Page 4 of Rather: The Therapist

“Here!”

Sliding the phone across the table, she released a shaky breath.

“My God.”

Agitation was one of many emotions displayed through movements and expressions.

“He can’t save you, either, Lola. Not from me.”

“Prie–”

“Fortunately, you’re no longer on my radar.”

“Lola, what the fuck is going on?” Clueless, her fiancé breathed.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Congratulations on the baby, Howard. Hopefully she gets around to telling you about the one she birthed and deemed unfit for her lifestyle yet is responsible for the architect of the very restaurant you’re sitting in tonight.”

I pulled Princeton into my arms and tucked my piece, simultaneously. With both cell phones in hand, I trekked toward the door. Though I was seething at the lack of interest Princeton’s womb donor had for him, obtaining her signature, terminating her parental rights, soothed the aches and made for a perfect dinner night.

“Mr. Valentine.”

“Mr. Valentine.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Valentine.”

“Good evening, Sir.”

“Let me get the door for you.”

It wasn’t a secret I owned the establishment. Front-of-the-house staff were privy to the information. Not because I’d shared it but because they were the bread and butter of the company.

When Christmas bonuses were distributed, I handed them out personally. Those familiar faces that saw me every other week for my night out with Princeton at the only restaurant he didn’t need his headphones for were flabbergasted as they accepted envelopes stuffed with hundreds of thank yous.

The evening air was free of humidity. A slight, steady breeze lowered my temperature and kissed my cheeks. Victory was mine. Princeton was mine, wholly. Mine alone.

A single tap of my fob unlocked the doors of the Ghost. The tip of its nose caved to reveal the jet-black Rolls Royce emblem. It rose to the occasion as my engine roared due to a remote-controlled start.

Sleek and black in color, it suited the name it had been given. Without the city lights of the night, one would have a hard time adjusting their vision to pinpoint the damn thing. Though it was massive in size, it camouflaged well. The simplistic design gave it that ability.

“Here.”

Princeton’s best friend tumbled to the ground as I opened the door. The reverse concept was ideal for mothers and fathers with children still in elevated seats for their safety and protection.

Together.

Separately.

I repeated the steps in my head, remembering to fasten every snap so I didn’t find Princeton on the floor, attempting to crawl underneath my seat, again. The mistake of ignoring the second step because we were running slightly behind for The Gathering one Sunday evening proved to be a mistake just minutes after taking off.

With Woody in his hands and his body secured in his car seat, I checked the child safety lock out of sheer habit before shutting the door and taking my seat behind the wheel. Out of the parking lot and into the Clarke streets, Princeton and I cruised. Every other Thursday evening, it was more of the same.

Routines.

They made our world revolve as seamlessly as it possibly could. On Thursdays, we ditched the dinner table for dinner at Spectrum.

The leather’s warmth intensified under the pressure of my hand. Tightly, I gripped it as I angled the wheels toward the exit of the lot. A calm, steady flow of instruments filled the ride, keeping Princeton settled and in tune with reality.

Slowly, I bent every necessary corner and stopped at every traffic light glowing red. Nineteen minutes later and I killed the engine in the six-car garage. Eagerly, Princeton waited to be removed from his seat and placed on his feet. With his hand in mine, we entered our home through the back.

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