She Needs Therapy (The Chaos & Chemistry Romantic Comedy #1)

Chapter 1

one

RODRIGO

My name is Rodrigo, and my girlfriend is crazy.

Before you cancel me— please, hear me out. I know most men who say things like this are actually the problem, or the ones making their girlfriend crazy. But I am a good man, and my situation is different. I’ll prove it to you.

Right now, I’m standing outside a meat-packing warehouse on the outskirts of Chicago, listening to my girlfriend create what the Police will later call “a crime scene.” It’s snowing tonight.

The air cuts through my jacket, rivers of frost lining the edges of my sleeves.

I moved to Chicago from mi bella ciudad— my beautiful city, Barcelona— a few months ago, and my body still hasn’t acclimated to the cold.

From within the warehouse: a loud banging sound.

A man screaming. I open up one of the sliding metal doors, daring to look inside.

Carcasses of meat hang from the ceiling on hooks.

Two men stand among the swinging bodies, their arms crossed.

Tattoos run up and down their arms. They’re much tougher than me, but not tougher than Alana (my girlfriend, who, if you have not figured it out by now, is a huge problem).

“No enfades a esta. Tiene el corazón más frío,” one of the tattooed men says, crossing his arms. He speaks Castilian Spanish, my native language.

He’s probably part of the cartel Alana was working with when we met just six months ago in my city of Barcelona.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the worst day of my life so far.

“Do not anger this one,” he repeats in English. “She shows no mercy.”

I lean closer into the hole in the doorway, trying to get a better view. Just then, the dead animals overhead start moving. “Shh,” the man whispers to his friend. “She’s coming back. La diabla.”

And then: Alana appears. She’s gorgeous.

Stunning. Dressed from head to toe in her favorite color…

pink. She’s wearing a puffer jacket to defend against the cold, and a beanie cap with a pink pom-pom on top.

Ever since we met, I’ve thought she looks like a Barbie doll come to life.

Her big blue eyes are a special shade of pale steel with dark centers around the irises— probably hinting at the darkness within her soul.

Her long blonde hair swings all the way down to that perfect, tiny waist that’s made me make some of the worst decisions of my life.

God, I hate her. But she is undeniably hermosa. Beautiful.

I fell in love with Alana because I am a man, and she is irresistible, and I was thinking with the wrong part of my anatomy. I tend to jump into romantic encounters without thinking them through. Before you judge me for it, please understand— I am fully reaping the consequences of this decision.

“Marco wants a ten percent boost,” Alana says, nodding at a man across from her, who’s appeared next to the lackeys. He has a big beard and a thick neck, and he looks like an arms dealer. Most of the men Alana deals with trade in weapons, drugs, or both.

“Marco can have whatever he wants, as long as we get the uranium,” the man nods.

Uranium, I think to myself. Looks like it’s weapons. Nuclear weapons.

There’s a long pause as everyone waits to see if Alana will agree to the deal, and then— she giggles. A high-pitched girlish laugh. The one that will haunt my nightmares.

“Well, like, small confession,” she says, her voice a sing-songy, valley-girl timbre. “It’s not Marco who wants the extra ten percent. It’s me. But like, clothes are so expensive, and I have to buy designer. What else am I gonna do? Shop at Target and call it Targét? Way too basic.”

The lackeys look at each other. The youngest man laughs. “?Paga dinero para parecer un bastoncillo de algodón?” he says, nodding at the pink pom-pom on her beanie. Does she pay money to look like a cotton swab?

I cringe, leaning further back in the doorway. Unfortunately, I know something this man doesn’t know: Alana speaks perfect Spanish.

Alana steps forward, a big smile on her face. Then, her leg is in the air, and one of her high-heeled feet is delivering a perfect kick to his face. His head snaps back— a knockout shot. He falls to the ground. The other lackeys stare.

“Ug, now I feel bad,” Alana says, reaching down to touch her high-heeled shoe. “Not about him,” she clarifies, nodding at the lackey. “Just about my shoes. He got blood on them. What a waste. Anyway, should we like, totally close this deal up?”

