“Like what?” Judy asks.
“I even took a risk and told him about my writing before I really knew him. And when I told him, he acted like he was impressed. He told me he wanted to read it and he even helped me get it out there. He—” I suck in a breath and shut my mouth, still mortified by my utter naivety. I clench my teeth, my lungs feeling like they’re filled with cement as I breathe through the rage, “Then he took it all away and destroyed everything I had. He wanted me to pay.”
“Because he needed you,” Judy says gently.
My eyes shoot up, “How did he need me?” I snap, tears beginning to well. “He just toyed with me, pulling strings in the background, seeing what he could wreck without me even knowing, acting like I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing.”
“I can’t diagnose him because he’s not my patient,” Judy peers at me over the rims of her reading glasses, “but from what you’ve described, I’m positive that he’s a narcissist and likely a sociopath.”
I go still, just staring at her. For some reason, when she says this, the crushing weight on my chest lightens ever so slightly, just enough to notice. I like labels, and maybe this is the kind of label I need right now.
“He can’t feel emotions the same way as you and I,” she continues, “he needs someone who’s empathetic that he can live vicariously through. He’s able to convince you he’s not a threat, that it’s OK to get close to him. But it’s only so he can get a taste of what you feel, but he never will—not really.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?” I laugh bitterly, “This is my punishment for trying to be a nice person?”
Judy rests her chin on her fist with a smile, “Have you ever read Trevor Noah’s book, Born A Crime?”
I shake my head no.
“There’s this really good part where he talks about something his mother said. She said, ‘the traditional man wants a woman to be subservient, but he never falls in love with subservient women. He’s attracted to independent women. He’s like an exotic bird collector,’” Judy leans forward, pinching her fingers together with emphasis, “‘he only wants a woman who is free because his dream is to put her in a cage.’”
●●●
“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” The young woman shrieks from the door of her white SUV.
She slams her door and rushes toward me with a horrified look plastered across her face. She has dark brown hair that’s gathered in a high bun at the top of her head, her glossy nude lips frozen in a grimace as she scurries toward me. And she looks like she’s two seconds away from hyperventilating.
I throw my door shut with a sigh, meeting her at my back bumper. She hugs her arms and stares at my bumper, her arms jutting out of her white tank top, tense with dread. There’s a giant crack through the middle of my Army green bumper, streaked with white paint from her vehicle. She gasps and clasps her hand over her mouth.
God, please don’t start crying…
I’d probably be more annoyed, but now I’m just hoping I’m not going to have to calm her down in the middle of the Starbucks parking lot. I adjust the strap of my grey linen overalls and shift my focus to her.
“Are you OK?” I ask, trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
She looks up at me, her caramel eyes still wide, and realizes she should respond, “Uh…yeah…I can’t believe I just did that. Look at your car!”
I glance back and forth between our bumpers, “It’s OK, I think you won,” I titter, “you could probably just buff those scratches out. I don’t want to hold you up if you’re in a hurry, do you just want to exchange information?”
She seems to calm down when she realizes I’m not about to chew her out for crushing my bumper, “Yes, of course!” she exclaims with relief. “Let me grab it. By the way, I’m Valerie.”
“Brett,” I extend my hand to shake hers, “nice to meet you, regardless of the circumstances.”
Valerie pauses and squints at me, “Brett Sorensen?” The tone of her voice rises with curiosity.
I return the inquisitive look, “Yes?”
“Are you serious?” Her eyes widen and a grin slowly spreads across her face. “I knew I recognized you.” She shakes her head with a laugh, “I just finished listening to your interview with the Spice Ghouls.”
“No way! That’s wild.” And it’s the truth, because this is the first time a stranger has recognized me out in public.
“And, of course,” she rolls her eyes, “I meet you by wrecking into your car…”
“It happens,” I say as I turn to walk back to my door. “And trust me, there are stranger ways to meet people.”
When I duck into the car to retrieve my insurance information, I pause, lingering for a few moments. I glance out the back window at Valerie, starting back toward me with her information.
“Wow…” I murmur to myself before climbing back out of my 4Runner. I slide back out of the driver’s seat and meet her next to my bumper, “I guess I do need to call someone,” I say as I hold out my insurance card for her to take a picture, “my car seemed OK, but now it won’t start,” I lie.
“Oh, no...” she groans as she holds out her card for me. “Well, let me at least give you a ride. I was just going home, so I can wait with you.”
I shake my head, glancing down at my phone to make sure the photo is clear before tucking it into my back pocket, “I can’t ask you to do that. I can just call my boyfriend.”
“Seriously,” she insists, “it’s not a big deal. I’d hate for this to inconvenience anyone else. I’ll pay for you to get towed and I’ll buy you another coffee while we wait.” Then she flashes me an impish smile, “Besides, it wouldn’t be the worst to hang out with the author of my new favorite book.”
I can’t help but laugh. She seems nice enough—normal enough—so her offer is tempting. And she does have a point, it wouldn’t be the worst to hang out with someone who’s so enamored with my writing.
Or me…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Brett
One Year Ago
“When were you going to tell me that you used to fuck Hannah?” I ask while sinking my knife into a ripe cantaloupe.
Bowen slowly turns on his heel to face me, “Come again?” he asks, arching his brow with curiosity.
