Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2) (21 page)

Tilting my head, I say, “Seriously? I don't talk.”

“For forty-five minutes, you just did. Congratulations.” Ms. Cynthia smiles. “I'd like to see you every week for a while if that's okay?”

Every week? Holy shit.

Wait, our session is over?

“Aren't we supposed to talk about something helpful? All I get is forty-five minutes?” This is a waste of time if that's all the time she can give me.

“We'll do that next week. Today was mostly about getting some background and insight. And yes, a session is only forty-five minutes, which you should love since you don't like talking.”

Oh, right. I nod and she wraps things up with me before sending me on my way. Nate texts me, saying that him and a few other guys from work are going to a bar if I want to join them. Yes, alcohol. That's exactly what I need.

They are lined up at the bar, eyes on the hockey game playing on the TV when I get there. Nate slaps me on the shoulder as I lift my chin in a greeting at the rest of my coworkers.

“Do you like hockey?” he questions me, signaling for the bartender.

“Never watched it, but my sister says I should.”

He laughs. “Well, she's right.”

Everyone's attention instantly goes to the TV as a fight breaks out on the ice. I'm glad fighting isn't a part of football. There's enough ways to get injured without doing that. I avert my attention as the bartender comes over to me with a bright smile on her face.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

I order my favorite, Bourbon, and hope it'll help me unwind after that therapy session. My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out.

Olivia: Where are you? Everything okay? Was going to see if you wanted to go out with me and my friends tonight

Me: Out with people from work. Sorry

Should I be sorry? Because I'm not with her instead? I mean, she'll be fine without me and could probably use the time away from me anyway. We'll both have fun tonight, just separately.

After the fourth glass, things slow down. Literally. Time fucking stops. I gaze at the TV, my eyes not quick enough to follow along. I'm so heavy and so tired. Wonder if I could just lay my head on the bar and no one notice?

“Corey? Corey? Hey, Corey?” A hand flashes in front of my face and I blink, slowly turning my head to find the source.

Nate.

“You okay, man?”

It takes fifteen seconds for his words to process with my staring at him blankly before nodding. I open my mouth, but forget what I was going to say.

“Are you high or something?”

High? No. I'm feeling way too down for that. Mellow, too. I'd think a high would feel better. Why do I feel like this? This sucks. I need to lie down. I should probably speak, but I can't find the energy. My phone vibrates on the bar, lighting up and stealing my attention.

Olivia's calling me.

Isn't she supposed to be doing something? I can't remember what.

“You going to answer that, Corey?”

Where's my hand? Oh, in my lap. With a slow pace, I lift my hand, press answer, and lift the phone to my ear.

“Corey? Are you there?”

“Olivia.” God, that was a lot of effort.

“Is everything okay? You don't sound right. Where are you?”

She's asking a lot of questions. “Here.” I hand the phone to Nate, tired of talking, tired of sitting upright, and hope he can answer them for me. I lay my head on the bar, not caring about anything else.

“Oh, hey Olivia,” he says. “I don't know.” He pauses. “We're at a bar.” Another pause. “Well, yeah, he's been drinking. We're at a bar,” he repeats. “Oh. He's not? Does he know that?” Pause. “He looks more stoned than drunk.” He starts talking some more and I lose track of what he's saying, spacing out.

There's a reflection on the shiny wooden bar that keeps flashing. It's weird. I watch it for a while, not sure how long really. But then, hands are on my shoulders and I'm staring into pissed off brown eyes.

“Corey Kennedy, I'm going to kick your ass.” Olivia shakes her head at me. Her bangs are all messed up. Maybe from her hands or the wind. I don't know. “Nate, help me get him to my car.”

At a snail's pace, we walk to her car and I'm put into a seat. I almost nod off, but then I hear a door slam, jolting me out of my doze.

“You can't drink with your meds, Corey!” she fusses. “What the hell were you thinking? It could have been a lot worse than you having this reaction. Why would you drink anyway? You know you're not supposed to mix alcohol with antidepressants!” Her voice drones on and on.

Hm. Guess that's why I feel weird. I forgot about being on the medication. All I wanted was to relax.

“Therapist,” I mumble, looking at Olivia while she drives, resting my head on the seat.

“What?” She glances at me before focusing on the road.

“Went,” I manage and then add, “Saw. Was stressed.”

Olivia is quiet, before the bulb lights over her head. “You went and saw a therapist? Why didn't you tell me?”

I groan at her questions.

“You are so going to talk in the morning,” she warns.

“WAKE YOUR SORRY ass up!” Olivia yells as she pushes on my shoulder. I grunt, burying my face further into the pillow as I lie on my stomach. “I'm still pissed, so get up, Corey.”

“Olivia, I'm sorry,” I grumble, opening my eyes to see her sitting up in bed, covers bunched at her waist, and her arms folded over her chest. Memories of last night pour through my mind. Drinking on that medication is a big freaking no. “I didn't even think about it,” I mutter as if it'll help. When she doesn't say anything, I push myself up and mimic how she's sitting. “C'mere.” I pull her against me, but she doesn't relax. “I said I was sorry, Olivia.”

Still, she doesn't budge. “Tell me what happened from the beginning.”

Sighing, I wonder why it has to be right now, first thing in the morning. My sigh pisses her off.

“Don't you dare act like this is annoying or whatever that damn sigh means. I deserve an explanation, Corey. The pill bottle clearly says, 'Do not mix with alcohol.' You did anyway and apparently, you went to see a therapist.” You would think she's pissed at me for going by her tone. “That should have been a big freaking reminder that you aren't supposed to drink!”

“I told you, I didn't think about it.” I really didn't, but if I had, I'm not sure it would have mattered. Drinking after a long day was a normal thing for me, and not being able to do that shows just how far away from normal I am.

