A part of me wants to say to hell with it and stay in the safety of the present, keep the past locked away in the forgotten recesses of my mind, like a cringe-worthy drunken memory. If it’s locked away, I don’t have to deal with the fact that JP fucking lied to me.
But the stubborn, masochistic part of me knows this is the necessary next step toward healing. Even if it’s agonizing.
Dr. Ramirez lounges in an armchair opposite me. It feels somewhat odd that she’s upright while I lie sprawled out, in what feels like a pretty vulnerable position. I’d rather she lie down too so we’re on an equal footing.
Not right beside me though. That’d be weird.
“Relax, close your eyes, breathe slow and deep.” She drags out her words like HR Helen does. “Feel the tension leave your body with each exhale. Focus on the sound of my voice. Let your mind become void.”
“That’s the problem though, isn’t it? It’s already a void.” I suck in a lungful of air and let it out. “Sorry, doc.” Another breath fills my lungs. “Working on the wholerelaxingthing.”
“Breathe from your core. Put your hands on your stomach, feel it rise and fall.”
I obey, squeezing my eyes shut. I focus on my breathing, trying to fool my jittery mind into believing we’re sprawled on a sandy beach, not holed up in a therapist’s office.
“Good,” she soothes, her voice mingling with the new age music she insists aids relaxation. Her carefully posed questions about everyday trivialities lead me gently into a drowsy, dream-like state.
“Now, Lucy, we’re back at the Plaza Hotel. Tell me what you can see.”
My mind morphs into a private cinema, splashing vibrant visuals of the Plaza Hotel, a Quinn & Wolfe flagship hotel in SoHo. I see the opulent ballroom lit up by grand chandeliers. I hear tuxedos rustle, high heels clicking, champagne glasses tinkling. Coworkers laughing, taking advantage of the free drinks. I relay it all to the doctor.
“And how do you feel?” she asks.
I take in my surroundings.
Everyone is wearing expensive suits or formal workwear. I’m wearing a tight shift dress and stilettos I can hardly walk in. A chicken wing remains untouched in my hand. I’m too sick with nerves to eat it.
“I feel… anxious,” I admit. The knot pulls tighter, filled with a nameless dread. I hate these work events. But this feels different. More sinister.
My throat clenches as the memory sharpens, and I want to move on the couch, but I feel like I’m trapped under a weighted blanket.
“I’m scared,” I whisper to Dr. Ramirez, dimly aware of her hovering at the edge of my consciousness.
“It’s okay.” Her voice filters through, far-off yet somehow grounding. “You’re safe.”
And then, without warning, I’m there, in the thick of it.
I’m right there.
The ballroom explodes to life around me. I smell the heady mix of perfumes, taste the rich flavors of the catered food, and the laughter and light chatter are almost deafening. I see Matty, Taylor, the rest of the IT crowd, our whole marketing team, the annoying sales guys.
Matty struggles with his overly tight tie, looking as if he’s on the verge of asphyxiation. Taylor laughs loudly beside me.
Tears sting my eyes. Matty asks if I’m okay, but I can’t find the words to answer. Even Taylor’s booming laughter fades into a worried hush.
I manage to croak that I need air and escape the suffocating ballroom.
My heart is shattered, but the reason eludes me. A missing puzzle piece my mind hides. I gasp uselessly as I weave through smiling faces trying to coax me to do shots. Their cheer grates. I don’t belong.
Then I see him, JP Wolfe, at the top of the grand staircase. Arrogance personified.
His dark blue tailored tuxedo hugs every inch of his muscular frame. Our eyes lock, a storm churning inside me. Love and hate in equal measure.
I want to scream at him, hurl curses. I hate him. I love him. But I hate him more.
He crooks a finger, demanding my presence.
I want to flip him off and storm away. But I need to keep my cool. I’m trembling with rage, but I know what I have to do.
