Chapter Six
Two
This building smells like fresh paint.
It’s giving me a headache.
Everything is so…new. Fresh. Perfect.
I instantly hate this new therapist on principle. He’s probably some uppity dude who’s going to want me to try eating organic or do some weird-ass light therapy.
Not interested.
The only reason I’m here is because Dad wants me to be. I’ll sit in the office, bore him to death with my hobbies that hardly anyone cares about, and then bolt out of here just in time for my next class.
When I go to open the office door inside the building, it’s locked.
Behind me, the building door opens and a young, sharply dressed man hurries in, a to-go coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he says as he makes his way over to me. “The line at the coffee shop was insane. Jude thinks I need a coffee maker here in the office, but nothing tastes as good as when someone else makes it, am I right?” He grins at me. “Tate Prince. I’d shake your hand, but, you know, priorities.”
I smirk when he holds up his coffee like he’s toasting. “Two.”
“I figured,” Tate says, juggling his stuff to unlock his door. “Your dad told me all about you.”
“I bet that was fun,” I deadpan.
He laughs, pushing in through the door. “Your dad said a lot in our ten-minute conversation. A lot of really good stuff about you. I wish my dad had cared even half as much as your dad clearly does.”
A twinge of guilt niggles at me. “What can I say? I’m his pride and joy.”
As Tate sets his coffee, bag, and keys down on his desk in the corner, I take in the small space. Despite the building being new, his office is cozy. Rather than using stark paint, the office is decorated in wallpaper that’s a throwback to another time period. I definitely approve of the selection and Dad would too. Instead of a leather couch like in all the movies or stiff chairs like at Dr. Wynn’s, Tate’s office has two plush chairs that sit in front of a plug-in fireplace.
“Can I offer you water or anything?”
“I’m good.”
I take a seat in one of the chairs and then fiddle with the fireplace to see what kind of heat it puts out. I’m impressed when it immediately starts blasting me with warmth. Maybe I need one of these in my shop. My little space heater sucks…when I actually remember to turn it on.
Tate eventually joins me with his coffee. I note that he doesn’t have his laptop or notebook. Dr. Wynn loved to write things all over her yellow notepad when I’d visit.
“Where’s your stuff?” I ask, gaze darting back to his desk. “Don’t you, like, need to record everything to report back to Dad?”
Tate brings his coffee to his lips and takes a sip that makes him do a giddy dance in his chair. “Coffee is all I need. And everything we talk about is between us. Your dad doesn’t get a report. If you want to tell him, you’re more than welcome to.”
I give him a sharp shake of my head. “Nah, I’m good. How old are you?”
“Everyone always asks me that,” he playfully grumbles. “I just turned twenty-eight. Getting married in the fall, too.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait for him to hit me with a thousand questions. Nothing comes. Just sips and smiles. Awkwardly, I root around in my jacket until I find a lone butterscotch. I unwrap it and pop it into my mouth.
Still waiting.
“Park’s Peak has a butterscotch latte. I’ll bring you one next time. It’s to die for.”
I want to tell him there won’t be a next time, but the drink does interest me, so I nod in approval. Maybe just one other time. The guy seems nice.
“Your dad says you’re a bit of a historical restoration buff. That sounds super cool. My Jeep, er, my fiancé’s Jeep, is a classic. Was that your Land Rover out front? Sweet ride.”
I grin, unable to stop myself. “Finally. Someone who appreciates that damn vehicle besides me. Just today, some bratty girl at my school called it a hunk of junk.”
He gasps. “Rude!”
“That’s what I thought too.” I move the butterscotch around my teeth, enjoying the clackity sound it makes. Tate doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Dad says I’ll get cavities from eating these things, but I’ve never gotten one.”
“Good genes,” Tate says with a chuckle. “I just had yet another root canal last month. Merry Christmas to me.”
I bristle at the mention of genes. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I’m adopted.”
“Boy, I wish I were,” he tosses in. “My dad was a shit parent. Mentally fucked me up, too. It’s why I’m doing this here and now.”
“You’re allowed to cuss to your patients?”
“I can do whatever I want. This is my practice.” He takes another sip. “Your adopted dad seems nice. You like him?”
“I love him and Pops more than anyone in the world.”
“My heart.” He pats his chest. “Jude wants kids. I know he does. I’m hoping we make our children feel as loved as your dads do you.”
“Yeah, they’re great.”
Tate sits his coffee down on the small table beside him. “I’m sensing a mood shift.”
I bristle, my hackles rising. “Your spidey senses are wrong.”
“Nope. They’re never wrong.” He beams at me. “I won’t push, but it does help to get things off your chest every once in a while. We’re not meant to bottle everything up inside. My fiancé did for a long time. He’s just now in the past year beginning to heal. Healing isn’t a one and done, either. It’s a long, torturous journey.”
“I’d rather take the shortcut.”
