Pieces For You (6 page)

Son of a bitch!  I was going to lose this contest…I’m not even sure what that meant, but it couldn’t be a good sign.

“Fine, I give,” I acquiesced with a sigh. 

Thia smiled before raising her hand to muffle what I can only imagine would have been a chuckle if permitted to escape. 

What the heck?  She was laughing at me…how unprofessional!

“What gives?  Aren’t you supposed to be asking me what brings me here?  The details of what I experienced?  What dysfunctional ways I have coped with everything thus far?”

“Is that what you want to talk about?”

“Hell no!  That is the last thing I want to relive for the umpteenth time,” I virtually shouted.

“You don’t want to talk about what is past and I’m not asking.  So what is the problem?”

Well that took the wind right out of my sails.  I had no idea how to respond, so I resumed our staring contest.  It was juvenile, I know, but it felt really good being defiant.

This time she did laugh aloud and I glared back at her.  Was I actually paying her to laugh in my face?

“Okay, so what is your biggest concern right now?”

She finally asked a question…thank god! 

“I’m not sure.  I’ve been back almost two months and I think I have kept it together—for the most part.  I’ve been having night terrors occasionally.  I’m still a little uncomfortable out in public when alone and I find myself looking over my shoulder.  The deep breathing exercises help to center me, but I wish I could get rid of the paranoia completely.”

“It definitely is
normal
after what you have experienced, but I think you are ready to conquer this particular fear.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

“We will get to that in a little bit, it’s a part of your homework assignment.”

“Homework?”

She nodded in reply.  Dammit, I thought I was done with homework.  Oh well, I would try anything once.

“What else?” she prompted.

“My parents have requested I come to dinner next week.”

“And?”

“I don’t want to?” I asked, as if it may be the wrong answer.

“Why not?”

“Because they never make time to see me.  They only came to visit me in the hospital once after the attack—and I wasn’t even conscious!  They never bothered to visit me when I was at The Phoenix Centre and I haven’t actually spoken to either of them in over six months, since before the attack.  The only communication I received was an email from my father’s secretary reminding me to use the Platinum Amex for any medical expenses.  Trust me, whatever they want, it’s not going to make me happy.”

“Are you certain?  Maybe they had an epiphany after almost losing you and want to work on improving your relationship.”

“Spoken like a rational person who has an empathetic bone in their body.  There’s a reason I am an only child, Thia.  My parents thought having a kid would be a great addition to the illusion of their Rockwell portrait life.  Once I arrived, they handed me to the nearest nanny and resumed business as usual.  My mother was horrified by the effects pregnancy had on her previously impeccable body, and spent well over a hundred grand to repair the damage I caused.  Ultimately my cost exceeded my value, so they determined children were a bad investment and a hindrance to their quality of life.  These are not the type of people who have sudden moments of introspection—nothing good will come of this dinner,” I finished with conviction.

“Well, I’m convinced.  Next?”

“Are you mocking me?” I asked, confused by her quick dismissal of my mommy and daddy issues.

“Not at all.  You seem to comprehend that their issues are theirs, not yours.  While you’re understandably apprehensive about the dinner, you aren’t harboring any unrealistic expectations and have already developed healthy coping strategies to process your feelings concerning your parents.  Unless you begin to exhibit inappropriate emotional responses to their behaviors or indulge in self-destructive coping mechanisms, I see no reason for us to explore this any further.  Do you want to analyze the minute details of every disappointment you have ever suffered at their hands?  We can do that, but I’ll need to grab my calendar to schedule all the additional weekly visits.”

“Sarcasm much?”

“I am happy to waste your time and money by exploring every little facet of your past and psychoanalyzing the myriad ways each has shaped your psyche…if that would make you feel better,” she deadpanned.

“You should grab coffee with Everleigh some time—you two would have a blast out-snarking one another.”

“Since Everleigh is your best friend, I will take that as a compliment,” she countered, successfully turning my poke around.

“Two peas in a freakin’ pod,” I muttered.

“Next?”

“Geeze, I might as well be waiting my turn at the supermarket deli counter, holding a little ticket with a number on it.”

“Sarcasm much?” she parroted my earlier barb.

“I’m not sure if you are the best therapist ever or the worst.”

“I get that a lot,” she offered without concern, causing me to laugh.  “Don’t worry, I’ll grow on you.”

“If you have a magical solution to cure my night terrors, I will commit to providing you an organ of your choice should a transplant ever become necessary.”

“Now that is a tantalizing offer.  My patients are far more biddable when I drug them…” she paused and I stared at her like she was a complete lunatic.  “
Kidding
.  Of course I could prescribe a sleep aid if you don’t currently have one, but that would not be my suggested course.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Homework.”

“Such a dirty word to be throwing around so casually.  Okay, lay it on me.”

“I want you to find a part-time job in an environment you feel safe to help increase your comfort level in public—consider it exposure therapy.  Plus, you need something to do besides shopping,” she said as she eyed my outfit, correctly pegging my current method of passing time.  “You should attend the dinner at your parents’ next week.  At the very least it will clear them off your list of worries.  I also want you to establish a regular exercise routine.  Sign up at a gym and use it.  It will aid your sleep and possibly help reduce the number of night terrors you have been experiencing.  Not to mention, it’s another public venue for you to build comfort and confidence.”

“I can handle those assignments.”

“Oh, one more—eat!  The Italian in me is dying to shove heaping piles of carbohydrates into that scrawny little body of yours.”

I laughed at her exclamation; it was clear she wasn’t exaggerating for effect.

“Will do, Chef Boyardee,” I teased, glad to be ending on a positive note and with several manageable tasks to focus on.  “It’s been…strange, but good…I think.”

