43. JT
Chapter forty-three
JT
Sam pulls my car into the garage at my house, insisting on chauffeuring me everywhere since he rolled into town three days ago.
“Well, another day down,” Sam says with a smile. “And all those smoothies I’ve been feeding you have really helped counterbalance that gray pallor your skin had taken on.”
We are just getting back from my third appointment with Dr. Burbanks, the psychiatrist Sam pulled a lot of strings with to get me in same day. I was so uncomfortable as I sat in the leather chair in his office, picking at the seam on the armrest while I tried to figure out how much eye contact I should be making. Based on my answers to a variety of questions, and Sam’s input, Dr. Burbanks decided I was experiencing situational depression and prescribed me a low-dose antidepressant as a temporary treatment to accompany my daily therapy sessions. If all goes well, the sessions will move to weekly or virtual here in a week or two, and I’ll stop taking the medication after a few more weeks of progress.
The sessions are starting to feel less foreign, but every time I leave, there is a heaviness in my chest, like all these tangled emotions have been ripped open, and now I have to figure out what to do with them. I hadn’t realized how much I’d buried until I started talking, and now everything feels raw. Still, I know I need to keep going, even if it feels like I’m unraveling a bit more each day.
Today, when he asked me what was on my mind, I willingly shared my anxiety about not having a golf tournament this weekend. I have five whole days staring me in the face and no idea what to do with them. The distraction of golf, and my relative success at it, has always been my way of avoiding what’s underneath. We talked about it for a while about my relationship with my parents. I told him about my dad giving up his chance at becoming a professional golfer to coach me and about my mom working multiple jobs to allow us to afford such an expensive dream. I told him golf is the only thing that has truly made me feel like I’m worth something. Well, golf and Lila, but I don’t know what to do with that realization yet.
Sam and I walk into the house, planning what we are going to order for dinner, since he only knows how to make smoothies and takeout is how I cook. Since I started the medicine, or maybe it’s the therapy, I haven’t felt quite so apathetic, so Sam and I have spent a lot of time hanging out, swimming in my pool, and playing golf on the three-hole course I have in my backyard.
“Knock, knock,” I hear my mother call from the front of the house, and my spine straightens. I’m not ready to deal with my mom. Dr. Burbanks and I have barely scratched the surface of everything—how am I supposed to know what to do with this woman who elicits such a tangled web of emotions within me?
“It’s unbecoming to have so many packages on your front porch, JT. Have you considered what your neighbors will think?”
Sam’s leaning against the white marble island in the kitchen, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his joggers, but I can see the annoyance on his face already. “You want me to get rid of her?” he asks.
Yes.
“No. I’ll go talk to her. You can stay here if you don’t want to come say hello.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with her.”
“She’s my mom.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Oh, hello, JT.” Patricia Johnson walks into the room, her heels clicking as she moves off the runner in the hallway and onto the hardwood floor in the kitchen. “Sam.”
“PJ,” Sam says with the fakest smile you’ve ever seen, not bothering to stand up straight to say hello.
My mother’s eyes turn into slits at the nickname, one she never has—and never will—go by. “I thought you were the virtual kind of assistant.”
“And I thought you were a marginal parent. Turns out, you’re a shitty one, so I guess we were both wrong.”
Mom stares at Sam as if she’s trying to piece together what he just said, or maybe how he had the balls to say it to her, but in true Patricia Johnson form, she chooses to simply ignore him. Instead, she turns her anger in my direction. “I’ll tell Jon to start searching for a new assistant for you.”
“No. You won’t.”
My mom’s eyes widen in shock, and if we’re being honest, I feel similar. I think this might be the first time I’ve ever openly disagreed with my mother. Adrenaline starts working its way through my system from either the freedom of speaking my mind or the fear of what it means that I did, and it compels me to keep going. “While I appreciate everything you and Dad have done to get me to this point, things need to change. My team is mine. You will not try to fire my employees or even contact them in any way. My plane is mine. You are not allowed to use it for your personal travel. The airport and pilots will all be made aware of the change.” I’m on a roll now, my confidence increasing with each boundary I set for myself. Doctor Burbanks is going to be so proud of me.
“My house is mine. You are not welcome here unless I invite you over. I’m getting the locks changed, and I won’t be giving you a key. You will also be taken off my list of guests at the front gate. You can have them call me should you ever be invited back.”
My mother’s posture is rigid, her arms crossed, hip jutted to one side. “Is this how you are going to treat me? Do you realize the things I gave up for you?”
“I do.” I hear Sam’s snort of derision, but I know my mom truly does feel like she gave up the best years of her life—her dreams of fame and stardom—for me. Just because she was the one who ultimately made the decision doesn’t change that. “But I also realize you are currently a negative influence in my life, and I need to enforce boundaries with you to stay healthy.”
“Enforce boundaries…you’re…you’re seeing a therapist now?” Her tone is dripping with disgust as if she just found out I was spending my afternoons rolling around in piles of dog shit and then licking myself clean.
