Chapter Fifty-Two
I pull the bill of my baseball cap low on my forehead as I slide my phone back into my pocket, satisfied at the email I just read from the private investigator I’d hired during the cruise.
Subject: Mission Accomplished (Almost)
Rex,
The item you asked me to track down has been located. Finally.
I’m confirming the details and ensuring the seller’s not trying to pull a fast one, but so far, everything checks out.
Do I have your green light to move forward with the transaction?
Let me know. Preferably before they change their minds or vanish into the ether.
Regards,
Emerson
I, of course, told him he has carte blanche. Anything he needs to get the item to me.
Emerson Clarke is one of the best in the business, known to be snarky, discreet, but professional when needed. He helped Grace and Taylor unravel some sensitive issues a few years ago that could’ve derailed their lives.
A cool spring breeze drifts across my skin as I stop in front of the building housing Eataly in the Flatiron District. A faint whiff of basil and garlic wafts from the vents. Moisture clings to the air after the light showers this morning.
End of April in the city is beautiful.
At the recommendation of my new psychiatrist, Dr. Evan Sturgeon, who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorders, therapy isn’t only about talking and medication. It’s also about getting in touch with yourself and doing things that bring joy. Even if the joy is tinged with pain.
Considering how much I’ve improved in the last three weeks, the doctor knows his shit.
This is why I’m about to walk into a cooking class taught by none other than Giacomo Valenti.
Olivia was right. I’ve been officially diagnosed with PTSD since, as Olivia said, C-PTSD isn’t officially recognized in the States yet because it isn’t in the diagnostic manual.
But Dr. Sturgeon said practitioners up to date with the newest science and the international standards will agree that’s what I have—C-PTSD with dissociative features.
Disassociation because of trauma, sleep deprivation, and the fucking Velowake.
Apparently, I had unresolved PTSD from Mom’s death, which triggered hallucinations in the form of Casey.
Things took a turn for the worse after Raya’s death.
My mind then played tricks on me with the blackouts.
The doctor said my consistent lack of sleep and heavy reliance on the Velowake I got from the black market deteriorated my condition, since both could cause these symptoms.
Who’d have thought it was that simple?
It’s a travesty no one made the connections until now, but then I wasn’t completely honest with my doctors before. I didn’t want to shed my mask or talk about my past. I was ashamed of my Velowake usage too—a grown-ass adult who needed pills to function.
It’ll be a long journey to undo the damage I’ve done to my mental and physical health, but we have a plan. I’m currently knee-deep in the first and second phases of a three-phase treatment plan.
Phase one is to wean me off Velowake—a gradual tapering off to avoid relapses. Dr. Sturgeon prescribed bupropion to help with the withdrawal process and to stabilize my mood, then melatonin for nighttime to help with my sleep.
Phase two happens concurrently with phase one and is trauma therapy focused—EMDR, cognitive and dialectical behavioral therapies, including reframing and positive self-talk strategies to deal with my recurring nightmares of Mom and Raya’s deaths.
This includes journaling, rewriting my nightmares into something less distressing, like talking back to the little kid inside me who never forgot, telling him he’s okay because I’m okay.
Then there are the affirmations.
I’ll never forget, but I’ll learn to live with the memories instead of inside them.
They’ll remind me how precious life is and how I should make the best of it.
Eventually, we’ll move to phase three, which is forward looking—going to support groups if I’m ready, finding a passion outside of marketing I can devote my time to, something meaningful, things of that nature.
A few minutes later, a small group of us hovers over our stations in the kitchen.
Valenti, the smug bastard, strolls in, all smiles and charm. He falters when he sees me and looks at his clipboard, clearly confused because my name isn’t there.
He frowns. “Mr. Anders—”
“Casey. Casey Wentworth.”
He blinks a few times. I return with a wink of my own. “Just call me Casey.”
Valenti cocks his brow, then shrugs. “Welcome to the class, Casey.”
Whispers sweep through the room. I know people recognize me. A baseball cap and a plain T-shirt won’t hide my identity, but it’s obvious enough I’m pretending not to be Rex Anderson today.
It’s my way of honoring the version of me I’ve always hid—raw, vulnerable, and truthful.
My conscience.
