“Attempted murder?” His dark brows slash hell-bound. “That’s a heavy comparison, wouldn’t you agree?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re playing with someone’s mental state. Your actions can ruin their life, murdering their trust in anything real. Your indiscretions might as well be a hand wrapped around their throats, squeezing the air from their lungs. You can kill someone’s faith in what love is supposed to be.” I shrug again, feeling no different from Charles Manson for what I did to Brock. “Murder. Just a tamer definition of the word.”
He looks me over, drumming his fingers against his notepad. “You mentioned your father participating in extramarital activities. Do you think your take on cheating has something to do with that?”
I retreat into my past, trying to figure out the answer to his question. Against both of their parents’ wishes, my parents eloped when they found out my mother was pregnant with me. She’d just turned seventeen. I think my dad was twenty-one. Both sides of my family wrote them off after that. I’ve never met any of them, only heard stories about how cruel and distant they were after my parents left Arizona. My father landed a gig as a lead guitarist and followed the band out to Washington State, where they played at local bars. From what I remember, things were good for a while.
A bittersweet day spent in the park dots my memory as Marty waits for me to answer.
A picnic under a tree.
Smiles.
The bright sun and our laughter.
Youth and naïveté at its finest.
Such is life. It slowly sneaks up, fucking you from behind when you least expect it.
Add in a hungry kid who needed clothing, a broken-down car, not-so-steady work, and a wife struggling with depression—voilà, my father started getting high. He also began sleeping with any groupie who paid him a rat’s worth of attention since my mother wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Either way, after Mom found out he’d knocked up one of the chicks, she started jabbing needles of heroin into her arm right alongside the love of her life.
I sigh, wondering where my half brother is at this very moment. If we look alike. If his life is as messed up as mine.
“It’s possible,” I answer, trying to unfuse my past from my head. “She got tripped up after he did that to her. I hated seeing her sad. It made me sad and apparently it’s stuck somewhere in my brain. But it was her fault. She was young and trusted him too much. She should’ve known better. Supposedly my father was a player from the start. But she had her ways of getting back at him. He just didn’t know about them.”
Marty taps his pen against his cheek. “Do you think your father’s infidelity has anything to do with why you don’t trust?”
“I don’t trust because they were in love and he wound up killing her.” The words are uttered slow and harsh. He knows the answer to his ridiculous question. “That’s why I don’t trust.”
Can’t trust.
Refuse to trust.
If falling in love can turn into a bullet in your skull, what’s the point of giving your heart away? Yet how do you stop your heart from reacting to what it needs?
You can’t.
The organ has a mind of its own, disregarding what might be unhealthy for you. Once it’s been jolted by that spark, awakened by that all-consuming flame, it plays the dirtiest game of all. With each curious beat of wanting to touch, taste, and feel love, the heart routes all logical thoughts from your brain, siphoning them out of that sucker like a thief, spitting them back out onto a highway piled high with nothing but bloody wreckage.
Causing mass destruction to our mental well-being since the beginning of time, our hearts are public enemy numero uno.
“I think you need to tap deeper into the morning he killed her, Amber.” Marty ducks his head, his cantaloupe-sized bald spot aimed in my direction as he flips through some pages of his notepad. He lifts his eyes, the look in them cynical. “The writing therapy is good, but you need to elaborate so we can come up with a solid plan for your recovery.”
“What’s there to elaborate on? My parents were drug addicts, and my father was a psycho who decided to check himself and my mother out right in front of me. Do I want your help? Possibly. But nothing you can say or do can truly help me. Only I can help myself. You overanalyzing my feelings and slight bipolar tendencies can’t change anything. My parents will remain dead, and I’ll continue to suffer from PTSD. I’ve found ways to cope with it. I’m simply coming here because I actually like Cathy and Mark, and it makes them feel better knowing I’m keeping up with my therapy visits.” I lift my shoulder in an unaffected shrug, though I’m anything but. “I’m not ready to talk about that day with anyone yet. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be. Just write my script for my feel-better pills, and for now, let me continue to write in my journal.”
I watch my hired mental help shake his head in what appears to be defeat as his timer goes off, relieving me from having to elaborate.
Score.
I hop to my feet, sling my black leather satchel over my shoulder, and head for the door.
“Amber,” he calls as my hand connects with the knob, “we’re eventually going to make progress.”
I release a puff of air. “See ya next week, Marty.”
I exit his stuffy office, my attention landing on the most yet least complicated part of my life. A part I’m falling for, but sure I’m going to hurt. A part I’m trying to understand, but fear I never will. Lips parted in a sexy smile, and deep green eyes pinned on mine, the reason I’m starting to wake up in the morning, starting to breathe with relief, rises from a chair in the waiting room.