Chapter Thirty-One
One Week Later
Jace
This is the last place I want to be, but after growling at everyone all week, Everleigh sent me home and told me not to return until I’ve seen my therapist. And if I didn’t love my job and feel an obligation to my employees, I’d have turned in my two weeks’ notice and skipped town.
Where the hell would I go? I sure in the fuck can’t go to KC and shack up with my brother and Carly. By now, they must know about the drugs, alcohol, and my alleged girlfriend. My hands ball into fists.
And the smackdown I did on Fletcher. Which I feel fucking ecstatic about. And how I used Zoe. The image of wrapping my hands around Fletcher’s neck and squeezing until his eyes shoot out across the room flares into my mind for the millionth time.
“So….” Dr. Travers rests her forearms on the desk between us and arches an eyebrow. “You seem on edge.”
“No, shit. You’re very astute.”
“Well….” She nods slowly. “I appreciate your willingness to show emotion, but we know that transference of anger onto another person is unhealthy, don’t we?”
I glare at her for a good minute before standing and pacing the floor. Dr. Travers is the best. She’s the only person who’s not let me off the hook. She’s strict but understanding. I rotate my shoulders but continue to pace. “I drank for the first time in almost three years.”
“Once or fall off the wagon and stay there?” Her eyes pierce into me as she sits in a black executive chair with a pad of paper in front of her and a pen clasped in her fingers. Not that I’ve ever seen her write in it. I think it’s mostly for looks. Or maybe when a patient leaves, she fills it with our pathetic ramblings.
I chuckle despite myself. “Once.”
“Why? That doesn’t seem like you at this point in time in your recovery.”
“I’m not in recovery.” I drag my hand through my hair again. I let that son of a bitch to get to me. No. It wasn’t him. It was knowing Zoe would believe every word he said and choose him over me. That’s what did me in. There was no winning in that situation. Even if that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t do anything that ruined her life.
“Yes, you are. Now explain to me what happened.” A strand of her black hair flips behind her shoulder.
Everything comes out in a choppy blast of sentences, rage, and heartbreak. For one second, I was on top of the world. I had her. And now, she hates me. I made sure of it.
“Shit.” I spin to face her as I swallow hard.
Her eyes are wide in her ashen face. “That’s–”
“Oh, I get it. You’re used to bullshit stories to explain why someone uses. I don’t expect you to–”
“Sit down.” She points her index finger toward me. “Now.”
Without question, I follow her command. She’s no-nonsense, but this is out of the ordinary for her.
“Okay. You know I don’t normally give advice because this is your therapy to explore your own feelings and responses to those feelings. I don’t try to dictate someone’s acceptance of responsibility.”
“Yes. I’m well aware of that.” The muscles in my neck are tense and strained as I prepare for someone else to lose faith in me.
“This is wrong.” She waves her hand in front of her. “This entire situation is criminal. What that man did to you. How he used you to get what he wants. It’s disgusting. And to think he’s doing this to his own daughter as well. The man is a narcissist and a gaslighter. You’ve got to tell her the truth. She deserves to know that he’s manipulating her and lying about you.” She shakes her head, causing that lock of hair to slide back over her shoulder. “And the police. You need to tell the police everything.”
One minute passes. Then two. My brain can’t comprehend that she believed every word I said. I scrub my sweaty palms on my jeans as one layer of anger fades away. “I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t believe me. And the police? They would laugh in my face.”
“How do you know?”
“I…. I just know. I’m not trustworthy and reliable. Her father is those things. No one would believe me over him.”
“Then make her believe.”
“How?” I throw my hands into the air as a fresh wave of frustration and dejection crashes over me. “She smelled the whiskey on my breath. I relapsed. I can’t take that back.”
She leans forward, and while I can’t see them, she adjusts her legs, setting the right one down and crossing the left one over it. “What was the alternative?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was the alternative to drinking? What would you have done?’
“If I hadn’t taken the drink, I’d be in a Saint Lucian prison for the rest of my life for killing him. I’m not a violent person, but the only thing at that moment that would’ve made me feel better was his blood soaking my hands. Or a drink.”
“Then you did the best thing you could do in that situation. You can’t protect Zoe from a jail cell. Especially from a Saint Lucian jail cell. You did what was necessary to get out of the country.” She pauses for a second. “Although, from what I’ve heard about Zoe, your brother, and your sister-in-law, I question if they wouldn’t have sided with you and not believed her father.”
“I–”
She raises her hand, palm facing me. “Let me finish. I understand, in that situation, you don’t risk it. They might have believed you, but the police, who don’t know you, would’ve been under no obligation to believe anything you said. Leaving was a sound decision rather than getting charged with assault and drug possession. Now, you need to come clean and tell the truth.”
“It’s not that simple.” My gut churns with anxiety. “I wish I could go up to them all and tell them what happened, but Zoe hates me, and I’m sure she’s not said a word to them about everything that happened.” Heat covers my face as visions of drowning in Zoe fill every crevice in my brain.
Every night, I wake with a ball of pain in my chest, knowing she’ll never be by my side again. I’ll never touch her. Kiss her. Hold her hand. Sing to her. Jesus. I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing has ever hurt this bad.
“She’s not going to want another person knowing we were intimate.” I slowly open my eyes. “Especially now. I’m her step-uncle in case you’ve forgotten that part of the story. My brother and sister-in-law would lose their shit out if they knew.”
“I don’t believe that.” She rocks back into her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, causing the lapels of her blazer to gap open in front of her white button-down dress shirt.
“Why?”
“Please?” She rolls her eyes. Obviously, the insanity of my story has driven her past the edge of staunch professionalism as the advice keeps flowing. “A resort. Where you share a common suite. And are paired together as a couple for trust and relationship-building activities? And you don’t find that suspicious?”
“They wanted us to bury the hatchet.”
She snorts and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. This is a ridiculous conversation.” Finally, she removes her hand. “I think everyone in your family is a bunch of manipulators. Except Zoe.”
“What?” I frown. “Why?” I press my lips together. Okay, that might be a stupid question. Did they make all of it up to get us together? The same way Fletcher made up everything to break us apart. That’s insane. Isn’t it?
“So….” She sobers. “How did it feel to write and sing again?”
“Good.”
“Have you picked it up since you got home?”
“No. I can’t.”
She presses her lips together. “Can’t or won’t?”
Clearly, we’ve reached the portion of the session where she’s going to prod me with the equivalent of a stun gun.