I take a long time in the shower, because Loveless has a lunch session today, and Juniper won't be in the cafe because she has a scheduled phone call with her English boyfriend. I like the other girls, but there are still moments with them when I feel a little like an outsider.
I haven't seen Marchant yet, thank God, I realize as I slide into a muted aquamarine sundress. It hugs my bust, shows off my waist, and makes my legs look long; the fabric gets more sheer as it nears the floor. Under the dress, I'm wearing pink ballet flats. I take my time drying and straightening my hair and pull the top layers up into a barrette. I stick diamond earrings into my ears—they're loaners, and real—before spritzing myself with one of the house-approved perfumes and sliding my leather bag onto my shoulder.
Apparently I was going slower than I thought, because by the time I reach the cafe, it's mostly empty. I grab a muffin and a slice of turkey bacon and check my phone for a text to let me know where I'll be spending the afternoon.
My stomach roils when I see: Dr. Bernard—Love Inc. Psychologist
Immediately I dread it. I run back to my room, call and check on Suri and Cross—both about the same, Suri says—and grab a ginger ale for the trek down to the manor where all the official business gets done.
I put on a calm face but my mind is racing. What does Dr. Bernard want with me? Is the good doctor a woman or a man? How can I talk to them if they don’t even know my real name? Richard must have told them. Damn!
I shouldn't be so nervous about this, but I'm in knots by the time I reach the small office on the third floor of the building. The doctor's nameplate is mounted on the door, so I figure she must be the official Love Inc. shrink.
Elizabeth Bernard.
How much do I dread thee? Let me count the ways.
The door is closed and my phone tells me I'm a little early, so I drop down onto the plush mini recliner in the hallway and try not to bite my long, pretty, red nails. I'm obsessing over whether she will recognize me as the daughter of an addict—as if every shrink in the West has heard about my mom—when the door opens and a nice-looking woman about the age of my estranged grandmother steps out. A quick once-over reveals shoulder-length gray-brown hair, a loose, floor-length brown skirt, and a surprisingly stylish, flowing beige blouse.
Her thin lips curl into a smile that looks more welcoming than anything, and she extends her hand; the nails, I notice, are as bare as her face. “Scarlett. Please, come in.”
I don't take her hand, something I'm sure she notices, but I don't really care. I've seen enough therapists to last a life time and now that it's 'go' time and the belly bats are gone, I don't plan to go out of my way to assure this woman of my sanity. I played those games my whole childhood. I make good grades and have nice friends. So what if my mother slit her wrists last week? If I want to flap my arms and cluck like a chicken, what will she do to me? Tell Richard that the ranch shouldn't host my auction? Um, I think not.
She waves to a cozy, suede-looking blue couch with gray pillows sporting cut-out felt daisies. I take a seat on the end nearest the door, because there's no reason not to. I don't want to be here and I'm not going to be anything but honest.
She sits down in a small, orange leather recliner and pulls a pillow under her elbow. “Shoulder surgery,” she says with a wince. “I'm still recovering.”
I nod. It's not like I care.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Bernard? What’s the reason I’m here?”
She shrugs. “I'm not sure there is one. I speak to most people who come through the Love Inc. ranch as a matter of policy. You aren't an employee, of course, but you've been here for...”
“Ten days,” I supply. “And in three more, I'll be gone.”
She gives me a gentle, knowing smile. “You don't want to talk to me.”
“Guilty.” I feel a little awkward, but there's nothing I can do to stem the flow of animosity I feel for anyone sitting in an armchair with their PhD on the wall behind them.
“You've seen a therapist before.”
“Dozens.” I cross my legs. “One of the things I dislike the most is the questions, so let me answer them for you. My mom's crazy with a capital 'C'. She's been a drug addict or an alcoholic, in and out of rehab, since I was a young child. She married into money and my dad was in love with her at first, I think. Over the years that faded, and at some point he started traveling a lot for business. One of the...plants—” that would be bottling factories— “he visited was in Salt Lake City and about thirteen years ago, or maybe before then, he started seeing Linzie. He has two daughters with her—at least I'm pretty sure he does because one of them looks like him and the other one looks a lot like me. When I went to college he left Mom, sold the controlling share in his family's company, which had been in decline for some time, and moved to Utah to be with his new family. Yes, I'm bitter about it. And it doesn't help that Linzie is a bitch.
“My mom is in rehab as we speak; only it's not really a rehab, it's more like a spa, and it's costing us more money than we have. My oldest friend, Cross, got into a motorcycle accident after a party where he and I had a fight, and he needed help paying for his care. I knew—well, knew of—Marchant Radcliffe, and I got the idea to sell my virginity.”
I think that’s a pretty tidy summation of what’s the what. The first half, about my family, I’ve given several times before.
Dr. Bernard arches her delicate brows. “That's quite a story. Frankly I don't know which part is the most dramatic.”
I wrinkle my nose. I'm not used to a therapist being this direct. It makes me feel like being direct, too. “I wouldn't call it dramatic as much as just...screwed up. Seriously screwed up. At least the part about my family. The part with my friend—” whose very distinctive name I should not have mentioned— “was just an accident, and the part where I sell my V-card is obviously an attempt to get money.” I purse my lips, looking for some levity. “At least it's not a kidney.”
“Did you consider that?”
I nod, smirking. “It's less profitable, crazy though that is.”
“That is crazy,” she says. She looks down at her lap and makes a note on a pad. “Before we continue I want to make sure you are aware that I know your real name.”
I gulp. “You do?”
She nods. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. However, in my notes I’m referring to you as Scarlett.”
I frown. “Do you know who I am? Like, my identity?”