Page 26

With only three bedrooms and a bath and a half, this house—not to mention the water heater—has been pushed far beyond its maximum capacity.

I don’t mean to sound spoiled, but I don’t know how many more lukewarm showers I can endure before I break.

Sharing a twin-sized bunk bed with a hyperactive seven-year-old is about as much fun as it sounds. Add in an eighty-pound Velcro dog that needs to be touching me at all times, and it’s safe to say I’m overstimulated to the max. At this point, I’ve even considered sleeping outside and taking my chances with the bugs.

Now that I think about it, maybe the paparazzi aren’t so bad? So what if everyone on the internet thinks I’m a loose cannon? At least I’m used to the psychological pain and discomfort. The devil you know and all that… Maybe instead of this stupid anger management bullshit, what I really need is a rebrand?

I bite my cheek as I consider the idea… It could work, but I’d definitely need to change my hair. Micro bangs would help, and I’d need to lose another ten pounds at least. The thought of starving myself and upping my cardio routine sends a wave of revulsion through me. If that wasn’t enough to shut down the idea, just thinking of the satisfaction it would bring my mother is the nail in the coffin.

She’d just love that, wouldn’t she?

You’d think by now, she’d have her own life to keep her occupied without having to insert herself into mine. But that’s just wishful thinking.

I glance at the clock and let out a sigh before pushing myself up to a seated position, apparently ruining all of Matilda’s comfort. She grunts, side-eyeing me, before rolling over to the other end of the couch and draping her head over the arm dramatically.

“Seriously? You lived in a concrete cage before I adopted you.”

She lifts her head, meeting my eye, and I swear to God, she telepathically calls me a bitch.

I flip my laptop open and click on the meeting link. “All right. I’ll remember that next time you need to pee at five o’clock in the morn⁠—”

But my words break off when my image comes into view, and I’m instantly humbled. My long dark hair is piled on top of my head in something that looks more like a rat’s nest than a messy bun, and my eyes look like a raccoon, ringed in yesterday’s mascara. My oversized T-shirt is stained and hangs off my shoulder, making me look more like I’ve just been mugged, rather than the casual look I was hoping for.

Matilda’s lip curls ever so slightly, and she turns her nose up in smug satisfaction as if to say: who looks like they live in a concrete cage now, bitch?

Okay, maybe she’s got a point…

I attempt to smooth my hair down but eventually give up and tie it back. It’s the best I can do right now. Who knows, maybe my new therapist—or whatever she is—will assume I’m riddled with guilt and take pity on me? Judging by the book that came in the mail this morning, I’m not sure what to expect.

I take a moment to examine the hardback book. It has a white cover with a hissing black cat that seems to be flying through the air, claws out and ready to attack.

In bold red letters, the title reads, Pussy Power: The Thirteen Rules for Embracing Your Feminine Rage by Marguerite D. Cummings, PhD.

Where the hell did Claire find this kook? I don’t understand any of this, which I’m hoping is a good sign. Maybe I’ll be able to bullshit my way through this program without having to do too much inner work.

I still can’t believe they’re making me do this. The whole concept of my needing anger management is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.

Those paparazzi had it coming. It was only a matter of time before I’d snap.

“Oh good! I see you’ve already got your copy of my book⁠—”

I startle, and the book flies out of my hands.

When I look up, I see a smiling woman with red cat eyeglasses staring back at me. Her hair is mostly gray with streaks of white framing her face. Her lips are painted in a bold red that matches the frames of her glasses.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she apologizes. “My name is Dr. Marguerite D. Cummings. But you can call me Marguerite. And you must be…” She glances down at her notes. “Kira.”

“That’s me,” I say, giving her an awkward wave. Because what else are you supposed to do when someone tells you your own name?

She flashes me a warm smile as she continues her introduction.

“I see here in my notes that you were recently arrested for…” She looks down at her notes again and reads, “Screaming obscenities while purposely driving your vehicle into a car full of paparazzi…” She looks back up, and I expect her to be wearing the same judgmental look everyone else gives me, but instead, I notice her lips are curled into a smile. “Tell me, Kira, how good did that feel?”

Suddenly hyperaware that I’m being examined, I feel my muscles begin to stiffen. Is this some kind of test?

“I regretted it immediately,” I quickly say, then gesture to myself. “In fact, I’ve been so overcome with guilt that I’ve barely been able to get out of bed.”

Marguerite just clicks her tongue, then scribbles something on her notepad.