One Funeral (No Weddings Book 2) (5 page)

“No, we are non-dating. Together. It’s apparently a thing.”

She snorted. “Bullshit. There is no such thing.”

“Well there is now.” I shooed her into the back, amazed to be defending the excuse Cade had devised to spend more time with me. When I thought about it from his perspective, it was brilliant, actually.

Chloe shook her head as she went to the far side of the kitchen. She loaded another section of cupcakes onto the board. “You two give fucked-up a whole new meaning.”

“Tell me about it.” I grinned, somehow proud of our unique fucked-up-ness.

T
he therapist’s waiting room seemed harmless enough. There was a collection of toys scattered in a corner. A handful of women’s magazines were fanned out on a table. Potted plants filled two corners, and along the wall, upholstered chairs that had seen better days were lined up in a row with adjoining wooden arms.

As I stared at the unbroken line of empty chairs, a children’s game chimed into my brain:
Red Rover, Red Rover, can Hannah come over?

Snorting, I shook my head. I stood in an empty room, playing games with inanimate objects. The shrink would have a field day with my randomness, which was my way of coping. I took a deep breath. Nothing in the room threatened me. The jumbled mess inside of me was a different story.

A door clicked behind me, and I turned around.

“Hannah? I’m Abigail Trent. Are you ready?”

I was surprised by the young, cheerful woman greeting me in the doorway. With her blond, upswept hair and welcoming smile, she reminded me of a fifties version of a wholesome TV mom, complete with a figure-flattering dress cinched at the waist by a tie in the back and sensible pumps.

I strode forward and shook her hand with a firm grip, a business tidbit from Cade’s sage advice that I’d retained. She grasped mine back with equal strength, then turned and led me down a short hallway, through an open door on the left, and into her office.

The room had a faint vanilla fragrance, and as I scanned her neat bookshelves, I spotted a green, blown-glass oil diffuser with several reeds poking out in different directions. The book subjects ranged from cognitive therapy to art therapy, including one on yoga and mindfulness. A tattered paperback lay flat on the shelf:
Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers
.

“Take a seat where you feel comfortable.” She hung an artsy, wooden
Shhh…I’m with a Patient
sign on her door and closed it.

I walked over to a tan leather chair that was positioned at a ninety-degree angle to a matching couch with four bright green pillows tossed haphazardly on its cushions. “So how does this work?” I grabbed one of the pillows and brought it to the chair, holding it in my lap as I sat. My gaze flicked to a tissue box on the table beside me. How many people had been reduced to tears in this chair?

“You tell me your darkest secrets. Then I get to judge you.”

My gaze flew up to her. No wonder the tissues were stocked.

“Kidding.” She didn’t smile, but amusement sparkled in her eyes. She sat in a black ergonomic chair, the see-through kind with adjustment knobs and levers. She crossed her legs and leaned back, and the chair rocked slightly with her shifted weight. “Therapist humor. You’ll get used to it.”

Finally, she gave me a warm smile and casually clasped her hands together in her lap. “You’ve hired me to help you deal with whatever issues you want to work on. So you share as I guide, and we figure things out together.”

I nodded. Sounded simple enough.

“So tell me why you’re here, Hannah.”

A barrage of thoughts whirled into my brain all at once. Unable to sift through them in any logical order, I kept the explanation simple, locking on to the one thing that had led me here. “When I went on my first date in years, I had a problem relaxing enough to enjoy it like a normal person.”

Again the warm smile. “We’re all some variant of normal, Hannah. Everyone has issues. Some are stickier than others, and we need a little direction on how to move past them is all. Why do you think you couldn’t relax?”

“I…Cade…he’s someone important to me.”

“Cade is the man you went on the date with?”

I nodded. “He’s my best friend.” My gaze fell to the carpet while I thought about how to fill her in on what had been spinning around in my head. “Actually, he’s my only friend.”

She regarded me for a moment, waiting. When I didn’t continue, she tilted her head. “Why is Cade your only friend?”

Struggling with how to respond in the hour we’d been given, I stared at Abigail. “There isn’t an easy answer to that.”

Giving me a nod, she grabbed a notepad off the corner of her desk and scribbled a quick note. “That’s all right. We can explore it further later. What about Cade? You said he was your best friend, yet the reason you gave me for not being able to relax was that he was someone important. Why do you think that is?”

“I had someone important in my life once. He became my fiancé, and I loved and trusted him. But when I stood at the church in my wedding dress, with friends and family waiting, he left
me
waiting. A very long time.”

Her brows furrowed. “How long?”

“He didn’t show.”

“I’m sorry such a devastating event happened to you.” She paused, waiting a few beats. “You didn’t see or speak to him afterward?”

I shook my head. “Not unless you count the time he was an asshole to me at a bar two years later.”

“What was this fiancé’s name?”

“Brandon.”

She made another quick scribble on her notepad. “You said there were friends and family at your wedding. His friends, not yours?”

“It wasn’t a big wedding, but yes, mostly his friends and family. The few people I’d invited, I wasn’t close with. A couple of girls I’d teamed up with in a class during my first semester at culinary school came. A friend he and I had in common, Penelope—who was actually more his friend than mine—was my maid of honor, my only bridesmaid.”

“You said Brandon didn’t give you any explanation. Did Penelope?”

“No. When Brandon didn’t show, Penelope left to try and find him. I never saw her again.”

“And how did his unexplained rejection make you feel?”

I swallowed hard and tapped into the deep scar. A cramp developed in my throat while I thought back, reliving the memory. “Abandoned. Betrayed. Destroyed. Foolish.”

She leveled a sympathetic look at me, then nodded. “You also mentioned family. Tell me about your family.”

