Therapy Ever After (Therapy #1.5) (3 page)

She cocks her head to one side and arches a brow inquisitively. “Oh, that’s right. You’re going to be a teacher, right? I forgot.” She says this in such a condescending tone that I’m doing everything in my power to stay seated rather than pop up and strangle her. That’s when it occurs to me that she has no reason to know what I’m in school for. How does she know this?

“How would you know what I’m in school for? Are you stalking me?” I quip.

She tilts her head back some and laughs. “Stalking you? I don’t think so. I have much better things to do with my time than keep up with your tired and boring life. Jace told me.”

Jace told me.

Jace. Told. Me.

Jace.

Victoria.

They talk.

My mind keeps tripping over the emotionally driven thoughts racing through it. My heart speeds up and my neck and palms feel hot all of a sudden. An unpleasant feeling swims in my gut, and as much as I try to hide my shock, I can’t.

“Oh, you didn’t know we talk? Shame,” she replies and turns on a foot to walk away, but before she does, she says, “Nice chatting, Jessica.”

Mercedes’ mouth is gaping, and I feel as if I’m about to implode.

“That motherfucker!” she hisses.

I stand up and grab my purse. “Yeah, that motherfucker is right.”

Mercedes gets up and we head out of the coffee shop together.

“So what are you going to do? Are you going to call him out on this?” she asks me.

“Of course I am. I’ll call him out on it right before I tell him to never call me again.”

We get to my car and she hugs me bye. “I’m so sorry. This is such shit. Please call me as soon as you talk to that asshole and tell me what he says. I love you.”

I unlock my car.

“Love you, too,” I tell her and open my door.

As soon as I get in and start the engine, I pull my cell out and call him. I can’t wait. It has to be now. I know talking to someone in a moment of anger or heavy emotion is bad. Lots of therapy has taught me not to make this call right now, but I have to. I’ll be rational, but I have to ask him why he’s in contact with that viper before things go any further with us.

“HEY, WHAT A
nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until later today after class.”

He’s chipper. I’m pissed. I bounce back and forth in my mind between just hanging up on him and yelling at him. Ultimately, I choose neither.

“We need to talk,” I bite out.

A brief pause happens as I am sure he’s processing the unpleasant tone of my voice.

“Okay, what about? You alright?”

“Victoria.” I say her name. No need to tip-toe around this. “Are you still in contact with her?”

I hear him sigh. This isn’t a good sign. My heart rate kicks up a notch or two.

“Why are you asking about her?”

When he asks me this, it really pisses me off. “I asked you a question, Jace. I need you to answer my question with an answer, not another question.”

“I’ve talked to her since the divorce, yes.”

He must be crazy if he thinks that answer is going to suffice. “When is the last time you spoke to her?”

“Jess, what’s going on here? Has Victoria done something?”

My attempt to remain calm flies out the window and I raise my voice a level. “Why are you avoiding answering my questions? Maybe I should ask you what’s going on here. All I know is that bitch knows things about me that she shouldn’t know, and she says you, Jace Collins, are the one who filled her in on my life. She also knows we’re dating, as short-lived as that may be. So, again, when is the last time you spoke to her and why are you talking to that evil woman about me?”

Another sigh penetrates the phone into my ear, and I lean my head back against the headrest of the seat in my car. My head hurts. My heart aches.

“I talked to her yesterday,” he deadpans.

Yesterday.

I let myself absorb this disturbing fact for a moment and then say, “Why? Why in the world are you talking to her? And most importantly, why would you not tell me about this?”

“I should’ve told you. I guess I was afraid to put a damper on things because we were doing so well.”

“This is bad, Jace. Really bad. We’ve barely started seeing each other again and you’re already being sneaky about something you clearly should’ve been upfront with me about. Again, you’re treating me like a piece of glass.”

I look down into my lap and reach up with my free hand and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration.

“Can we talk about this in person?” he asks desperately.

I let out a breath and reply, “I don’t know. I really don’t know. This is precisely why I wasn’t sure about the two of us dating again. I don’t need or want this kind of stress.”

“I only need the chance to explain. Once I explain, if you don’t want to see me anymore, I’ll understand. Just give me a chance here.”

Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on my steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut. He’s so fucking frustrating. Why is it so hard for me to tell him no? Why is it so hard to tell him to go to hell?

“How many chances am I supposed to give you in this life, Jace? Huh? Tell me that.”

“Enough,” he whispers.

“Enough? What the hell does that mean?” My words are clipped and angry.

“It means never giving up. It means I screwed up, again, and it probably won’t be the last time. It means enough to make this work because I know there’s not an amount of times in this world I wouldn’t give you another chance if I were in your shoes. I’m not perfect and will never be. We aren’t perfect together. We’re just wrong apart.”

“You’re so incredibly full of shit, Jace, and I have to go now,” I tell him in a fit of anger and hang up.

