Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(40)

So I give into Ryke’s constant pleas. I let Lo off the hook. He no longer needs to be my rock. I’ll have to find another one or maybe I’ll be able to stand up on my own.

“Yeah,” I say, my heart constricting as I restrain a wave of emotion. “I’ve been doing really great. I have this new therapist, and I threw out all my porn.” Silent tears begin to brew, and they slowly streak my cheek, but I keep my voice steady so he can’t tell. “I even stopped using toys.” He’ll believe the lie, but I doubt he would if I added, and I stopped masturbating.

“Really?” His voice breaks, sounding on the verge of tears.

“Yeah, really. I’ve never felt better.” I bring the speaker away from my mouth, the lie crushing my chest.

After a long moment, he says, “Good, good. I’m glad.” He inhales another sharp breath. “I don’t have much longer—”

“Lo,” I interject. Please don’t leave me just yet.

“Yeah?”

“I’m waiting for you.” I love you.

I imagine a smile spreading across his face. Even if it’s sad, it’s still one that I’ll hold onto in my dreams. “I knew you could.” He pauses. “I have a meeting with my counselor in a couple minutes. I’ll call again…”

I want to leave him with something better, something more satisfying. “You’re officially in my spank bank.” I fantasize about Lo every day. He’s my number one, go-to image.

“You’ve always been in mine.” Ohhh… “Talk to you later, love.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Me too.” With this, we hang up at the same time, and I stare at my phone, as though the conversation I just had was all constructed from my mind. I have to double check my recent history to verify.

Yes, it was real.

And what’s more than that—it’s going to happen again.





{7}



I sit in the therapist’s waiting room with Rose by my side. She skipped all of her classes for the day to be here with me. I’ve thanked her about a hundred times. My eyes dart between the exit and the door to the office. Fleeing sounds tempting, but with Rose here, I stay situated to the white couch cushion and refrain from biting my nails. A window overlooks the New York skyline, the interior just as modern with glass bookshelves and purple orchids.

When the door finally opens, I spring to my feet as though the couch electrocuted my butt. And the therapist greets me with a warm, sincere smile. Looking in her early forties, her chocolate brown hair bobs at her chin, and she wears a black skirt, fitted jacket, and a cream blouse. With her heels, she just barely reaches my height. She must be super short then.

“Hi Lily, I’m Dr. Banning.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it, momentarily embarrassed by my sweaty palm. When she lets go, I’m surprised she doesn’t wipe her hand on her skirt like she caught something infectious.

She gestures to the office, opening the door wider for me.

I look back at Rose.

“I’ll be right here,” she assures me. I try to soak in some of her confidence, but unfortunately, it’s never really been contagious.

I raise my chin, pretending to be strong, and enter Dr. Banning’s office. A few glass bookshelves line the walls, and her cherry oak desk sits off in the corner. In the center lies a white fur rug and two pieces of furniture: a brown leather chair and an identical brown leather couch.

“Take a seat,” she says, motioning to the couch.

I rest on the edge of it, my foot bouncing in anxiety. I glance out the large window, a park in direct view, the patch of green actually calming me a little.

Dr. Banning holds a notebook in her hands, and my eyes transfix to it for an extended second. My problems will be documented within the pages for (hopefully) only her to see.

“Are you going to tell me why I’m like this?” It’s the very first thing I ask. Not even starting off with a cordial ‘how’s your day?’ Nope. I begin by blurting out my biggest insecurity: what the hell is wrong with me?

“Maybe in time. Why don’t we begin by getting to know each other first?”

I nod. Oh my God. I even do therapy wrong…I can’t do anything right.

“I went to Yale for my PhD, and I’ve focused primarily on addiction, especially sex addiction. Now, tell me a little about yourself. It doesn’t have to be related to sex.”

This should be the easiest question she’ll ask, but my tongue feels heavy in my mouth. “Can I have some water?”

“Of course.” She stands and goes to her mini-fridge that sits beneath a Vincent van Gogh painting. When she returns with a bottle of water, I take a long minute to spin off the cap and sip.

“I…um, I grew up in a suburb outside of Philadelphia. I have three other sisters.” My eyes flicker nervously to her. “You’ve met one.”

Dr. Banning smiles encouragingly. “And your other sisters—are you as close to them as you are to Rose?”

“Not really,” I say. “Poppy is married, and she has a little girl. She’s much older than me, so I didn’t really grow up with her. And Daisy’s a lot younger, and when I entered high school, I kind of went my own way.”

“What were you like in high school?”