Chapter Two
Berkleigh
Age 14
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…I have to get to my next class or I’ll have to sit up front. I don’t want to do that, it brings too much attention to me from those at the back. Being in the middle suits me just fine, which means I need to hurry the hell up.
Cleaning myself up after using the toilet, I pull up my panties and adjust my skirt. I flush, then wash my hands and rush out of the bathroom, straight into a tall, hard body with a permanent scowl.
“Watch where you’re going, Berk.” The look Tanner gives me says that I’m worse than shit on his shoe.
“If you didn’t stand in the middle of the hall I wouldn’t have bumped into you.” I narrow my eyes at him, my hands balling up on the straps of my backpack.
“Move along, Berk.” Oh no. Taylor Frey.
A hard shove to my back makes me crash into the lockers beside me, and I barely keep my footing to stay standing. I tryto breathe through the pain because letting these people see me cry is worse than the things they do to me.
“Scum like you doesn’t have the right to be within breathing distance of anyone on the football team. You’ll give them all your lice.”
“I don’t have lice.” I shouldn’t engage, I have the bruises to prove it, but sometimes I can’t help myself. Still, I keep my tone calm, so as not to escalate this situation.
“Not what I heard,” Cameron pipes up, one of Taylor’s minions, sneering at me as though I’m infectious.
“Oh, whoops. I tripped.” Taylor unscrews her bottle and pours the contents down the front of my shirt and I watch like this is happening in slow motion. It smells like…alcohol? “I told the counselor about your little drinking habit, so expect to be called out of your next class, Berk.” She laughs, hooks her arm through both of her friends’, one either side, and they practically skip off to their next class.
My shirt is soaked, it stinks of alcohol, and I have a new bruise on my shoulder. Just another day at Grove High.
Tanner doesn’t leave with them. Instead, he glares at me, his eyes tracing over me from head to toe, his top lip curled up in disgust. “Go the fuck home, Berk.”
That asshole ruins my whole day with his smart mouth, smug grin, and stupid bare chest all covered in tattoos.
Back in high school, it was just the smart mouth and smug grin. The tattooed body was a new addition when he returned from the Marines two years ago after his parents died in a plane crash.
I will admit he’s a thousand times nicer to look at than ever before, but then he speaks and it ruins everything. Beauty is more than looks alone, it’s what comes from the inside, too, and his insides are rotten to the core.
Despite the day ruiner striking this morning, I make my usual stop at the local coffee shop for sustenance before heading to my small office. Being in a small town twenty-five miles North of Manhattan, on the Eastern shore of the Hudson River, means I get a variety of clients. Some travel from the big city, wanting to keep their visits to a behavioral therapist a secret. There’s always someone that knows someone—much like here—so the traveling is worth it to them.
Balancing my coffee and blueberry muffin with one hand held against my chest, I unlock the door to my office and step inside. I flick on the lights and walk toward the coffee machine, placing my bought one down to set the thing going. The machine offers latte, cappuccino, espresso, hot chocolate, or regular coffee, perfect for my clients because I don’t have time to waste making drinks and I haven’t found it within myself to hire a secretary.
Satisfied everything in the waiting area is ready, I grab my coffee and head into my office to check my diary for today. I know my schedule, I arrange it myself, but this is part of my daily routine and it helps me to organize my thoughts, preparing for the kind of conversations I’ll have.
Mrs. Bouchier is first up, she’ll be here in ten minutes so I scarf my muffin, clearing up my crumbs before setting up the speaker. Hearing the sounds of a heavy thunderstorm calms her, helps her to relax into the session.
I open up my emails, finding one from Olivia Bevere, my mentor. I completed my two years of supervised experience about eighteen months ago, with her at the helm, and she likes to check in every now and then to see how I’m getting on.
I send her a quick reply, letting her know all is well, business is picking up, and I’m enjoying the variety of clients. I end it by asking her about her wife and kids, promising I’ll come into New York for dinner some time soon.
What I don’t tell her is the unhealthy amount of time I spend in my office, doing everything in my power to avoid dealing with the fact that I’m just plain old lonely. It doesn’t matter how many people I see in my office or on a virtual call, none of them are my friends.
Don’t get me wrong, on paper, my life is amazing. I have both parents, they’re alive, still married to each other, and very much in love, enjoying their retirement in Florida. I own my own home—albeit my childhood home I bought from my parents. I have my bachelor’s and my doctoral degree, I own my own business and office space, I’m never shy of attention when I’m out drinking and dancing…but as far as real friends go? Zero. I sacrificed my friends for my studies because life was easier that way, and now it’s showing.
Pulling me from my mini spiral, Mrs. Bouchier rings the bell to the main door before entering. She knows I leave the door unlocked for her to come in, and even though she doesn’t wait for me to answer, she always rings that bell.
I meet her outside my main office, where she is already helping herself to a hot drink. She has a new bruise on her cheek, badly covered up with concealer, and I internally roll my eyes, pushing down my personal fury toward her husband. Not that he deserves that title, but my own personal opinions aren’t warranted here.
Eight hours and six clients later, I’m sending emails, scheduling appointments, and keeping myself busy while waiting for that lull in traffic. When most people have finished work, sitting down at their kitchen table for dinner…it means there are less obstacles in my way as I take the long route home.The one that rides the outskirts of town before bringing me back to my perfect little house, my pretty rosebush in the corner of the front yard flourishing.
A rumble from my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten yet, with the exception of the blueberry muffin I bought this morning, but it can wait. I have a microwave meal with my name on it after a date with my Firebird.
