To Catch a Falling Star (3 page)

Again, I smile inwardly. He bit the bait. He is so angry. Passive-aggressive, my ass. He has very easy trigger buttons. How his previous therapist never found and used them is beyond me.

“No. I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

“I’ve fucking tried, okay? Over and over, but it’s always the same shit. I succeed for a while, but only to go back to the same goddamn life.” He stares at the wall.

“Tarry, I know you are court committed to be here. But, for this to work you need to be fully present. If you can give me that much, I promise to help you.”

“I am far beyond the fucking point of help.”

“You clip your wings,” I murmur.

“What?” His sad eyes glance at me. He’s so broken.

“Are you taking all your meds?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” he mutters. “But they’re tapering off.”

“Are you still hallucinating?”

“No. I mean, seldom.”

“How is your sleep pattern?”

“Okay, I guess. I wake up in the middle of the night, and it takes me a while to fall back a sleep.”

“Taking any sleeping pills?”

“No, they make me feel like shit.”

“How are you eating?”

“Poorly.”

“Hum, that’s atypical. Are you excessively fatigued?”

“Think of it, yeah, I’m exhausted half the time.”

“Is the formication gone?”

“Yeah, I mean, no. I still itch like hell over my chest and thighs. But the hallucination with ants crawling under my skin has stopped.”

“Are you easily irritable?”

“Can’t you figure that one out?” he asks bitterly.

“How’s the craving?”

“It’s every fucking minute of every goddamned day.”

Tarry’s stare meets mine, but he wrenches his eyes away and nervously taps his long fingers on his thighs. He’s so lost, so broken. How can darkness and desperation take a soul hostage like this? A precious life wastes away. The pain emanating from him is suffocating. It’s so dense I can touch it with my soul.

On an impulse, I reach for my purse. My fingers tremble slightly as I search for my wallet. It’s time.

FUCK, WHAT JUST happen? Years of drugs must have screwed my brain worse than I thought. I have a profound mistrust for therapists, why am I fucking spilling my guts out? Worse, I sound like a chick.

She’s so beautiful; it fucking hurts to look at her. Goddamnit. It should be forbidden for a therapist to be so damn sexy. As she searches her purse, I examine her face. She has full, tempting lips and high cheekbones. A severe knot secures her hair on the nape of her neck. But her eyes. I could get lost staring at them. They’re green with slivers of gold, like a green forest set on fire. When she pulls a coin from her wallet, I feel expectant, like a fucking retard.

Again, I question my sanity. I’ve been through this bullshit of mandatory therapy for two months and never once have I lost it. This pretty little thing is able to coax me to say more in twenty minutes than hours of therapy ever compelled me to say. Regret ripples through me. Either I’m bat-shit crazy or horny as hell. Clearly, I can’t think straight. I never intended to say so much and sound so bitter. Now, I’m raw and vulnerable. Fuck.

A feasible explanation is the well-fitted and hot police uniform she wears. The dangling handcuffs have my mind on a naughty spin. Hell, I’ll need a cold shower.

Mel stares at the coin and a brief hesitation crosses her eyes.

“Here, this is a lifeline token. Whenever you have the urge to surrender, I want you to hold this coin first.” Mesmerized by her voice, I raise my hand as an obedient puppy would. She carefully deposits the golden coin in the center of my palm.

I bring it close to my face and examine. Each side has an etched picture of outstretched eagle wings. It’s an ancient coin, probably sold by the dozen on some cheesy website. Her drawer must be full of the damn things to give to her pothead and stoner patients.

“The thing about life, Tarry, is that we all have chips on our shoulders. At one point or another, for different reasons, we all stand at the edge of our own limits.” Her eyes are so intent.

“But we always have a choice. This coin holds the value of that choice. When you say yes to the dark side of your soul, you pay a price. Your wings, Tarry. You clip them. You’ll never reach your potential with clipped wings.” She glances at the token. There is so much compassion on her eyes.

“If for nothing else, this token entitles you to call me at any time, day or night. Even when I’m no longer your therapist.” She scribbles a number on a card and hands it to me. “This is my cell. I always have it with me.”

“Okay.” I reach for my wallet. I slide the coin and the card inside. “Thank you.”

“We need to schedule your next visit. Next Tuesday at six, does that work for you?”

“Um, regard—” I gather the words to tell her I would rather wait for the other therapist, when a knock at the door interrupts me.

“Who is it?” she asks.

“It’s Will.”

“Come in,” she says as she makes notes in her records.

“Hey, gorgeous, are you guys done?” Will pokes his head inside.

“Just about.” She grins at him.

“Mommy!” A little girl dashes across the room.

“Hey, sweetie!” Mel opens her arms. The girl from the picture jumps on her lap.

“Guess what, Auntie Portia’s baby kicked from inside her tummy. I saw it,” she says.

“Really?” Mel’s voice is an octave lower. She stares adoringly at the little girl.

“Who is he?” she asks, without missing a beat.

“That’s Uncle Tarry.” Will pecks a kiss on Mel’s head, then picks up the girl. “He’s like a brother to Auntie Portia. He is going to spend some time living with us.”

“Hi, Uncle Tarry, my name is Ella. Did Uncle Will tattoo your arms?”

“Oh, no. I had these before I met him,” I say, as she glances at the ink on my arms.

“Oh, when I turn eighteen I’m going to get a tattoo too. Mommy said I have to wait though, ’cause I’m only five.”

“Yeah, you have some time ahead of you.”

“Ready to go, man?” Will asks me, putting Ella down.

“Yeah, sure.” Shit, I didn’t tell her I won’t be coming back.

“Thanks for picking up Ella, Will.” Mel grins at Will with the same adoration she used with her daughter.

