“You’re eleven years too late,” I growl, smoldering with resentment.
“I tried to get custody of you but lost because there was no evidence of abuse. John retaliated by filing a restraining order against me and suing for defamation of character. He won both cases. I couldn’t go anywhere near him or you.Please understand, I didn’t abandon you. I had no legal recourse.”
“I thought you forgot about me.”
“Oh no, sweetheart.” She reaches over and grasps my hand. “I always planned to get in touch after you turned eighteen. Mr. Green and I agree it’d be best if you came to live with me in Minnesota under the current circumstances. You’d finish school remotely. And you have three cousins eager to get to know you.”
My first instinct is to reject the idea, but I think of Cocoa. I have to go for her. I’ll break my promise if I stay. This is my opportunity not to be selfish, to put her needs above my own.
“I’ll go.”
Two months later
I linger in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, hands stuffed in my pockets, watching the people below scurry for cover to escape the torrent of rain. Though it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun is absent, obscured by the gray clouds. A bolt of lightning cracks across the dark sky, momentarily illuminating the city. The storm adds to my gloomy disposition.
I’m irritable due to lack of sleep.
Insomnia has plagued me since relocating to Minnesota. I’m lucky if I get two hours of sleep a night. My mind won’t rest because I’m sick with longing for her. I slide a hand under my shirt and trace the slightly puckered skin along my chest, recalling our last night together. The cut bled profusely, but stitches weren’t needed.
“Maverick?” The soft voice intrudes on my inner turmoil.
“Yeah,” I reply, facing the woman chosen to pick my brain.
Dr. Stallard is small in stature, probably one hundred pounds soaking wet and standing around five-foot-two. A strong gust of wind would send her sprawling to the ground. She’s all poise and grace, sitting primly in her burgundy wingback leather chair, notepad and pen in hand.
Her black pantsuit and perfectly chignoned auburn-blond hair scream no-nonsense professional. A display case positioned against the wall behind her contains several diplomas. Tomes line the bookcase next to it. The doc knows her stuff and is the most renowned psychiatrist in the area, or so her website claims.
Acquiring her services requires a heavy wallet, but money is no object. It turns out my family’s rich. My grandfather, who died thirteen years ago, won the lottery and invested most of his fortune, which led to financial freedom. The mansion in Montgomery actually belonged to my mother—a wedding gift purchased by her parents—and now it’s mine. I have a trust fund too. Go figure. I’ve been coming here twice a week for the last month and a half at the request of my good ole aunt. She thinks I can be saved.
“How are you today?” Dr. Stallard peers at me over the rim of her eyeglasses, waiting for a reply.
The same old song and dance. I’m asked this same question every session and my response remains unchanged.
“Still screwed-up in the head,” I answer, walking across the thick carpet to lie on the comfortable chaise lounge.
Cue the politically correct response in three… two… and go…
“You have successfully completed the first stage of recovery. Trust the process and you will find inner peace.”
I need to master a total of three stages to overcome my chronic trauma diagnosis, then voilà, I’ll start shitting Skittles and become a productive member of society. Those magic stages are… drum roll please—safety and stability, remembering and mourning, and reconnection and integration. Sounds like a bunch of horseshit to me.
“Have you given any thought to what we discussed last week?”
I interlock my fingers behind my head. “Can’t do it, doc.”
“To move forward, you must let go of the past.”
I stare into her hazel eyes. “I willneverforgive my mother for killing herself.”
“Never is a long time, Maverick,” she says, crossing her legs. “Resentment is a burdensome emotion to hold on to for the rest of your life. It’s a barrier between you and happiness.”
“She didn’t love me and doesn’t deserve my forgiveness,” I snap bitterly, rage churning through me.
“How would you feel if Cocoa said she’d never forgive you?”
Well, fuck, that’s a low blow. My already bruised heart tears further at the mere thought. The hypocrisy isn’t lost on me, but damn, being taken to task for it sucks. I regret ever mentioning Cocoa to her. The story poured out of me on a day I was hurting badly.
“Time’s up.” I charge from the office, ignoring the doc’s calls.