The lackeys move at lightning speed. Within minutes, they hand Alana a silver suitcase full of cash.

She says her goodbyes and waltzes out of the place as if she owns it.

She smiles at me as she slips out of the warehouse door, pulling me toward her for a kiss.

She bites my bottom lip before setting me free.

“How’s my favorite getaway driver?” She says as we cross the snow toward the parking lot, where my car awaits.

“Not sure I love that term,” I joke. “Getaway driver implies criminal involvement. I’m just a boyfriend giving his novia a ride home.”

“Here we go again,” she rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue. “You’re so judgmental about my line of work! Honestly, what would Benny think about your attitude?”

Benny is my degenerate cousin, and he is also a criminal. He’s the reason I met Alana. But we’ll get into that later.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you weren’t being supportive of my career,” Alana says. I open the passenger side door for her, trying not to be distracted by her gorgeous eyes. She’s a murderer, I remind myself. And you’ve got to find a way to break up with her.

In case you’re wondering, I do plan to break up with Alana.

I just have to find the perfect time to do it.

A perfect time when I’m not afraid she’ll take a hit out on me, or have my cousin Benny murdered for introducing us.

Benny is a loveable idiot, and I’d hate to see him murdered.

And yes, maybe the perfect time would also mean a moment when I’m willing to admit I leapt into this relationship too quickly, again, like I always do.

I don’t want to face my own terrible patterns, and just when I’m about to leave— I make excuses for her.

I tell myself that she can change. That all she needs is a different job, or maybe to go to therapy.

I project the perfect woman– the kind, deep, emotionally-aware one I’d like to be with– onto her.

But every time I think we might be able to work it out, she proves me wrong.

Keep your mind clear, Rodrigo, I think to myself as I walk back around the car to the driver’s side.

Think with the right part of your body. I’ve promised myself I’m going to get out of this relationship.

I’m just not quite sure how, yet. We’ve only been together six months, but Alana has decided we’re soul mates. Lucky me.

As I start the engine, Alana reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I made a new one,” she says, smiling at me with an angelic grin.

Dios mío. It’s another vision board. Alana’s been making vision boards without ceasing since she saw them featured on Oprah’s YouTube channel. She talks constantly about manifesting.

“Now that I’ve manifested my perfect love,” she says, pinching my cheek. “I want to manifest the perfect best friend!”

I stare at the collaged work of art. It features pictures of female best friends, ripped from magazines.

Women laughing in the park. Women going to yoga together.

If I didn’t know Alana, I’d say it was charming.

Wholesome, even. But I do know Alana, and therefore the collage is ominous.

Like a serial killer’s note left behind.

“Wha—” I stammer, horrified at the idea of some unsuspecting woman being lured into a friendship with Alana. “Why do you need friends?”

“Somebody’s jealous,” Alana scoffs, folding the vision board backup.

“I need friends because it’s part of my perfect life plan!

Also, somebody has to be my maid of honor at our wedding.

” She grabs my thigh and I try to keep my eyes straight ahead on the road, resisting the urge to throw myself from the vehicle.

“You do see us getting married one day, don’t you? ”

I glance over at her. Dots of blood from the man she face-kicked are sprinkled in her pale, blonde hair.

“A man will be ready when he’s ready,” I shrug, praying she’ll drop the subject. “Besides, you have to find a friend first, right? To be a maid of honor?”

The truth is, I never want to marry Alana.

I want to get out of this relationship as quickly as possible.

But— to keep from dying— I have to play along in the short term.

Still, the dream of another woman clings to me like a thirst I can’t quench.

She is out there, somewhere, I tell myself, thinking about the woman I might love. She’s just not sitting in this car.

“You just don’t get what women want,” Alana says, frustrated. She leans back in her seat and turns the radio up, which is my cue not to speak anymore. Good.

I shudder, thinking about the unlucky woman Alana will choose to be her best friend. Whoever she is… she better have sangre fría— “cold blood,” as we say in Spain. Or what you Americans call “nerves of steel.”