I don’t know why I ever agreed to marry him, let alone date him.
Two words: Sarah Stratford. My brain sneers.
I bristle at the thought. It’s true. A small part of me thought getting married to a fellow well-established doctor would gain her approval. All it did was make me miserable. Mother didn’t even like Bradley until I broke off the engagement.
“I don’t want to get into this again. Please go home,” I state clearly.
“Come on, sweetheart. Open up. You know I love you.”
My stomach churns at his fake, sickly-sweet tone.
“You don’t love me, Bradley. You love the idea of me. Now please go home and sleep it off.”
“Stop being such a bitch and open the fucking door,” he snarls.
And there they are. His true colors.
Bradley is a mean drunk. He never hit me, but during the year we were together, he used his words and twisted mine to make me feel less than. It was all about control for him.
I quietly lift the chain and slide it through the track. “No. Go home. I’ll talk to you when you’re sober.”
“Sweetheart, just open the door. We can work this out.” He’s back to sounding sweet as he taps on my door. His mood swings always give me whiplash.
“There’s no working this out. We’re done, Bradley. Don’t come back here.”
“You fucking bitch. You think you’re so much better than me just because of your last name?” he snarls.
How he figured out I was a Stratford when I use my grandmother’s maiden name for work still bothers me. I don’t want people tojudge me or use me because of who my family is and how successful they are.
“Please leave. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”
“Fuck. Fine. But this isn’t over, Savannah. When you’re ready to come crawling back, you know where to find me,” he seethes.
Pigs will fly before I call that man. For anything. Freaking douche canoe.
I watch him storm off in his drunken stupor. As he turns the corner and the sound of his footsteps recedes, I sag against the door and breathe.
The thought of another Bradley pop-by has dread wrapping itself around my throat and squeezing. He needs to move on, and so do I. That only happens with a fresh start, which means… I need a new apartment.
I glance around my apartment and sigh.
Crap on a cracker.
Finding a place in Los Angeles is nearly impossible.
four
Nico
Myjawtickswithevery fucking click-clack of the old-fashioned timer.
Ignoring the damn device as best I can, I continue to stare at the stern-looking woman with a silver bob in front of me.
Doctor Lisbon specializes in CBT—cognitive-behavioral therapy. Has a PhD in Behavioral Psychology and a bunch of other stuff with letters too long to list. She’s about my ma’s age, mid to late fifties, and has a no-nonsense demeanor.
The doc stares back at me. Her gaze is penetrating, like she’s trying to read my mind just by looking into my eyes.
I fight the urge to flinch and look away.