“You better think about it next time,” she snaps. “You were so spaced out and slow. How were you planning on getting home? Even without the medications added in, you were being stupid and careless.”

“I would've gotten someone to call a cab, or I would've called you. Even drunk, I know better than to get behind the driver's seat.” I take a deep breath instead of sighing, so I don't get bitched out again. “All I wanted was to relax and unwind. That's it.” She relaxes only a little against me as I try to soothe her. “As far as the therapist—” Her body tenses again as she interrupts me.

“Why didn't you tell me? When did you schedule it? How did it go?” The last question has more curiosity than anger in it.

“I scheduled it Monday.”

“You knew for an entire week and didn't tell me?” Olivia pushes away from me and gets out of bed, standing with her hands on her hips as she glares at me. “What the hell, Corey? You—”

“Why the fuck are you pissed?” I yell, my temper getting the best of me. Fury floods my system. “You've been telling me over and over to go see one, and now that I have, you're pissed? What's there to be mad about? I did what
you
want. I made the appointment and went because of
you.
” I point my finger in her direction before getting out of bed myself. Fuck it. It's too early for this. I'm going back to my apartment.

“I'm pissed because I'm hurt!” she shouts at my back as I walk away, but her words stop me in my tracks. Hurt? How did I hurt her? Slowly, I turn to face her, her arms loose by her sides now, the rage out of her system. When she speaks again, the pain is laced within every syllable. “Why didn't you tell me? Were you ever planning on telling me or were you going to keep it a secret? If I'm the only person you'll tell stuff to, then why couldn't you tell me that?”

And the lightbulb over my head flashes on brightly, clicking everything into place. I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her shoulders in a hug. Pressing my lips against her temple, I softly explain, “I wanted to see how it went first, whether or not I would like it and go back for a second time. You wanted me to go, said I would enjoy it, and I wanted to make sure first. I didn't want to tell you and then I end up hating it and you being disappointed because of it.”

Finally,
finally
, she brings her arms around my waist. “Well, you better tell me next time, regardless. I want to know,” she mumbles into my chest.

“I go back next week.”

At this, she leans back to look at me. “Does that mean you liked it?”

I shrug. “Let's talk about it later, I'm starving.”

Today definitely isn't a good day. As we eat a bowl of cereal, all I can think about is going home and crawling into my own bed and lying there all day. Olivia miraculously manages to wait until we finish to start peppering me with questions. I bury my face in my hands, mumbling around them.

“I don't feel like talking about this anymore.” I'd much rather hear her tell me random facts or more about her day or anything about her, rather than therapy.

“Too bad,” she retorts.

Lifting my head, I plead, “Olivia, please. Not today.” Between last night and our argument this morning, I'm worn out. It's not even ten yet. I watch as she battles with whether to push me or leave me alone.

“I want to know how it went,” she finally says, her voice calm with a hint of a beg mixed in. “I ended up having to schedule someone today for a tutoring session, so it'll make me feel better to know before I go.”

Squeezing my eyes closed for a brief moment, I decide to give her what she wants. “She's a hateful old woman who's somewhere between you and Dr. Stewart on the pushing scale. When I tried to leave early, she blocked the exit, made me sit down, but she did the talking for a bit. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. Feeling neutral about the whole thing at the moment. I see her once a week. Satisfied, or do you want every last detail?”

The corner of her lips are lifting as she replies. “No, that's good. Those sessions are yours and yours alone. I don't need to know what's being said during them unless you want to tell me. I just wanted to know about it overall and how you were feeling about it. That's it.”

My shoulders relax, making me realize I was tense. I'm glad she doesn't want to know what we talk about because I talked about her. But then, wasn't that one reason why she wanted me to go? So I could talk about her?

“Okay. I can tell you that.”

She walks around the counter and gives me a quick kiss. “Thanks. I gotta get ready, but do you want me to come over afterwards? I can pick up something to eat.”

I shake my head, wondering how badly I'm about to disappoint her. “No, don't. I'll see you tomorrow or Monday though.” If she'll let me go two days without seeing her, that is. The urge to be alone for awhile is overwhelming me. Lately, I've been surrounded by people. Either at work, here with Olivia, or at the doctor appointments. I want to be able to go hours without speaking to someone. I need to decompress or check out of reality for a bit.

Olivia tries her damnest not to frown, her mouth only dipping a fraction. “Okay. Text me every so often though, please? A smiley face or a period or something. It doesn't have to be any words.”

Can she not go two days without talking to me voluntarily? For some reason, she's worried. Her watchful eyes on me say so.

“Will do,” I concede.

The smile she gives me isn't a real one, but I don't question it.

OLIVIA ACCEPTS MY text messages every few hours with a smiley face all day Saturday. It feels good to hang out in my quiet apartment, but on Sunday, I start to get antsy. I leave to hit up a fast-food drive-thru and park to eat my dinner. This is my opportunity to see what the fuss is with traffic watching.

I end up sitting there for an hour. There's an appeal for sure. People talking on their phones, texting illegally, making hand gestures as they ramble to their passenger, or singing their hearts out. Some people look like they're lost in their thoughts, eyes straight ahead with two hands on the steering wheel. Some people look like they haven't eaten in days as they wolf down food with one hand and pick up their drink for a quick sip with the other. My mind gets wrapped up in these people until I finally go back home.

My eyes have now trained themselves to glance at Olivia's door before I enter my apartment. She's home, but I don't know what she's doing. I stay on path and go inside my own place. The football and I are still at battle, ignoring each other. I haven't touched it and try not to look at it, still sitting on the opposite side of the couch.

The TV drowns out my thoughts until around ten as I mindlessly watch or flick my eyes over at the football, a bad habit I've picked up. I haven't texted Olivia since lunch, so I do that.