Chapter 1 – Amanda
One
Amanda
T he day Keyshawn called me out of the blue and I heard from my cousin for the first time in over a decade, I knew I was about to experience a major shake up. I just don’t know when it’s all going to go down. And how big this shake up is going to be. Mallory and I have totally opposite schedules on Tuesdays, so we won’t ever cross paths in our office today. Our dream came true, though. My best friend and I opened this practice together after we moved from Chicago to Boston to start a new life with better dating prospects, excellent restaurants and just… more history. I missed Boston after leaving for clinical rotations. Home just wasn’t home anymore.
This unfriendly, cold, historical New England city feels more like my home now.
I’ll definitely need a big ass glass of pinot grigio when I get home from the office today. My desire to keep the lights on at our new clinic caused me to foolishly book all my most difficult clients back to back. My nerves are already frayed by lunch time. The worst of my gambling addicts stole from his wife’s wallet and I spent our entire session trying to convince him that telling her the truth and coming clean now was the right thing to do.
I couldn’t even get him to agree that saying something untrue was lying. It’s not just men. It’s clients. There’s a reason all therapists have therapists and mine quit her practice about two weeks after I got here.
This job will turn you into a cynic faster than Cinderella’s coach turns into a pumpkin at midnight. People lie to each other so damn much. I stopped believing in love halfway into my clinical rounds. Seriously. My three months in couples therapy almost turned me into an alcoholic. If it weren’t for Mallory, I would have lost my mind completely. Sure, therapists all have a therapist, but you have days where your future therapist’s appointment isn’t enough.
My last client cries throughout her entire session. Three relapses deep into her vape addiction, and her frustration yields to more explosive outbursts – pretty typical mood swings when you’re coming off of a nicotine addiction. People all respond differently – both to the drug and to treatment. It just makes me feel good to help people who actually want to be helped.
Like my cousin Keyshawn.
I barely understand what she said was going on and I honestly don’t know how much of it I should believe. I helped her get a rental car, and I have to hope that was enough help and not some elaborate scam. If you met my family, you would understand my suspicions.
I have no reason to suspect Keyshawn, though. I trust her and I only have good memories of her from my past, but it’s impossible not to let the cynicism from this job touch every other part of your life. People don’t give you much hope to hold onto.
By the time I pack my notes and iPad up into my tote bag, closing up my office for the day, I hear Mallory greeting her last client in the hallway.
No after work gossip session today. It’ll just be me, white wine, a simple noodle dinner and theories about what the hell Keyshawn is up to out there in Chicago. I shudder. You couldn’t pay me to go back. I took it as a sign when I got into grad school in far east Boston. I shut out all the voices telling me that I would never find a decent black man in Boston.
It’s not that I didn’t believe them – I just didn’t care.
My walk home is completely boring, but I live for the routine. I only live ? of a mile away from the new office, so I get to meditate on the day ahead and get much needed time to myself on the way home. Halfway through my walk, I spot the hottest guy walking towards the Harvard Bridge. We stop on opposite sides of the crosswalk and lock eyes for a moment.
It’s almost like a movie. He’s tall, about 6’5” and has thick, black hair, about shoulder length. He’s dressed in a classic, All-American outfit – blue jeans and a white t-shirt, with tattoos all over his forearms. I have a problem. Guys dressed in navy blue suits at the Prudential Center barely get my attention, but some guy covered in tattoos makes me wet instantly.
Unfortunately, life isn’t anything like a movie. He abruptly breaks eye contact, turns away from me and walks in the other direction. Damn, he was fine. I can’t believe they make men that hot in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Maybe all hope isn’t lost… Dating in Boston so far hasn’t been any better than Chicago. Is Instagram really allowed to lie to you like that?
I walk the rest of the way home thinking about the hot guy the entire way, because why not indulge in a crazy fantasy about a hot man blowing my back out? I’m lucky I can afford to live alone at all, but my studio reminds me of a minimalist coffin. Homes have a lot more space in the Midwest, but out here everyone fights — and overpays — for every inch of real estate.