“You and ninety-nine percent of the world, including me. Some of us run from our problems.” He raises a hand. “Guilty as charged. But when you stop running and face them head-on, something miraculous happens.”
“What?”
“They’re not as terrifying as we give them the power to be.”
Knowing my dads could have had Gemma Park but got me instead is pretty damn terrifying, especially when I consider that there was so much disappointment and grief they must have felt. My dads are strong men, though, and put on a brave face to do the right thing by giving me a home. I hate that they must’ve felt so awful and devastated. I’m not exactly the best consolation prize.
“Listen, Two,” Tate says gently, “I love helping people find peace and joy. It’s something I never had growing up, so it soothes something deep in my soul. I’m not here for a paycheck—though money does help pay for my coffee addiction—or some other nefarious reason. I’m here because I want to be.”
“Cool.”
“Which means if you want to just be friends and talk about mundane, surface-level stuff, I’m okay with that. But as a friend, I’ll push you when I feel like you need to be pushed. Never too much, though. I’m great at sensing what a person can handle and guiding them the right way.”
“I’m not really good at talking about stuff.”
“Oh no.” Tate gasps, feigning shock. “You’re the only person I’ve ever encountered who’s that way.”
I snort out a laugh. “You’re sarcastic. Dr. Wynn smelled like cheese.”
“I’m going to use that next time Jude’s mad at me. ‘You love me, mister, because I’m sarcastic and don’t smell like cheese.’”
“Are you even qualified to do this?” I ask, mostly joking.
He doesn’t get annoyed but instead brings a finger to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I’m totally winging it. Definitely don’t tell your dad.”
The conversation easily moves on to school. I tell him about my classes but sidestep the whole encounter with my number one enemy. Tate, sharp as a tack, narrows his eyes but doesn’t call me out. Yet. Something tells me it’ll only be a matter of time. Before long, the hour is up and I actually enjoyed myself.
“Let’s meet on Wednesday,” Tate says. “I’ll bring your butterscotch latte and attempt to get here on time, though I’m not making any promises. Sound good?”
I’m already nodding because it does sound good. The latte, the fireplace, the company. I wonder if it makes me pathetic that I feel like I just made a friend.
You’re paying him to be your friend, dipshit.
Ignoring that thought, I tip my head at him and slip out of his office. The smell of paint doesn’t bother me this time and when I step outside, I’m pleased to see that he does, in fact, drive an older model Jeep. It’s beat up with a dent or two but still a charming vehicle. At least Tate understands. Dr. Wynn drove a sleek, white Audi.
Maybe this new therapist is exactly what I need.
“I got her number,” I say to Dax, not meeting his stare.
He nearly chokes on his bite of pizza. “What? Seriously? You legit got Hot Girl’s number?”
“Gemma,” I remind him with a sigh. “Her name is Gemma.”
His green eyes sparkle with delight. “No fucking way. You do like her. This is awesome!”
I don’t like her, but I’m definitely not going to tell him that. He’s already a pain in the ass as it is.
“I saw a new therapist,” I blurt out instead.
Dax’s brows knit and he nods. “Okay. Already hate her?”
“Him. And he’s cool.”
“Cool? Like come grab pizza with us cool?”
“Maybe one day. He’s not much older than us.”
“About damn time. I can’t believe you kept going to that walking corpse, Dr. Waxface.”
“Dr. Wynn. And now that you say that, she kind of did look like a museum wax figure.”
We both snort with laughter. My chest feels lighter after a helluva morning. I did need some best friend time despite my desperation to finish my project. Dax may annoy the shit out of me, but he’s mine.
“Oh, some guys from class were going to meet up this Friday at the pool hall. I know you’re on a deadline with Cedarwood, but I thought maybe you’d want to come along. Maybe bring Gemma.” He waggles his brows at me. “Or not. It’ll be fun.”
When I’m focused on Dax, I notice things about him like the hope gleaming in his eyes. I still wonder why he sticks around to be my friend when I’m a bit of an asshole most of the time. I do like hanging out with him. It’s just sometimes I get sucked into the void that is my mind. My only escape is my projects.
Maybe that’s not completely true.
Right now, I feel calm and am enjoying myself, and we’re not talking about Cedarwood.
“Yeah,” I agree as I pick up another slice of pizza. “I’ll go. I’m driving, though. Your car stresses me out.”
He cracks up laughing. “That’s just because it’s fast. Your car hasn’t ever seen over fifty miles per hour, old man. Well, except when you’re trying to run over girls in parking lots.”
I smirk. “I can’t even figure out your door handle half the time. It’s basically a damn spaceship.”
We continue to joke around and eat pizza. Calm washes over me. When we finally finish, we abandon our table to try to see who’s the better pinball player.
It’s me, of course.
By the time we leave and part ways, the terrible feeling in my gut from seeing a certain someone this morning has nearly subsided.
Hopefully, I can ride this feeling until I’m forced to see her again on Wednesday.
Until then, I refuse to be tormented by her.