“Excellent.  You handled me better than most do on their first visit.”

I didn’t think she was kidding, which gave me an odd sort of pride at the unexpected accomplishment.  As I departed, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had just found a guide through the minefield of recovery or if I was being “Punk’d” by Ashton Kutcher—if it was the latter, this would have made for some great TV programming.  I glanced around to make sure there were no cameramen hiding in the bushes.  Nope.  Thia was a therapist unlike any I had encountered thus far.  I resolved to follow her directives and get a jump on my homework assignments. 

After a stop at New York Sports Club (NYSC), I was officially a card-carrying gym member and planned to institute my workout schedule beginning tomorrow.  I had been to the gym at Hensley with Ev before, but all we ever attempted was the treadmill, elliptical, stair-climber, and stationary bike—the rest was a complete mystery to me.  Most of the equipment in the gym looked like it belonged in Christian’s “Red Room of Pain.”  I didn’t think NYSC was a front for a BDSM club, so there must be another purpose behind the various contraptions; I was just clueless as to what that purpose was.  While there, I was tempted to explore some of the machinery, but felt uneasy with the vast number of shirtless men, all grunting and sweaty.  I didn’t know these men and felt unprepared to put myself within arm’s reach. 

I took a deep breath to calm myself and tried to survey the room with Old Sam’s eyes.  The selection of man-candy was spectacular.  I was mentally stripping off a wide array of tank tops and exercise shorts—from a distance.  A glimmer of hope shined, despite my initial panic, and there was the slightest stirring, a twinge really, which registered in my neglected lady bits.  Hell yeah, it may only be a twinge, but it was the first sign of life from her royal highness in five months.

As I left the gym, I pondered my response—was there hope?  I feared my goodies had dried up, petrified from lack of use.  My relief at the possibility of reanimation was palpable.  I indulged in a brief parking lot happy dance, only to find a snickering couple approaching me.

“What?  You’d dance too if you just realized your years of kegels weren’t wasted.”

I left them in open-mouthed shock, a smile painted on my face and extra bounce in my step.

My added confidence spurred me to bite the bullet and call my parents.  Elsa, their housekeeper, advised me that they were not available, so I left a message confirming my presence at the family dinner the following week.  Homework item number two completed.

I needed time to consider employment prospects where I would feel secure and enjoy the work—well, if not enjoy, then at least not despise.

I stopped at Chipotle for a spicy chicken burrito—food consumption.  Homework item number four accomplished.  Then I headed to the mall to acquire new gear for my athletic intents.  I had no problem working out and sweating, but you can be damn sure I was going to look my best doing it.  I struck gold with a selection of outfits from Heidi Klum’s workout line.  One of the pieces was even featured on “Project Runway,” a show my DVR was programmed to always record and never delete without my prior authorization. 

When I was satisfied I had appropriately rewarded my homework initiative, I finally headed home.  Ev arrived shortly after and rushed to the bathroom to shower before Hunter arrived for dinner. 

"I make mistakes, I'm out of control, and at times hard to handle.  But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."  -Marilyn Monroe

I was organizing my new purchases in the appropriate dresser drawers when the doorbell rang.  I could hear the shower running, leaving me to answer.  Hunter had a key to our apartment, but he usually rang the bell so I was forewarned of his entry, a lesson learned the first time he walked in on me fixing a cup of coffee dressed only in my bra and panties.  I’ve never seen Hunter about-face with such speed; he nearly vaulted over the dining table to close himself in Ev’s bedroom.  I was fairly certain I caught the hint of a blush before he bolted.  Ah, good times.

I raised up on my tippy-toes to peer through the peephole in the door, a recent addition courtesy of Hunter, and saw nothing but a wall of black.  I paused for a moment, wondering if the person on the other side placed their thumb over the glass, but dismissed the idea when I noticed the contours of the black abyss before me.  I verified that the security chain was engaged before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door.

Jiminy Crickets!  The black void was a shirt, specifically a t-shirt undergoing durability testing as it strained to contain a scandalously muscled chest and shoulders most NFL linebackers would envy.  I found myself confronted with a decision that no woman should ever have to make; do I look upward to assess the face attached to the scrumptious MMA pecs or go downward to find what other gifts God had bestowed on this specimen.  Who was I kidding; there was only one right answer.  As my gaze headed south, I was greeted by a mid-section that was clearly well tended and hard as stone.  Despite his sinfully tight shirt, I couldn’t make out his abs, but I suspected the shirt was covering a defined six-pack.  Would it be rude to ask him to remove his shirt before inviting him in?  Continuing my exploration, I discovered distressed denim, bulging in
all
the right places, draped over long, thick legs.  Hot damn!  Hunter was finally paying off with the hot guy friends.  I knew this day would come, it was inevitable, but I was still overwhelmed with gratitude—Ev would be getting an extra nice Christmas present this year.

I slowly raised my gaze, verifying that the sight I beheld was not a mirage, and it happened…finally.  There was no tingle or twinge, not a whisper of desire or hint of arousal—no, the floodgates of my previously dormant libido opened and a tsunami of lust swept through me.  My breath caught and I was forced to grip the doorframe to prevent melting into a puddle on the floor or climbing this tree of man-flesh like the primate I had been reduced to.  I gathered the remnants of my cognitive function—the miniscule part of my brain not dedicated to making an erotic laundry list of the many naughty activities I wanted to enlist this man’s help with—to prepare for the possible disappointment, should the face accompanying this god-like body be one that sent children shrieking in horror.  On the other hand, guys had practiced the “bag over her head” technique for years.  I needed to do it, rip the Band-Aid off and accept the possible disillusionment.  I reinforced myself, inhaled deeply, and raised my eyes.  You’ve got to be kidding me!