“My pleasure, this firecracker is always fun to be around.”

“Tomorrow I pull a double. Can you keep her for me until eleven?” She gathers some papers, inserts them in a drawer, and stands up.

“Yeah, sure. But this is your second double this week.” Will frowns.

“What can I say? I sell my hours for a living, not million-dollar paintings.” She jokes, but her voice has a fuck-off tone.

“Just saying, Mel. No need to get all pissy on me,” Will says.

“You know I’m not pissed. But you sound just like Dad or, worse, like Mom.”

“I just don’t like to see you overworking when I can help.”

“Hey, Will, let’s not go there. I’m a grown-up with responsibilities of my own. If I need, I know to ask, okay?” She throws her purse over her shoulder.

“Sure you do,” he mumbles.

“Let’s go.” She blows out a harsh breath, which ends the conversation.

Silently, I follow them. Will tosses Ella over his shoulder. She giggles. Hanging upside down, her blond curls bounce like golden springs. She flashes a smile and her tiny hand waves at me.

“Who wants to buy a sack of potatoes?” Will spins and Ella screams through the empty halls. A pang of envy bites me on the ass. He is so at peace with the world. So fucking happy.

“Uncle Will, I’m not a sack of potatoes. I’m Ella,” she yelps in between giggles.

Parked next to Will’s black Range Rover is a hideous and ancient mustard-colored Ford model. Mel yanks open the back door and I’m afraid it’ll fall off the car.

I stand back and light a cigarette. Will and Portia have a smoke-free lifestyle, so I don’t smoke in their car or house. Resisting the overwhelming craving to drink or get high is hard enough, so I reserve the right to have nicotine fixes.

“Bye, Uncle Tarry.” Ella waves sweetly at me as Will buckles her booster. Her eyes, same shade as her mother’s, twinkle.

“See you, Ella.” Unable to hold back, I blow out the smoke and grin at her sweet face. When I look up, my eyes meet Mel’s stare. Fuck, my cock stirs to life. And her brother is right next to me.

“See you Tuesday, Tarry,” Mel says, almost like a confirmation. I bet she knows I am not returning. During the session, I appeared as comfortable as someone hugging a porcupine.

“Sure.”

Will kisses Mel’s cheek. “See you tomorrow, gorgeous.”

“See ya.”

She sits behind the wheel and turns the key. The engine coughs up, but dies. I glance at Will and see his jaw muscles tightening. She ignores his deadly stare and tries again. This time, the engine harshly squeals to life. She sheepishly waves our way and pulls out into the street.

“I can see you don’t approve of your sister’s car,” I say, opening the door to the shiny SUV.

“For Christ’s sake, how someone with a sane mind can drive that piece of junk? Mel is as stubborn as a mule. Try convincing her to accept a gift. I’ve yet to find a way around her touchy feelings to get her a decent car.” He nods sternly. His thumb ferociously fidgets with his wedding band. “I do understand her being attached to the car, since it belonged to Tim. But safety should come first.”

I chuckle. He is overbearing and overprotective. I make a mental note to stay the hell away from sexy little sister.

“What?” He glares my way.

“No shit, man. Just a moment ago, I had this shitty envy of your life. But with hindsight, I’m good, man. Between Portia and your sister, you have your hands full.” I sprawl on the luxurious leather seat.

“No shit is right, dude. You haven’t seen a thing, wait until Mom is home,” he says, maneuvering the car. A foolish grin spreads across his face. “Who am I kidding? I love these women more than my life, man. Honest truth.”

“Yeah, sorry to break it to you, but it’s all over your face man. You are putty in their hands.”

“Can’t dispute that.” His grin gets wider.

Will turns on the radio, and I watch the winding road surrounded by woods. Will and Portia live on a fucking deserted farm. Yeah, three horses and all. I’m staying in their barn, which they converted into a guesthouse.

“Portia is anxious to know how the session went,” Will says.

“It was all right,”

“Are you hungry? Portia cooked your favorite potato salad.”

“I’m not hungry, but I’ll stop by. Don’t want Miss Pregnant-Pants to get antsy on me.”

“Gesture noted and appreciated. She is worried sick about you, man.”

“I know. Sorry, I wish I could help. Portia is just as overbearing with me as you are with your sister.”

“I’m not overbearing.” He frowns.

“No shit.” I smirk.

“Maybe some,” he muses. “But did you see the piece of junk? How can I allow her to drive that death trap?”

He pulls into the garage. “Let’s go around the back. I’m going to grill steaks and corn.”

The evening sun is setting beyond the woods. We stroll around the house to the patio. Portia waves at us. She is sitting on a wooden bench by the creek and watching Dominick splash water with his feet.

“Daddy! Uncle Tally!” Dominick dashes our way.

“Hey, buddy.” Will scoops him off the floor. “You are all wet. Let’s go inside to dry you off so you can help me at the grill.”

I watch them going inside. Dominick is a copy of Will. Jesus, never seen something like this.

“Hey, peaches. Feeling better from the upset stomach?”

Portia strolls toward me. She smiles, slides inside my arms, and enlaces my waist. “Yeah, I’m better.” She squeezes me tight and says, “It is so good to have you here.”

“Wow, since when did you get so emotional, peaches?” I say. But truth is, I kind of need her embrace.

“Oh, leave it to the Millers to rub off on you.” She grabs my hand and hauls me to the wooden bench. “How did it go?” she asks.

“Swell,” I say.

“That bad, huh?” She rests her hands over her tummy. She is about four months pregnant and a small bump has appeared.

“I mean, Mel seems to be a real good therapist and all, but it sucks to do this, you know,” I say, thinking of how to tell her I’m not returning.