Sam practically snarls at the condescension in her voice, moving toward her. “All right, Mommy Dearest, time for you to fuck right off.”
She doesn’t acknowledge Sam, her eyes traveling from my toes to the tips of my short hair, her eyes narrowing even further as she realizes for the first time that my hair is buzzed.
“You don’t mean that, JT. Do you?” Her eyes water, and one tear falls. “After everything I’ve given up, everything I’ve sacrificed for you?”
My willpower starts to fade, my mom knowing just the right words to say to make me question everything I’m doing. I can’t kick her out of my home or my life. I know Doctor Burbanks suggested holding strong boundaries, but I can’t do it.
“You wouldn’t cut me off,” she continues. “Especially if you pull your funds from our firm, how will we get by?”
I clench my fists, keeping my face neutral, but her words hit somewhere deep, somewhere familiar. That old place of feeling guilty, feeling wrong, like I’ve somehow failed just by playing the sport my dad wanted me to dedicate my life to. But today…today, something feels different. Her words don’t cut as deeply as they once did. I don’t feel the urge to shrink under her gaze or justify myself.
Instead, I feel a strange, quiet anger—a boundary forming, maybe for the first time.
“I’m scheduled to be in New York next week for my friend’s fashion show, and your secretary over here suggested I fly commercial .” My mom waves her manicured fingers at Sam.
“That will be terrible, I’m sure. Unfortunately, I am currently tight on cash, as I just had to bail my parents out of years upon years of debt and extravagant spending habits.”
She pauses, her mouth opening slightly as if to argue, but she’s thrown off balance by my response. It’s clear she expected the usual apologies, the scrambling to meet her expectations. But I’m tired. Tired of bending myself over backward trying to make up for something I never asked them to give me.
She turns and makes her way toward the entrance, her steps the only noise as she leaves. As she reaches to open the door, it opens wide, revealing a surprising face on the other side.
“Jameson Walker,” my mother hisses. “Of course you’re part of this too. You’ve always been a terrible influence on JT.”
His eyes dance with amusement despite her ire. “Patricia. It’s always such a pleasure to see you.” My friend steps to the side, holding the door open for my mom to exit. “Let’s do it again sometime,” he says as she walks by.
The three of us stand there watching my mom climb into the fancy black sports car I got her last year for Christmas, one with every top-of-the-line safety feature I could find. We wait for her to leave in silence as if there is an unspoken agreement we need to ensure she’s gone before we can move on. My mom drives away, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I feel a pang of guilt slide through me.
“Hey, Sam,” I say, not taking my eyes off the spot where my mother’s car just was. “Can you please see if Doctor Burbanks can fit me in for a call this afternoon?”
“Yep,” he says, pulling out his phone and moving back toward the kitchen. “I’m on it.”
Jameo is still standing by the door, holding it open like he’s not sure if he should come in or walk right back out.
“Who’s Doctor Burbanks?” he asks.
“The therapist I’ve been seeing,” I say, pulling my eyes away from the street when— “Holy cow,” I say, taking in the pile of white mailing envelopes sitting on my front doorstep. “My mom wasn’t joking about there being a bunch of packages out there. It looks like I’m obsessed with late-night infomercials.”
“You didn’t know they were there?” Jameo asks.
“No. I never use that door, and I haven’t been in a shopping mood lately.”
“You should open them.”
There’s something about his tone that makes me realize he’s not just interested in what scrub brush I ordered off QVC.
“Why? What’s in them?”
Jameo sighs before bending down and gently throwing the packages through the door. “Just open them, JT.”
I lean over and pick one up, my gaze immediately going to the Wild Bluffs address in the return spot. Suddenly, it feels like my heart is trying to escape my chest, and I’m not sure I can do it.
“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” Jameo offers as he shuts the door, moving into the house with me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will courage into my veins. With a deep breath, I pull the perforated section off the bag and reach my hand inside. It’s…a book. I pull out the paperback novel, the cover giving it away as some variety of contemporary romance.
“It’s a book,” I say, staring down at the illustration of the woman on the front. “Why did she send me this?”
“Well, I don’t know much about books, but they do say you’re not supposed to judge them by the cover. Maybe try opening it up to see if you get any more meaning from the inside?”
Slightly terrified of what I’ll find, I open the book to a random page in the middle, and realize Lila’s annotated it in the same way we did the pirate book. I flip through the pages and find her thoughts, her questions, and her comments meant just for me.
“This at least explains why you haven’t reached out to her,” Jameo says.
“What…what do you mean?” I ask.
“She’s been doing this for weeks now, sending you books about guys who made mistakes but then came back stronger. Well, she’s been reading them since Vegas, she only decided to send them to you like a week ago.”
“But why?”
“I have a couple of guesses, but I think it would likely mean more coming from her. Maybe you should call her?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” I admit.
“Maybe you should work on getting ready, then.”
“I am,” I promise. “I swear I am putting in the work to become the man she deserves.”