Like Gravity(29)

“It’s mine, actually. I use it when the weather’s bad or when I have to move the band’s gear before gigs.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering how a college boy could afford not only a motorcycle but a relatively new truck as well. “Well, it’s nice.”

“Thanks. Hey Brooklyn?”

“What?”

“Just for the record, we’re officially friends now. Once you get into a fistfight for someone, there’s no going back.”

I smiled. “Figures, you’d want something in return. I suppose chivalry really is dead after all,” I said teasingly. “I’ve never had a male friend before.”

At my words, a strange expression flashed across his face, but it was gone too quickly for me to process. His grin was back, and I almost thought I’d imagined the dark look.

“Well, I don’t exactly do the female friendship thing myself, so it’ll be new for both of us,” he said.

I hopped out of the truck and turned around to say goodbye, but Finn was already jumping down from the driver’s seat. Coming around the truck, he grabbed my hand and towed me to the stairs leading up to my apartment.

“What are you doing?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

“As your friend, it’s my duty to get you home safely. Its also my duty to point out that you are the most stubborn, pigheaded girl I know.”

“Thanks, friend.”

“Anytime.”

We reached the top of the stairs, and I unlocked the door. Turning to face Finn one last time, I did something that surprised even myself.

Standing on my tiptoes – a feat, I might add, in stilettos – I twined my arms around his neck and tucked my face into the hollow of his throat. His chin came to rest on the top of my head as his arms wrapped around my waist. Standing this way, we were like two puzzle pieces rejoined. A perfect fit.

A content sigh slipped from my lips as he held me. Friends hugged, right? This wasn’t crossing any boundaries. This feeling of utter security, of safety, was a perfectly normal reaction to a friend. But, a small voice in the back of my head nagged, even on the rare occasions that Lexi and I had hugged, I’d never felt this way. Crap.

“Thanks again,” I whispered, slowly lowering my feet and unwinding my arms from his neck. I turned quickly to the door, not wanting to look into his eyes – afraid of what I might see there. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bee.” I heard him say quietly, as I closed the door between us. I watched him walk down the stairs, climb into his truck and drive away. My legs weakened and I slowly slid down to the floor, bracing my back against the door and curling into a ball. A glance at the illuminated microwave clock informed me that it was 12:03 AM.

The anniversary was finally over. What a day.





Chapter Seven


Bad Jokes




I pressed my fingertips into the black leather upholstery and tried to ground myself. It was a nice chair, expensive – the kind I imagined might litter the office of a wealthy businessman like my father. It surprised me, this chair.

Most shrinks I’d visited in the past had offices designed to inspire feelings of comfort and an idyllic home life. They’d been stuffed with bookshelves, packed with knickknacks, and always had a conveniently placed box of tissues within reach. I’m not sure who decided that ‘troubled youths’ like myself would prefer such an environment; if anything, it was a slap in the face, reminding me in no uncertain terms that my father’s modern, uncluttered mansion would never be anything like a home.

Psychiatrists – at least those I’d had the misfortune of knowing – didn’t typically go for the modern look; it was too clinical, too sterile to foster any false sense of camaraderie. So far, by her furniture selections alone, Dr. Joan Angelini had surpassed my expectations and was flying in the face of convention. Then again, nothing about this situation was conventional, considering she was the first shrink I’d ever sought out voluntarily.

For the tenth time in as many minutes I fought the urge to bolt for the door, reminding myself this torture was self-inflicted. She wasn’t some state-issued doctor, checking up on me at my father’s or the court’s behest; she was sitting there analyzing me strictly because I’d asked her to. I’d actually handed over several hundred dollars – and a small piece of my soul – and requested this torment.

And for what? One little panic attack had me running scared.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at the woman in front of me. She was in her late forties and stylishly dressed, her blonde hair coiffed in an elegant chignon and her blouse pressed to perfection.

“Is there something in particular you want me to ask you?” she replied with practiced indifference, unruffled by my irritable nature.

“Well, I’m not paying you to stare at me for sixty minutes.”

“Brooklyn, you sought me out. Why? What made you decide to come here?”

“I had a panic attack last night.”

“Okay, that’s nothing to be too concerned about. Nearly everyone experiences a panic attack at one point or another. Was this your first one?”

“No.” I took a deep breath, and prepared to unload fourteen years worth of pent up dysfunction on this woman. I just hoped she could handle it – it was her job, after all. “I’ve been having them sporadically since I witnessed my mother’s murder at age six. The drug-addict who killed her took her keys and drove off. Apparently he was so high he didn’t realize there was a little kid in the backseat.”