Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MCKINSEY
T he pain in my head is making it difficult to continue applying my makeup.
My latest migraine started in the middle of mine and Draven’s second tussle in bed. But it for sure didn’t detract from the mind-blowing way he moved himself inside of me.
A phantom tingle flicks along my clit—still swollen from Draven’s masterful fingers—and I nearly drop my eyeshadow onto the surface of my vanity.
Fuck. Get it together, McK.
Closing the palette I’m using, I check my watch to find I still have about an hour until Mr. Tillman is due here for his five o’clock appointment. I was going to try to squeeze in a trip to the bank and post office, but that’s the last thing I feel like doing at the moment. They’re both going to be hella crowded with people an hour before they close for the day.
Pulling my mascara out, I finish the final step in my makeup application when the pain increases, and a strong throbbing begins on the left side of my head. I finally give in and tell myself to take something. I don’t like taking medicine if at all possible, but sometimes I don’t have a choice.
I turn off my light on the way out of my bedroom and head down into the kitchen for some ibuprofen. Just as I’m opening the cabinet, my doorbell rings.
I groan. It’s probably another pushy door-to-door salesman. They always come around here, giving me a hard time when I tell them I don’t want what they're offering.
Ignoring whoever’s at my door, I grab two tablets, downing them with some water. I refill my glass then chug it down, too. There’s a very good chance I’m dehydrated from my afternoon of calisthenics with Draven, which could be why my head is hurting as bad as it is right now.
Another ring at my doorbell rips an eye roll from me, and I’m tempted to scream at whoever it is from here.
Reluctantly, I walk to the door and open it calmly. I run a successful practice, and I don’t want any rumors of my grumpiness to ruin that. When I see Mr. Tillman standing on my front step, I’m glad I chose to contain my irritation. However, I’m confused why he’s an hour early.
“Mr. Tillman, hi. Is everything okay?” Maybe he’s in crisis, needs help and can’t wait until five.
“Yes, it’s fine. I’m just here for my appointment.” His eyes narrow in question.
I look at my watch again to make sure the battery didn’t die. Confusion exacerbates my headache as I see the second hand quickly tick its way around the watch’s face.
“It’s only four o’clock. Your appointment isn’t until five.”
“I requested to move it up to four starting this week, remember?” Blinking rapidly, he opens and closes his fists a couple times before wiping his palms on his pants. “You said you would be able to accommodate that. Are you still available?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, I remember the discussion he and I had last week.
Damn it.
Realizing I’ve forgotten all about the time change suddenly sobers me up from my afternoon rumpus in the sheets. Draven is a dangerous distraction in more than one way. I can’t forget that I’m supposed to be helping Draven, not sleeping with him. And I can’t allow my indiscretions to get in the way of my other patients.
“You’re absolutely correct. I’m so sorry I forgot. Please, come in.”
Mr. Tillman still appears nervous that I’m not happy about him being here early. I make a silent promise to ensure he knows I don’t feel that way by the time he leaves. Waving my hand in the direction of the sofa in my office, he takes a seat.
“I’m going to grab a water. Can I bring you one, Mr. Tillman?”
“That would be great, thank you.” I’m relieved when I notice the lines of his forehead have relaxed.
“Be right back.”
When I get to my kitchen, I open up my texts and click on my message with Draven. I should wait and do it after Mr. Tillman leaves, but for some reason I’m struck with an urgency to squash whatever this is between us now, before this situation gets out of hand. Guilt settles in my stomach as I think about what I’m going to say.
Me:
I’m unable to meet with you tomorrow as I’m booked all day. When I have a moment, I’ll look through my calendar and send you my upcoming availability so we can schedule your next appointment.
Three little dots appear immediately, as though he was already on his phone.
Draven:
Okay.
Man of few words…
Me:
I’ll be as flexible as I can, but my schedule is usually very busy. We may only be able to meet once or twice a week moving forward. I understand you may want to get your 90 days done and over with, but I’m not usually able to meet with my patients on a daily basis. And generally, I don’t schedule appointments on the weekends. This past weekend was a fluke.
Jesus, McK. Sometimes less is more.
Draven:
Whatever works for you, Doc.
So agreeable.
I roll my eyes as my snarky inner voice displays her irritation toward Draven’s amenable response.
Well, at least he’s not being pushy about seeing me again so soon.
As I grab two waters from my fridge, I walk back into my office and wonder whether that last thought was sarcastic or not.
* * *
Tuesday nights are reserved for phone conversations with my mother.
It’s my least favorite night of the week, but it’s a necessary evil to ensure she stays well within the healthy boundaries I’ve set for her. I hate that I hate it so much.
I want to have the loving bond that so many of my peers have with their mothers.
Like what Draven had with his mother.
But she’s made it impossible over the years. I had to limit my access to her.
Even Alexander has tried to help me by occupying more of her time over the years, but Mom always ends up needing more from me.
“I was out shopping yesterday and saw a shirt I thought you’d like. I almost called to see if you wanted me to get it for you, but I didn’t because I know it upsets you.”
I groan inwardly and silently count backward from five to calm down so I don’t blow up. I’m tempted to remove the AirPods from my ears and lay them next to my cell phone until she’s finished talking. My head is still hurting, but despite the guilt trip ringing in my ear, luckily not as much as before.