My energy levels tonight are screaming “RAMEN FOR DINNER” instead of my salmon dinner, so I grab a packet of Shin Noodles from the pantry and put on my electric kettle. I nearly jump out of my skin when the kettle starts buzzing. But it’s not the kettle, just a phone call from another unknown number. Is it Keyshawn again?
“Keyshawn?”
Not Keyshawn.
I hear a slow, heavy exhalation. Water bubbles in the kettle.
“Hello?”
More slow breathing. Oh fuck. It’s this bullshit again.
“Donald?”
It could be him. I don’t think it is, but it could be. My heart starts pounding as my body produces a panic response against my will. I try to reason my way through the adrenaline, but the first surge is almost enough to knock me off balance.
“I’m not playing games. If this is Keyshawn. Or Donald. Say something.”
I wait a couple seconds to say any more in case there’s poor cell service.
”We’re coming for our money.”
The call suddenly ends. What the fuck? I pace my apartment like a maniac waiting for Mallory’s last appointment to end. Then I give her a courtesy ten minutes and call her. She picks up after the first ring.
“Are you having Shin noodles again or are you sticking to the meal plan?”
“I have bigger problems.”
“With a guy?”
“No. The blackmailer called again.”
“What did he say?”
“That he’s coming for his money. I don’t know why the fuck this keeps happening to me, Mallory. I’m freaking the fuck out.”
“New number again?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it could be your dad?” Mallory asks. We’re close, so she knows about my troubled history with my family. I had to make the painful choice to distance myself from my relatives, but they haven’t disrespected that distance in years. I don’t know if I follow Mallory’s theory here.
“I don’t see him making those calls,” I tell her. I would recognize my dad’s voice, even if he was drunk, high, or fighting for his life somewhere.
“No, but… He could owe someone money,” Mallory says. She has a point there, but there’s still something not right about that suspicion. I shovel some ramen into my mouth, hoping it helps me think. The saltiness is so good…
“He doesn’t have my phone number. I went no contact with them after the incident with my emergency fund,” I say through my chewing. Mallory hates when I chew and talk, but this is an emergency and I’m hungry.
“An ex-boyfriend?”
We’ve gone over that theory before, but Mallory watches a lot of True Crime shows and she believes it’s always the most common suspects. Ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands. I only have the former.
“I strongly doubt that the same men who couldn’t wait to get away from me would be blowing up my phone blackmailing me.”
Mallory brings up a new suggestion. “Should we hire a PI to trace the number?”
I immediately start crunching the numbers in my head. If we have to hire a PI to track some stupid number, I’ll be eating the ramen in my kitchen without the option of eating anything else.
“Girl, is it that serious?”
“The calls are getting more intense and threatening. You could have a stalker.”
“Like who?”
“A former client?”
Neither of us have considered that before, mostly because our clients are typical Bostonians these days. But we both worked in previous psychiatric wards and offices before we moved out here. You remember some of your clients, but there are some who only come in for a couple sessions and over the years… you forget the details.
Former client. Why didn’t I think of that before? I don’t have any clients that immediately come to mind, but Mallory and I both specialize in addiction therapy. We’ve had our fair share of unwell patients. But there are ways around that type of conflict of interest so you can pass off a client that scares the shit out of you on someone more suitable.
“I can’t think of anyone.”
But that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.
“It’s possible,” Mallory says. “People who come to us often have secrets.”
“I don’t remember getting stalker energy from anyone.”
“We need a private investigator.”
“I don’t have the budget for that this month.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“Do you have money for that?” I mutter.
Mallory, like many white women in New England, appears to have a mysterious source of emergency income for traveling and luxuries like private investigators.
“I have a PI on retainer because of my dating history. I’ll call him,” she says, leaving zero room for argument this time.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll send you the new unknown number.”
“Perfect. Don’t leave for work tomorrow without me,” Mallory says. “I’ll walk you there so you don’t get kidnapped.”
“Thanks, Mallory. Very comforting.”
“Enjoy your forbidden ramen.”
* * *