“My mom died when I was a freshman in high school. But my Gran and Granpop have been like my parents since before I can remember.”

“Losing a parent when you’re young can be rough. Were your grandparents there at the wedding? Are they still alive?”

“Yes, and no. Granpop had a heart condition and was on oxygen by then. He died less than a month later. Gran died just last year.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. “I’m sorry for all your losses, Hannah. You’ve had to deal with quite a bit in the last couple of years.”

Hearing her say it aloud made my chest burn, seeming to fester the pent-up emotions. As tears started to well in my eyes, I nodded and grabbed a couple of tissues as backup in case they spilled over.

“Let’s go back to your mom. No dad in the picture?”

“Never was.”

“You said you grandparents were like your parents. What about your mom?”

I shrugged. “It’s kind of hard to explain. I don’t remember her hugging me. We never went out and did anything together. She worked a full-time day job and had part-time jobs too. Most days she came home after I’d fallen asleep and left before I woke up.”

“She never showed you any sort of affection?”

I glanced down at my lap, trying to remember back but unable to think of any instance. “Not that I can remember.”

“And you have no idea why? Not from her or from your grandparents?”

Momentarily distracted by her detailed questions, the impending tears dissipated. I blinked as I separated the two tissues in my lap and began to fold them. “No. But it seemed normal to me, I guess. Without close friends, and with my grandparents showing me an abundance of love, I didn’t question it.”

She gave me a serious look. “I wonder if you did question it but just didn’t realize it. And maybe on that same subconscious level, you didn’t want to know the answer. Do you think maybe your fiancé wasn’t the first person who subjected you to unexplained rejection?”

My jaw dropped open, understanding dawning. “My mom was?”

“It sounds like it to me. And her rejection may have affected your ability to make friends, trust others, and make you feel worthy of affection.

“All children seek the love of their parents. But my suspicion is that you learned at an early age not to put yourself out there, not to seek affection.”

At her stark and insightful words, the waterworks came back with a vengeance, spilling hot onto my cheeks. I blinked and grabbed fresh tissues, ignoring the neatly folded backups on my lap.

“Sorry.” I blotted my eyes and face, feeling out of control.

Abigail tilted her head, compassion in her expression. “Don’t be sorry. When emotions get too intense, they need a physical outlet, and crying is a healthy way of releasing the pressure and cleansing.”

I nodded and blew my nose. Then I took a few deep breaths.

She leaned back in her chair. “Enough deep stuff for a while. Tell me what you do. You said something about culinary school.”

“Yes. I’m a baker and have a cupcake and cake shop called Sweet Dreams. I went to the Culinary Institute of America, plus I took a couple of art classes outside of the curriculum. That’s actually how I met Cade. His sister Kiki was in my first art class. When Cade had the grand opening of his bar, Kiki invited me to do the cake for the event. Then when they formed an event-planning business, they asked me to be a part of their team.”

“But Kiki isn’t a friend of yours?”

I shook my head. “We’ve never talked on the phone or done anything outside of work.”

We talked a bit further about my childhood and my reclusive nature. About how I relied too heavily on the love and support from my grandparents in the absence of love from my mother, and how doing so affected my ability to make friends.

And after the initial cascade of emotions, the rest of the session seemed easier. Trying to recall facts instead of feelings helped me detach somewhat from the heartache.

When Abigail grabbed her notepad again, I exhaled a lungful of air. “So now what?”

“We’ve got plenty to work on. More than one session can address. We have just a few more minutes. What would you most like to work on?”

“Cade. I want to work on being normal with Cade. On being able to trust him without fears from my past creeping in. To go on dates with him and be present there, not anywhere else in my head.”

“And how is Cade with all of this?”

I sniffed. “He’s amazing. He’s already done things to help me deal with issues from my past.”

“Such as?”

I smirked at my fondest memory. “Such as tossing my wedding dress, along with his pants and the list into a bonfire.”

She laughed, but then her brow furrowed. “His pants and ‘the list?’”

“Ah, yes. I’m not the only one with rejection issues. His fiancée dumped him while he wore those pants, and in the aftermath, his way of dealing before he met me was a list of rotating sexual gymnasts.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked.

“Yeah. I’m not kidding. Well, not actual gymnasts, but you get the drift.”

She fought a smile as she gave me a nod. “I do.” When a soft chime rang out, she pressed a button on her cell phone that sat on her desk. “Well, our time is about up. Would you like to return the same day and time next week?”

“Sure.” I stood, dumping tissues in a scattered pattern onto the floor.

When I squatted to scoop them up, she hurried over, her sensible shoes stepping into my line of sight on the natural fiber rug. She knelt next to me. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ve got it.”

Yet together, we picked up my mess and dealt with it.

“So what should I be doing between now and next week?”

She smiled, then returned to her desk where she jotted another note onto her pad. “I was just about to get to your assignment. I suggest forcing yourself into a situation you’re slightly uncomfortable with to see what happens. Since you’re naturally shy and feel awkward making friends, find a way to make new friends. Through your work or other social activities, see if you can turn an acquaintance into a friend.”

“And what about Cade? Do you think he might benefit from coming to therapy?”

On her way to reaching for her doorknob, she paused. “I think it’s a great idea for him to come to therapy if he has issues similar to yours. But I’d recommend separate appointments for now. We can delve further into your issues in comfortable privacy until it makes sense to do something different.”

I swallowed hard, needing to ask the main question on my mind. “Should he and I wait before taking our relationship any further?”

“I can’t tell you what you and Cade should do, Hannah. Going slow is certainly sound advice, but let your own progress and comfort level be your guide. If you try something but have a setback along the way, then take a moment, assess what happened, and regroup.”