We text throughout the week, and I finally got her to a point—for the most part—of understanding that if I don’t text her back right away, I will as soon as I’m able to.
But I allow her an hour or two every Tuesday to voice her concerns, ask any questions she’s gathered for me throughout the course of the week that she didn’t already text me, and tell me how her other friends get to talk to their children whenever they want.
And when I remind her that I’m her only friend and I don’t have children, she huffs at me and asks the exact question she’s asking me right now.
“Honestly, McKinsey… What’s so wrong with me wanting to talk to you more? Am I really such a bad mother that you can’t stand talking to me every day? That you won’t allow me to come see you on the weekends? It’s bad enough you moved two hours away…”
“You’re not a terrible mother. I’ve told you that countless times. Just like I’ve told you a million times that I’d be happy to spend time with you. You can even come stay here the whole weekend if you want, but you have to run it by me first so we can make plans. You can’t just assume I’m not busy because it’s the weekend.”
“But I like surprising you.”
“And that would have been fine every once in a while. But, Mom, you did it three months in a row my first year of college and six months straight last year when I moved into my house. Alexander had to threaten to hide your car keys if you kept it up.”
And these are just a few of the many ways my overbearing mother has ruined any chance of us having even a semblance of a normal relationship. She’s alienated herself from her friends in Wilkes-Barre in her quest to prove to me that I’m the only person she has in her life. When in reality, she has Alexander… Her fucking husband. Saint Alexander I should call him, who has provided for us and made sure we had everything we could ever want or need since the time I was fifteen.
If he didn’t work as much as he did, I’m not sure they would still be married. Even a saint can only take so much. She guilt trips him as much as she does me, but she also pushes him away, whereas she doesn’t want to let me go.
I’m not the only one in this family with deep, unhealthy relationship issues.
She can’t comprehend why it seems like I don’t need her as much as she needs me.
And part of me understands where she’s coming from. Truly, I do. We were both abandoned by Rick, my good-for-nothing father. But instead of her being there for me, or shit, even us being there for each other, she became fully dependent on me.
For everything.
For four years, I struggled to get her out of bed to go to the revolving door of jobs she went through. She wasn’t able to keep one for long because she lost her fucking mind the night we realized Rick wasn’t coming home.
It was my full-time job helping her to keep hers, in addition to going to school and … I don’t know … trying to be a teenager? She stopped being there for me, and I’ve never forgiven her for it.
She’s part of the reason I can’t bring myself to rely on anyone else.
My phone vibrates on the side table next to the recliner I’m in as I stare out my front window. Picking it up, because I need something to steal my attention from this phone call, I see a text from Draven.
My stomach drops.
Then it flip-flops as an image of him pressed against my body in my bed yesterday flashes in my mind.
I’m hesitant to open it, afraid he’s going to turn out to be the clingy type.
I let him stay for way too long after we finished yesterday. I was enjoying his company until he started asking me questions about myself. That’s my job. I ask the questions to keep the focus off of me.
And the comment he made about my mother worrying about me when he has no idea of our background made me angry. Everyone always thinks I’m a bitch and too hard on her. But they don’t understand.
Draven would be the perfect man if he could learn to fuck me and keep his mouth shut.
Holy shit.
Okay, maybe I can be a bitch. But it’s one of my best defense mechanisms. It goes hand in hand with me not letting people get too close.
If they don’t know me, they can’t hurt me.
Mom has moved on from her guilt trip and returned to the topic of the shirt she saw at the store that she thought I would like.
Giving in, I open my text messages.
Draven:
Maggie and Delilah just got into it. Royce and I were able to break them up before any punches were thrown, but they’re both really upset. Maggie is almost inconsolable. Is there anything you can do for them? Can you come over?
I roll my eyes. My first thought is this club may be needier than my mother.
My second thought—as unwanted as it is—is that somewhere deep inside of me, I wanted Draven’s message to be about us.
Us.
There is no us.
Okay, maybe not us, but about what happened. If I’m being honest, my veiled suggestion that he leave yesterday was received very well by him. Maybe a little too well.
My head and my lady bits definitely need to find some middle ground.
The back-and-forth tilt-a-whirl of emotions I’ve felt the past four days is almost unbearable. I may need to take a day to psychoanalyze myself to get to the bottom of it all and unearth the true meaning behind my wishy-washy feelings.
But it has been a minute since I’ve heard from Delilah. I’ve been assuming she’s okay—and not having to report to the compound regularly any longer has led me to a position of complacency. But if things are nearing the point of violence, maybe she’s been hiding from both me and the truth.
Plus, you would get to see Draven again.
God, I hate myself sometimes.
“Hey, Mom. I’m so sorry to cut you off, but I just got a message about a patient in crisis.”
“Oh.” Her voice is thick with both bitterness and rejection that I’m choosing someone else over her. “Well, okay, honey. It was nice catching up with you. I guess I’ll talk to you next Tuesday.”
“I love you, Mom.” As I always do, I ignore the guilt trip dripping in her tone.
“Love you, too.”
Ending the call, I send a quick message to Draven, letting him know I will be there in twenty minutes.