Casey has appeared a few times in the past month, usually to give me his usual snarky opinions about how I fucked it up with Olivia.
But just as my brilliant Olive predicted, and Dr. Sturgeon later confirmed, Casey’s appearances, along with the blackouts, have decreased ever since I started sleeping more and cutting back on my Velowake use.
Lana told me Olivia is still in LA, staying away from NYC until the scandal dies down.
We haven’t spoken.
She’s right—talk is cheap, actions are much more valuable, and I want to reach out to her when I’ve put in the work and made good strides. To show her I’m serious about my health, about her, and our future.
But I miss her every day.
Every night before I go to sleep, I fight a battle to stop myself from calling her just to hear her voice. Or, if she doesn’t speak, the reassuring sounds of her breathing and the idea we’re connected somehow.
I’ve started dreaming about her—how she argued with me on the sun deck, the way she screeched when I drove too fast on the F1 racetrack. I’d wake up with my heart clenching, but also more determined to get better.
Technically, Dr. Sturgeon recommended I avoid new relationships during the first year of my treatment.
But he conceded upon evaluating my history and symptoms that my case appeared to be more aligned with a misuse of and dependence on Velowake, not a full-blown clinical addiction, which is more of a compulsion and a craving.
He said that if I reach out to Olivia, I should take things slowly and be cognizant of my mental health.
I promised him I would take his advice seriously.
And deep down, I don’t consider Olivia and me to be a “new” relationship. We took a pause in our existing one.
“Buongiorno, class. Welcome to the only Italian pasta class you’ll ever need to take.” Valenti claps and the small group cheers.
I smirk. The damn cheeky bastard.
“Today, we’ll make a four-course meal. The starter will be bruschetta al pomodoro, where you’ll learn how to perfectly grill the bread for the tomatoes, garlic, and basil toppings.
Then, we’ll have the pasta course of tagliatelle served with ragù alla bolognese.
Next will be the main course of pollo alla cacciatora, and finally, dessert, which is my special boysenberry panna cotta with light cream. ”
Assistants hand us the ingredients, and we follow his instructions to make the starter. I have to admit, because I was thoroughly distracted in Tuscany and pissed off at his flirting with my woman, I wasn’t paying much attention then.
But the asshole is actually a good teacher. He interlaces humor into his demonstration, goes through the steps slowly, giving tips borne from his experience that I file away for later, because they’re damn useful.
Peace I haven’t felt in a while settles over me as I slice and dice the ingredients, my hand moving in tune with the knife. I’m thrown back to the happy moments I treasure—cooking with Mom, then later on cooking by myself when I miss her. The act gives me joy.
I chuckle at his horrid jokes when we finish the starter and prep for the pasta course.
He saunters over, a rolling pin in hand, and stops next to me.
“Casey, eh?”
Smirking, I don’t answer him. But I do have a question—a favor. Something I hope will help win Olivia back.
“I’d like to change the pasta course for me, if possible.”
Valenti arches his brow again. “Oh? What’s your proposal?”
“Teach me the pappardelle al cinghiale and I’ll get you in the door to teach classes at The Orchid.”
His eyes widen, his mouth gaping. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s thinking.
The Orchid is invitation-only. No money or connections can buy entrance.
Only the elite of the elite walk through those doors.
It’s a place where deals are made and power is exchanged.
And I just gave him a way in.
Valenti shakes himself and clears his throat. “Is this for your beautiful friend? The lady doctor?”
Scanning his face, I notice only curiosity, not malice. Not like some folks who want a sound bite from me to sell to the gossip rags.
I nod. “Yes. It’s her favorite dish.”
“Hm.” He rocks on his heels and taps his chin. “I think we have all the ingredients we need for that dish here. Do you want to do it the easy way or make from scratch?”
“The latter.” I think back to what Mom said about infusing love into her dishes, hoping the people who eat it later would feel it. There’s no shortcut to this.
“It’ll be done in two parts. Today, we marinate the boar, and then we wait overnight. And just for you, I’ll clear my schedule tomorrow so we can finish.”
“Lucky me.” I’m sure getting into The Orchid has nothing to do with it.
The bastard winks. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I call bullshit. The way to everyone’s heart is through their stomachs. With delicious Italian food—my Italian food. With my help, you’ll win your woman over. No problem.”