Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (15 page)

Brooke

“How did Jamie act after dinner last night?” Susan asks, adjusting her wire rim glasses. Her pen glides across the pad of yellow loose leaf resting in her lap. “You said he was upset, but what about his actions or words made you think he felt that way?”

I sigh. My focus moves from my therapist’s pen to the modern industrial coffee table between us. A soft gray finish contrasts hard lines. Besides the random bowl of apples sitting smack dab in the middle, the table is bare. The apples are red. Actually, they’re disturbingly red.
Is that real fruit? Or just a bowl filled with colored plastic, set out to make you believe it’s something its not?
Ironic observation, Brooke. Probably not too far off from how you actually feel about—

“Brooke? Where did you go just now?” Susan questions, forcing my gaze back to hers.

“I’m not sure.”

“Yes, you are. What were you thinking about?”

Let’s avoid the apple observation or else she’s going to think you’ve truly lost it.
“Jamie,” I say. “I was thinking about how torn up he looked on the way home from Nobu.”

Susan nods, silently encouraging me to continue.

My head falls against the back of the couch, eyes falling shut. “I think he was hurt, maybe even disappointed in his father. He’s so good at putting on an act, but I see right through it. It’s probably why we became fast friends at such a young age. I had a shitload of baggage to push aside, and he had to act like everything was fine at home, even though it wasn’t.”

“Did he say that he was upset?”

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t say anything really. He was just a much quieter version of himself.”

“How does it make you feel when he doesn’t voice his emotions?”

“I’m not sure.” Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it.

“Tell me about how you felt last night.”

“Angry. Hurt.”

“Angry?” Her tone rises, questioning my words.

“I was pissed at Alistair for being such an inconsiderate asshole at dinner. He invited a potential business partner to what was supposed to be a quiet dinner with his son.” Not to mention his constant ability to never remember a single detail of his son’s life, and his disgusting use of words.

“And what about hurt? Where do you think that feeling stemmed from?”

“I don’t know.” I cringe, eyes tightening in discomfort. Sharing my feelings and emotions with someone I’ve known all of a few weeks is not easy.

“Brooke, your feelings—whatever they were, or maybe still are—
are
valid. Feelings aren’t right or wrong, good or bad. They’re just our internal reaction to something. We can’t help how we feel, and that’s okay. It’s okay to
feel
something,” Susan encourages. Her voice is soothing in an odd way—rough around the edges yet tender in its approach. “So, tell me, what made you feel hurt last night? Was it Alistair?”

Shaking my head, I scrub my hand down my face and swallow past my discomfort. “I was hurt that Jamie shut me out. I feel like he’s usually so good when it comes to opening up to me, but last night, he didn’t. He just put up his walls. Closed me out completely.”

“And that made you feel hurt,” she validates. “What else did it make you feel?”

“Hopeless. Like I couldn’t help him. Couldn’t fix whatever was eating away at him.”

The scratch of her pen sliding across the paper fills my ears. A part of me would love to see what notes she’s jotted down about my psyche, but another part of me is scared shitless to
really know
what my therapist thinks.

“I understand Jamie is very important to you. And it’s normal to want to help those we care about, but do you really think it’s your responsibility to fix his problems?”

Isn’t it my responsibility?
I think a large part of me feels like
it is
my responsibility to help Jamie with whatever he needs. He’s always been there for me, always been my shoulder to cry on. He’s the one person who got me to open up about Ivan. And he listened to those disgusting parts of my past without judgment.
So did Dylan…

“I know you love Jamie. And from what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s obvious he loves you too. Brooke, it’s one thing to be a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, or even just someone who’s there to listen, but we’re not responsible for our loved ones’ problems. We aren’t meant to fix them. We can provide support and offer advice. We can do everything in our power to let them know we love them and will always be there for them. But we can’t be held responsible to provide a solution for their
problems.”

Her words crash into me, fast and without remorse, damn near taking my breath away. Everything she said makes sense, but I can’t stop my subconscious from reaching back into my brain and pulling a dark memory out of storage.

We were only fifteen.

It’s when I realized Jamie wasn’t as strong as he let on.

It’s when his Pandora’s box of hurt and pain finally opened.

This memory contradicts what I know Susan would like me to understand.

What if I’ve already made a promise to fix Jamie’s problems?

I clear my throat, fighting the tears bubbling up from my lungs. The urge to cry is strong, but I refuse to break down. For some reason, I can’t let myself go there while I’m sitting in her office.

“Have you been writing in your journal?”

“Everyday.”

“That’s really good, Brooke. I’m happy that you’ve found something that allows you to let your emotions out. It’s important for us to find ways to open ourselves up.”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “I wouldn’t exactly call it opening up. I mean, I’m writing in a journal that no one else sees.”

“That doesn’t matter. You’re still working through your feelings. You’re taking the time to reach inside of yourself and write things down that would otherwise be bottled up. Even if you’re writing entries about your disdain for chicken salad, you’re still writing about something that is affecting you. No matter big or small, it’s a good thing, Brooke. A great thing.”

I nod, fidgeting with the frayed edges of my jean shorts.

“So, tell me, what is your
shitload
of baggage?” Susan asks, a smile in her voice.

Shitload?
Man, I really did that say that a few minutes ago. In my therapist’s office, no less
.
I grin, peeking at her for a moment before closing my eyes again. It’s easier to pour your heart out to someone when you don’t have to look them in the eye. I know therapists are probably born with excellent poker faces, but I’d hate to see her poker face slip, revealing what she really thinks about me—my past, my life, all of my horrible decisions.

