Page 39 of Rather: The Therapist

Dwelling wouldn’t change my reality. Nothing would, because I wasn’t willing to let it. That pain was too familiar to take a chance on experiencing it again.

By the time I made it to the bedroom sofa, my interest had shifted. The television was no longer in my plans. The darkness I was surrounded by suited me well.

I tipped the glass against my lips, sipping the harshness right from it. As I lowered it, the fact of the matter smacked me across my chest.

She didn’t come.

10:23.

The following day, my wheels reversed from the garage at The Mansion. Foolishly, I’d revisited. Foolishly, I’d waited twenty minutes. Foolishly, I’d kept my eyes trained on the door that never received a knock.

With my tail tucked and some unfamiliar feelings attached to the resentment I was experiencing, I exited the gates.

Each passing minute she wasn’t within my grasp, I craved her more. Any human with a decent dome would accept the neglect and push forward.

But, I was stuck. Invested. Immobile. Paralyzed. I didn’t want Rose any less than I had last night when she didn’t show. I wanted her more. A lot more.

10:18.

Day three, I walked out of my suite, knowing she wouldn’t come knocking. The smile on my face as I slid into the driver’s seat was contradicting. Misleading in the worst way.

I was festering. I was longing. I was yearning. I was aching. I was not happy, though the upward corners of my lips said otherwise.

Where the fuck are you, Rose.

And, who the fuck are you with?

The thought of her belonging to someone else was repulsive. My stomach flipped as I imagined her legs spread, her pussy wet, and her mouth waiting for another nigga.

Our rendezvous was supposed to remain in the suite and it would, but she was making it hard for a nigga not to come and find her ass. Before believing she was purposely avoiding the suite, I needed to hear that shit from her mouth.

Because, the sadness in those pretty, dark eyes told me she was counting down the seconds we’d meet again long before we even left one another’s side.

10:32.

I combed the ballroom on day four. There were no signs of Rose. I didn’t have to search to know she wasn’t there. It was simply a way to pass time and get my thoughts in order.

A conversation with Ariel and a drink at the bar led me to the conclusion it was best I took off for the night before my dick ended up somewhere I didn’t want it to be.

10:48.

On the seventh day, I waited the longest without a cup in my hand or even the jacket to my suit. The day had been long and my patience was thin.

However, I still waited. And, in waiting, I began to forget all that was troubling me.

The delayed shipment was pushed to the back of my mind. The accidental fire at the plant was right beside it. The fact my youngest brother had wrecked his fourth car in sixteen months and would need three surgeries and a year’s time to heal wasn’t far behind them.

In my suite, as I did the unthinkable by continuously waiting, I collected myself. Right on the bed where my worries had gone to rest and where I’d laid her body down, I closed my eyes as the finality of my time at The Mansion toyed with me, mentally and physically.

Fuck it.

I summed up the losses I’d taken day after day, coming to wait in vain. I trashed them motherfuckers right along with the attachment to the suite and the woman who brought it to life. From the moment I saw Rose, I knew what type of woman she was. Yet, and still, I played with fire.

Slowly, my temperature lowered and the coolness of the room was acknowledged again. I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and took the stairs to the first floor.

When I entered the garage, I placed the mask on the shelf where it belonged. For a second, I lingered, thoughts in disarray, again.

“Ursula.”

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