Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Infuriated with his insinuation that I’m an idiot who knows nothing, I snap, “Then if you know so much about them, why’s mom been banging your boss for the last two years?”
The words slap him in the face forcing him to take a step back.
“Bet you think you’re the only one fucking around in your marriage.” My head mockingly tilts to one side. “Wrong.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Right. I don’t know that when mom says she’s going to the masseur every week yet you’re only getting billed for one visit a month, that she’s really going to a hotel downtown to fucking blow the man that signs your checks. Just like I don’t know that when you’re out bullshitting with Mike in his yard, she’s been having ‘girls’ night’ on his yacht. Sucking his cock and coming home to you to not suck yours!”
Rage and resentment roll around his expression.
“How about you hold all goddamn advice about healthy relationships until you fucking have one of your own.”
--
“You attacked him.”
“I stood up for myself,” I correct while ashing the candy.
“No.” Doc swiftly disagrees. “You attacked him just as he had you; however, you at that moment were no better than he was.”
The turmoil of the truth shoves the stick back between my teeth.
“And part of you knew that. And part of you wanted him to know he was no better than you. That you were more alike than he would’ve ever admitted.”
Denial is on the tip of my tongue yet stays put.
“Your family did not make the transition easy on you. You wanted them to approve of Bambi whether you admit it or not. You wanted – much like when you left Blue Dream – to be welcomed into a world you have only felt like you were on the outside of.”
A glare is unconsciously twitched. “Maybe.”
“Collins, it’s crucial for your progress and for your future for you to decide what family is.”
I wanna look away.
I wanna look everywhere else but know that I can’t.
That I shouldn’t.
“Family for every individual doesn’t mean the same shit, Collins. You need to stop assuming and acting like it fucking does and forcing yourself to obey stereotypical social standards of what that entitles. You need to decide the definition of what that is to you and move towards it. If that means cutting your father completely out of your life, then fucking do it. If that means telling your brother to suck cock, then do it. If that means simply sending your niece crappy cards and stuffed toys in the mail, stock up on fucking stamps. Whatever the fuck it is you need to make a decision about it and act on it. You’re not fucking eighteen anymore.”
A lump of anguish climbs up the back of my throat.
“You made the choice to be here. You could’ve given that PI the slip at any point. You are making the choice to stay here. You could’ve been done with these sessions weeks ago and bailed back to your old life. You are choosing to change. To grow. To fucking heal. You have more control than you’re allowing yourself to truly accept. Use that control. Use that control and decide what family and your future means to you.”
Doc stands, turns, and exits without waiting for my response.
Honestly?
I’m grateful he did.
I don’t have a rebuttal.
And truthfully need some time to think of one.
Chapter 8
Presley
Theory 4: Gestures of Love Are Always Symbolic
My eyes stay plastered on my feet that are barely moving.
When did I get these shoes?
I hate these shoes.
I hate everything about them.
The color.
The style.
The feel.
Why do I keep them?
Why do I wear them if I hate them so much?
“Presley,” Xander’s short of breath voice calls from the treadmill beside me.
Why do I still have him if there’s no passion?
No love?
What’s keeping me here?
“Presley,” he calls out a little louder this time successfully summoning my stare to his, “why aren’t you running?”
The words are out of me without a second thought. “I hate running.”
“It’s good for you.”
“No, exercise is what’s good for you.”
“Which is what running is.” He wipes the sweat off his brow with the same white towel he brings to the gym every time we come as if it’s a victory swipe. “Now, pick up those knees and get going. We have brunch with the Alverezs to hear their pitch about us donating to their nonprofit that advocates for cleaner water at animal rescue shelters.”
I hate working out together.
And like so much else in my life or our life or whatever we call the conjunction that’s in session he’s the one who insisted we do it. Logic told him if we ate the same meals our work outs should be the same and done at the same time to save on gas. Never mind the fact that we’re built completely different or have two different paces of life.