”
Ugh. Cash Warner, Lexi’s asshole boyfriend. I wasn’t a fan. He oozed bad boy, but had zero charm. His priorities revolved around extracurricular activities that I wondered if my mother wouldn’t even approve of. And that said a hell of a lot considering my mother—the vagabond hippie—had very few limits. She attended Woodstock and could probably roll a joint better than any of my stoner classmates.
The first time I met Lexi’s boyfriend, Millie’s theory about our souls having two windows screamed loudly in my mind. “Eyes and a smile. That is all you need to really see someone.”
If my grandmother was right, I wasn’t convinced Cash had a soul. His deceitful smile warned, and his dark eyes should have been the color of cinders, raising red flags of his true intentions. Bad news. He was definitely bad news.
I watched the taillights of her Honda Civic disappear in a hurry down the long private drive. She was pissed at me, but I didn’t care. I needed to check on my best friend, considering he skipped school and hadn’t been answering his phone all day.
I went in through the five-car garage using the key code I memorized years ago. The house was empty, which was typical for Jamie’s family. This was the unfortunate norm for my best friend. Honestly, I would have been more shocked to see his parents home.
The Wallace’s house was exactly what you would expect. Ornate furniture filled the vast rooms, and large marble pillars reaching vaulted ceilings. Beautiful, expensive paintings hung on the walls, more for show than anything else.
If that house could talk, it would shout money.
I never understood the need for wealthy people to decorate their homes in the most lavish of ways. The Wallace’s home was more like a museum than a house filled with a loving family. It was cold and empty—completely void of smiling faces, loving words, and chatting around the dinner table.
My feet move past one of the dining rooms, eyes catching site of the mahogany table fit for a king and fifteen guests. The place settings were perfectly arranged and accessorized with expensive china. Crystal glasses shined underneath the luminescent light of the chandelier hanging above it.
That dining room was a liar.
The place settings, the china, the ridiculous crystal glasses, they weren’t there in preparation of a family dinner. They were there for illustration. Over the five years that I had known Jamie, his family never once had a meal with just the three of them. Even holidays were spent somewhere else. Last year, Christmas was in Europe. Thanksgiving was in Australia.
Those family vacations were a sham. Alistair Wallace used them for business. Instead of spending time with his wife and son, he filled his schedule with last minute dinners and luncheons schmoozing musicians he deemed “the next big thing.”
I kind of despised my best friend’s parents. Actually, I loathed them. If I allowed the word hate into my vocabulary, I would use it to describe my feelings for Alistair and Camille Wallace. Sure, my parents weren’t winning mother and father of the year awards, and their parenting choices were questionable at best, but Ember and I got Millie.
Out of Jamie and me, I was the lucky one.
He might have come from money and had been carrying his own Black Card since he was thirteen years old, and I might have had a horrible first ten years, but I was far richer than he was. My wealth couldn’t be measured in monetary amounts; it could only be measured in love. I had someone who was always there in the morning, making me breakfast before I left for school. And when I got home in the afternoon, I had someone who wanted to hear about my day. I had Millie, someone who cared about me and always had my best interest at heart.
Making my way up the spiral staircase, I faintly heard music coming from his room. “Jaaaaaaaamie!” I shouted.
He didn’t respond. I wasn’t surprised. His music was crazy loud.
“Jamie!”
Still…nothing.
My feet padded across the upstairs hallway, imprints in the lush maroon carpet left in the their wake. “One of these days, I swear, he’s going to go deaf,” I mumbled to myself, passing several bedrooms.
Finally, I made my way to the end of the hall, standing in front of his bedroom. The door was closed, which I found odd. Jamie never shut his door. It was pointless, considering he was usually the only one here. Plus, he had a best friend who made a point to stop by unannounced.
My hand reached for the knob, opening the door. Within seconds I was smacked with Nine Inch Nails pounding against my eardrums and the vision of Jamie’s tall frame filling the bed. Blankets and pillows were scattered across the floor in dismay.
Sleeping, I thought to myself, Jamie didn’t respond today because the jerk was fast asleep.
But then, my brain started to calculate, adding up the details.
In his normal preppy style, Jamie was fully dressed—khaki shorts, blue polo, and even loafers covered his feet. Every light in his room was on. Music bounced off the walls, rattling the window frames. How could anyone sleep like this?
Walking closer, I attempted to scare him. “Jamie! Wake! Up!” My eyes locked onto his face, waiting for a reaction. He looked peaceful, angelic even, with his hair mussed up in a gentle way. His dark lashes rested softly on his cheeks.
But he didn’t react. Nothing. No sound. No movement. Not even a tiny hitch in his breath.<
br />
His breathing seemed shallow, taking what felt like hours from one inhale to the next.
And that was the moment, the instant, I knew something was terribly wrong.
My hands lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders. Pounding heartbeats filled my ears. I shook my best friend’s limp body in erratic movements. I think I was shouting his name, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be sure of anything in that moment. I just wanted him to open his eyes. Needed him to open his eyes.
I yelled his name. Or maybe I tried to yell, but no words came out? I didn’t know.
My movements, his breathing, everything felt slow. Too. Fucking. Slow.
Then I saw it.
His hand. The bottle. White pills strewn across navy blue sheets.
Fear peaked inside of me, reaching a sharp point, and piercing me from within. My fingers fumbled against his neck, trying to find his pulse. I didn’t know what I was doing, or what I was looking for, I just searched for the feel of his life underneath my fingertips.
Anxiety. Fear. Terror. Every horrible emotion consumed me, visible in my trembling hands grasping at his collared shirt. I needed him to wake up. I needed to see his quirky smile and his blue eyes filled with life. I needed to hear him obnoxiously sing along to the music like he often did while driving me to school. I just needed my best friend.
He was going to wake up.
I refused to accept anything else.
New Reality Show In The Works: Adoring fans of Careless Cockups will be tickled pink.
PopSensation.com
The contracts are written.
The cable network C&E is ready.
Careless Cockups just needs to sign on the dotted line.
The undeniably gorgeous boys of Careless Cockups have been offered a sugary sweet deal to give C&E’s cameras a sneak peek at their lives as they produce their debut album. This is rumored to be a short series that will give us insight into not only the process musicians go through while producing an album, but also showcase the personalities and inner-workings of this British band.
Careless Cockups recently signed with Wallace & Wright for a two-record deal and are due to release their first album by February.
Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) Page 11