It doesn’t.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about taking the case,” I say, my voice serrated with the conflict roiling inside me. “Twenty-four hours to think about a boy who needs your help. Twenty-four hours to think about the family you deserted. Think about that,” I dare her. “Then try telling yourself you’re too busy to give a damn.”
The whisper of hurt that crosses her face doesn’t satisfy me. Not by a long shot. It almost does me in.
But deploying the last vestiges of my self-control, I rip my gaze away from hers, battling rage, desire, and too many unnamed emotions, and make myself go while I still can.
OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD!KNEES ON THE verge of buckling, I wobble over to my chair, sink into it, and bury my face in my shaky hands.
It was the suddenness.
One moment I was playing things cool, and the next I was on fire. One moment seeking escape, and the next surrounded by the blistering heat pumping off his large, hard body. In those split seconds, where anger and arousal converged, I pathetically showed as much willpower as a moth drawn to a flame.
But while I was turned on and burning up, he smacked me down cold. And proved two agonizing facts. One, that he can still make me want him. And two, that he still doesn’t want me.
His rejection cuts deep.
And I hate him for it, and myself, too.
Teetering on a perilous edge, I fish my phone out of my purse and after several fumbled attempts manage to text Jordyn and Lexie:
I could really use some girlfriend support.
No questions asked. We arrange to meet at Jordyn’s. In a whirl of frantic activity, I log off my computer, toss the offending cash—which I have every intention of returning—into my top drawer, and lock the office.
Once inside my car, I take deep, meditative breaths and slowly release them.In, hold, out.I continue until my reeling emotions quiet enough to keep me from backsliding into old habits.
Minutes later, my Acura coupe is crawling through the downtown congestion typical of Chicago at five thirty on a Wednesday evening. This is one of the reasons I moved out of the city two years ago. The other reason just stormed out of my office.
My nerves eventually even out along with the traffic as I reach the I-88 West. Lexie, Jordyn, and I live in Brockville, within a six-block radius of each other and of the fitness center where we met eighteen months ago in Pilates class. I’ve been a loner since childhood. But neither woman allowed me to wallow in solitude, maybe sensing someone who needed friendship or saving. I’m glad they didn’t give up on me during those times I tried to pull back within myself.
Exiting at Duff Gate, I roll past the rich architecture that peppers the tree-lined streets. To the south, I have a clear view of the sun dipping low in an indigo sky and the mist dancing on the deep blue lake. The pretty little town hasn’t lost any of its tranquil charm during the time I’ve lived here.
Only thirty miles from Chicago, it feels like another world.
Initially, when I fled Springvale, I welcomed the anonymity of the big city. It was a chance, I thought—hoped—to bury my past and start anew. I threw myself into college with single-minded determination, earning an undergraduate degree in child and family studies. Next, I took on law school, graduating third in my class. Then I launched my career, becoming the youngest woman ever to be up for junior partner at the prestigious family law firm Stern, Harris, and Associates.
But no matter how much success, respectability, and money I earned, on the inside, where it counted, I was still the unwanted, unlovable fat girl. With my past constantly chasing me, far too many nights I ate myself into an emotional coma, only to wake up hung over, bloated, and despising that weakness inside me. On those mornings after, with my head in the toilet, I’d promise myself that I had slipped for the last time.
Sometimes days, even weeks, would go by, and I’d be convinced that I had my problem beat. Then bam! Something would trigger me. It didn’t have to be major, just enough to push me off center, and the vicious cycle would start all over again.
It wasn’t until I found myself in the hospital, hooked up to machines and an IV drip, that I was forced out of denial and got myself help. I was admittedly distrustful at first. Court-ordered therapy had never worked for my mother. And I’d sampled the whole tell-me-why-you-hate-yourself thing once before, in my midtwenties, dreading every wretched second that I spent exploring my inner demons.
But Dr. Patrice Roland was different. She didn’t spend our weekly sessions picking at the scabs of childhood. As a behaviorist, Dr. Roland focused on teaching me how to recognize my triggers and alter my reactions. Breathing exercises was one effective technique I learned to push through my anxiety and save myself from self-destructive habits.
It took twenty-one long months to get to this point of quasi control. Twenty-one months to start tracking in a healthy direction. In that time, I quit my job and sold my condo. Bought a cottage-style bungalow in Brockville with a view of the lake and started the child advocacy practice I’d always wanted. It’s not nearly as lucrative, but I have the autonomy and freedom to do the work I love.
So why—my palm thumps the wheel hard—when I’m in the midst of finally getting my shit together does Mick have to show up, unearthing old ghosts and awakening dormant passions?Why, why, whyfollows me all the way to Jordyn’s without any respite from thinking about the man who turned my new life on its axis in less than ten minutes.
By the time I park behind Lexie’s pearl-white Mercedes, my thoughts are dark and turbulent again. I stand on the sidewalk, letting the brisk October breeze blow over me, begging it to cool my mood.
Concentrating again on slow, even breaths, I climb the stairs of the brownstone and press the intercom. Last summer, Jordyn purchased the nineteenth-century house, which she then remodeled into a stunning triplex. She occupies the bottom floor and rents out the two levels above her.
At the sound of the buzzer, I push open the beveled-glass door and walk down the long, narrow hall to find Jordyn waiting at the door.
“Whoa,” she remarks and stands back to let me in, her moss-green eyes executing a quick once-over. “You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” I hang my jacket on the coat rack and toe off my shoes.
