Bowen shrugs, “Do it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He laughs, “What—do you have some prior commitment? Come on, destiny’s waiting.”
And, honestly, I can’t think of a good reason not to.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Brett
Present
“Like I said at our last session, I want to try something new with you today,” Judy clasps her hands pensively, “it’s called Accelerated Resolution Therapy.”
She looks pretty excited. But, then again, Judy always looks excited. She brushes her flowy sagebrush skirt down her leg and bounces her foot, adorned with bright orange polish and matching shade of Chaco sandals.
“Research shows that bilateral stimulation helps repair parts of the nervous system that are damaged when someone goes through a traumatic event.” She motions around her head emphatically as she explains, “ART helps your brain process all that through eye movements and, as a result, your nervous system actually heals and desensitizes you so that you no longer have severe reactions when exposed to triggers.”
It's a nice thought, not waking up trying to claw my way out of my bedroom or, at the very least, not feeling like there are someone’s eyes boring into the back of my head every time I leave my house. Not like it matters if I leave my house…I feel like he’s there, too.
“This will keep me calm whenever I think about him instead of giving me anxiety and panic attacks?”
A wide, mischievous smile spreads across Judy’s face as she slowly nods her head.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, “OK, let’s do it…” my chest trembles as I try to keep the lump in my throat down, “because I can’t live like this anymore.”
●●●
“Seriously,” I toss my turquoise leather cross-body across the console to the passenger seat, “thank you for everything. We should do this again, except without the car repairs,” I say with a laugh.
“It’s the least I could do, especially after smashing your bumper,” Valerie glances to the side sheepishly, “did insurance cover the entire thing?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nod, “aside from waiting on the part, the whole thing was pretty seamless, even with the weird ignition issue.”
By late afternoon, my 4Runner is otherwise good as new and I’m finally about to head back home after Valerie drops me at the dealership. With a promise to make plans next week, she embraces me in a farewell hug coated in vanilla and orange blossom perfume and turns to head back to her SUV.
“Oh, um—” Valerie turns around and opens her mouth, but hesitates before finally shaking her head, “never mind.”
“What is it?” I ask, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Valerie bobs her head back and forth briefly and then approaches my door, “What—” she lowers her voice, “what did you mean by he has a type?”
“Who?” I scrunch up my face, utterly oblivious.
“Ah…um…” she stammers, “the guy…the one you told me about.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “Sorry, that guy.” I squint at her with amusement as I pull my seatbelt across my chest, “You want to know?”
“Sorry,” her eyes fall to the asphalt and she shakes her head again, picking at her lavender nail polish, “I shouldn’t have asked, that’s weird.”
“No,” I shrug, sliding my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, “it’s OK. It’s in the past. I don’t mind talking about it anymore.”
I press my brake pedal and push the ignition. The engine roars to life, just as it should, and I start bobbing my head to the Limp Bizkit song that blares through the speakers at a much higher volume than I left it before my car got towed. I suspect the mechanics were having a good time…
I turn to the window and rap a few lyrics at Valerie, “Sorry,” I giggle before refocusing my attention, “I like this song.”
She doesn’t seem as mirthful as I am right now. In fact, she looks downright unsettled for someone whose vehicle hasn’t been in the shop for two days. I glance over her shoulder at her SUV, shiny white in the blazing summer sun, and then turn back to her.
“Anyway, his type…” I take a deep breath and rest my elbow on the edge of the window, “redheads,” I deadpan.
Valerie stares at me intently, waiting for me to say more, “Redheads?”
“Redheads,” I repeat, “it doesn’t matter what kind—light, dark, long, short, ginger, tan…but it’s a double-edged sword. If you’re a redhead, he loves you to death—literally.”
She furrows her brow and glances across the parking lot, “And if not?”
I hesitate for a moment and then lean forward, lowering my voice, “Then you’re either a knowing accomplice or unknowing dupe.”
It’s just as well that Valerie can’t see my eyes behind my tortoise shell sunglasses, because otherwise she might just grow antlers and turn into a real deer in headlights in the middle of the Toyota dealership.
“Well,” I jerk the gearshift into drive, “talk to you soon!” I flash her a smile and pull away, leaving her still standing in front of the service department.
Cranking up my playlist, I give Fred Durst all I have until I hit the freeway and then begin to relax and let my mind wander. For someone who recognized me as Brett Sorensen the author, it’s kind of odd that Valerie never really asked about my book—just that one comment when we met on the day she listened to the Spice Ghouls podcast. Then again, there were other things going on, like her smashing into my bumper. Plus, she probably had other things on her mind before that.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m finally pulling into the gravel drive flanked by two junipers. I park the 4Runner out front, and as soon as I reach the front door, my eye catches a small box sitting at the bottom of the oak door. It’s a run-of-the-mill brown cardboard box, but there’s no shipping label on it—or any label, for that matter.
I stare at it for a few moments before jerking my head up and looking around, doing a scan of the property from the porch. All I see is the vast span of trees across the lawn and the empty driveway that leads to the road. I’m still alone here, as far as I can see. Slowly, I reach down and grab the box, no bigger than my hand. It feels empty, but as soon as I turn it over, I feel something slide across the inside.