“Did Annie tell you about my past?” I ask, curious what Susan already knows.

“No. She kept your confidentiality and didn’t reveal anything from your previous sessions. And honestly, I never asked for her to do that. I prefer we start on a clean slate and get to know each other in a way that works best for both of us.”

Annie was my therapist as a child, mandated by the court after Millie adopted Ember and me. Even though I only went to her for a short period of time, she was a very positive force in my life. I’m still thankful for the progress she helped me achieve. And once I decided in Paris that I would start therapy again, I called Annie, who is now retired, and asked her for a recommendation. Susan was her immediate response.

After a few quiet minutes, I finally muster the strength to answer her question. “My shitload of baggage is my childhood. Well, at least the first ten years.”

“What in particular about your childhood?”

“My drug-addict parents. The times I had to step up and take care of Ember because my mom was too high to function and my dad was M.I.A.”

“How old were you then?”

“Young. Too young to be taking care of a kid, especially when I was kid myself.” God, I can still remember being six-years-old, tired and ready for bed. After realizing my mom was passed out on the couch, I took it upon myself to get us ready for bed—drawing a bath for Ember and me.”

“Tell me about the memory you’re caught up in right now.”

Damn, she’s good.
Either I’m very transparent or she’s a mind reader.

“I was six at the time. Em was only two. It was dark out, and we were staying in a run-down trailer outside of some city. I honestly couldn’t tell you what city we were living in at the time, but I remember the air
always
smelled horrible. Like rotten eggs. I’d choke on it the second I stepped out the door. And it always got worse as the temperature got warmer. When the weather was hot, it was a tough call to go outside and play in that noxious air or stay inside and suffocate from the second-hand smoke.”

My fingers fiddle with Millie’s necklace, rubbing across the inscription. “I was tired and Ember was getting cranky, not easily distracted by toys or a game of peek-a-boo. I washed our hair and rinsed our bodies. There was only one clean towel in the bathroom, and I made sure my little sister was dried off before drying myself. I brushed our teeth, and after turning out the light, I tucked us into my bed and told Em a bedtime story about two little girls living in a happy home, where the mom and dad were there every night to read them a book and kiss them goodnight.”

“Wow,” Susan breathes, voice soft. “I can’t imagine a six-year-old child being rational enough to take a bath and brush her teeth before bed, much less making sure she did the same for her sister. You learned to take care of yourself at a very young age, Brooke. What do you think that says about you as a person?”

“I don’t think it says anything about me as a person. I just made the best of the situation. I just did everything I needed to survive.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

I nod. My nervous and uncertain eyes meet hers—steady and unbiased.

Susan smiles, pulling her glasses off and setting them on top of her note pad. “It means you’re strong. It means you can persevere through anything that life throws your way. It means you’re the best kind of person to have by one’s side when times get tough because you’ll do anything for the ones you love. I’d say, overall, it means your
shitload of baggage
doesn’t matter because you’re a beautiful, kind, and loving person.”

Driving home from Susan’s office, I switch off the radio, too contemplative and lost in my own head to listen to music. Four visits under my belt and I’m noticing a theme. Every time I leave a session, my brain is overwhelmed with questions, realizations, and various memories that bubble up to the surface.

And today is no different.

I head for Laurel Canyon, intent on spending an hour or two at home before driving back to the studio. The road curves and twists as I pass by the Canyon Country Store, but I’m too exhausted to stop. Not the least bit tempted by their delicious, custom made deli sandwiches.

The fatigue has settled into my bones, aching without remorse. God, these sessions drain me. All I want to do is lie down in my bed and close my eyes. Close out the world. Close out these thoughts. Close out this memory.

Brooke

15 years old

“Lex, I don’t think it’s a good idea since Jamie’s sick. He’s probably not in the mood for company right now, even mine. I’m just going to hang out for a bit, make sure he’s okay, and drop off the crap ton of assignments he missed.” I slide out of the passenger seat of her car, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.

“Whatever,” she huffed, obviously irritated. Sometimes I wondered if Lexi Andrews was my friend because she secretly wanted to bone Jamie. It was odd how she’d go out of her way to meet up with him after class or take the time to drive me to his house, knowing it was a possibility she wouldn’t be invited inside.

Hell, sometimes I wondered why I put up with her bitchy attitude.

She was the complete opposite of me—peppy, flirtatious, and obsessed with being popular. Not the type of girl who would normally want to hang with Jamie and me. It was definitely weird. But Lex wasn’t always a bitch. She had her nice moments. And occasionally, she could even be considered sweet. It was rare, but it happened.

Plus, she was sixteen—a whole year older than me
and
she had a driver’s license. That’s top priority shit when you’re a teenager.

She flashed me her infamous puppy dog eyes. “But, I thought we could all hang out.”

I grimaced, feeling bad, but knowing Jamie wouldn’t be in the mood for her bubbly personality. “I’m sorry, Lex. Rain check, okay? I promise I’ll make this up to you.”

“Whatever, Brooke. I’m headin’ to Cash’s house. See ya later.”

Ugh.
Cash Warner, Lexi’s asshole boyfriend. I wasn’t a fan. He oozed bad boy, but had zero charm. His priorities revolved around extracurricular activities that I wondered if my mother wouldn’t even approve of. And that said a hell of a lot considering my mother—the vagabond hippie—had very few limits. She attended Woodstock and could probably roll a joint better than any of my stoner classmates.

The first time I met Lexi’s boyfriend, Millie’s theory about our souls having two windows screamed loudly in my mind. “Eyes and a smile. That is all you need to really
see
someone.”