I CALLED MERCEDES
on my way home from class to complain about Jace and his ridiculous and half-assed answers. She played devil’s advocate and thinks there has to be more to it and maybe it’s not as bad as I’m playing it out in my head. He tried to call me twice on my way home. I didn’t answer. He hasn’t texted.

When I get home, I try distracting myself with a big bowl of banana-split flavored Blue Bell ice cream. For extra distraction, I drown it in chocolate syrup. I flip through TV channels and land on Gilmore Girls. I have no idea why this show sucks me in every single time I come across it. I can’t relate to a single thing in it other than the small town clichés. Rory is this perfect teenager who all these hot guys want, and her mother acts more like a stupid, indecisive teenager than her daughter ever has. It’s annoying. I watch it anyway because I’ve bought into the angst of it all. I want for Lorelai to finally get with Luke and for Rory to realize Jess is the only guy in this entire show she needs to hang on to. Once those two things happen, I’ll quit watching.

In between rolling my eyes at this show and shoveling ice cream in my face, someone rings my doorbell. I frown at the door as if it’s a nuisance. No one comes to my place without calling. It’s a huge pet peeve of mine, and everyone who knows me knows this. I set my bowl down and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. When I get to the door, I look through the thing that’s a godsend, the peephole. Best invention ever. Standing there is a lady holding a bouquet of flowers.

Jace.

They have to be from Jace. Damn him. I open the door and the lady smiles at me and says, “Delivery for Jessica Alexander.”

I reach out for the flowers. A huge grouping of hyacinths, all purple. “Yes, I’m her.”

“Great, we have more on their way up if you could just sign here,” she says, holding out a slip of paper.

My brows shoot up. “There’s more?”

She laughs at me. “Yes, ma’am, lots more.”

I lean out my doorway when I see two more delivery people making their way down the breezeway. They’re both holding floral arrangements.

Purple Hyacinth.

Red Tulips.

White Violets.

Purple Lilacs.

Red Roses.

My apartment is now filled with so many flowers I’m sneezing. With every arrangement or bouquet, there was a card with the exact same message.

Jess,

I love you and I’m sorry.

-Jace

Knowing Jace, the types of flowers he chose weren’t just because he liked that type of flower. They had to have specific meanings. I pull out my laptop and Google each flower and soon learn I was right.

Forgiveness.

Believe in me.

Faithfulness.

First true love.

Love.

I sigh and stare at all of the flowers. Maybe I should give him a real chance to explain himself. What kind of sucker does that make me, though? Just send Jess flowers and she’ll melt in your hands like an M&M? My doorbell rings again and I mumble under my breath, “If this is more flowers I’m going to kill him.”

When I open the door, it’s not more flowers. It’s a woman. A woman from my past.

Kingsley’s sister.

BACK WHEN I
was in inpatient therapy, I received a letter from Kingsley’s sister. She expressed her sadness over the loss of her brother. She told me she was sorry for my loss as well. It was a sweet letter, and she told me Kingsley had mentioned me to her not long before the fatal car crash. She told me how glad she was that he was able to find love again. I was amazed at her kindness, considering my mother was the person responsible for his death. In the letter, she included her address, phone number, and email in case I ever wanted to get in contact with her. I never have. I only looked her up online shortly after I got out of the treatment facility. That’s how I know this is her standing in my doorway. She’s strikingly beautiful with facial features that are hard to forget or look away from. Stark black hair, high-set cheekbones, and emerald-green almond-shaped eyes. I recognize her instantly.

“Jessica?” she asks in a whisper-like voice.

“Yes,” I answer her.

“I’m Kingsley’s sister, and I’m really sorry for showing up on your doorstep like this unannounced, but I haven’t been able to locate any kind of contact information for you outside of your home address. I tried Facebook, but it seems you have your account setup so that no one can friend request you or send you messages, and I needed to get this to you. It was Kingsley’s,” she says, holding out a small leather-bound notebook.

She’s right. I recently locked my social media accounts down to as private as I could possibly get them because my past is colorful. I removed a lot of people from my life who were not positive influences, and I didn’t want them to be able to infiltrate it through social media sites. The first time an old hook-up fling popped in my Facebook messenger, I went into my settings and fixed that real quick.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Please, come in.”

I step back and welcome her in.

“Thank you, I won’t take up much of your time.”

“Would you like something to drink? I have soda, tea, and water.”

She shakes her head. “No thank you, that won’t be necessary. I really can’t stay long.”

“Okay,” I say. There’s an awkward pause between us, and I’m not sure what to say, so I just ask her what I can do for her.

“I was cleaning out some boxes in storage today, and one of the boxes was his. I found this and began reading through it. That’s when I quickly realized you should be the one to have it. He started writing in this notebook when he started seeing you. I would love to have something like this if I were a woman who loved him, so I wanted to offer it to you. I’m sure you’ve moved on in your life, but I really couldn’t pack it back in a box without at the very least asking you.”