Page 8 of Revenge Cake

“No, I really can’t. I think I might be in love with her already.”

“Oh my god! You told me just three hours ago that you weren’t going to be in another relationship for the rest of college.”

“Yep, and I meant it, but that was before I met Leilani.”

And I feel like my entire life could be divided into Before Leilani and After Leilani, like pursuing her might be the most important thing I ever do. I knew it in my gut the moment I looked into those severe brown eyes as they saw right through me.

CHAPTER 3

Present Day

Leilani

“I want to make him regret it,” I tell my psychologist.

Dr. Scott’s eyes widen minutely. He uncrosses his legs, then crosses them again. The moment therapy started, I launched into a calm, almost robotic recitation of the events of the last thirty-six hours, and Dr. Scott just finished complementing me for respecting Logan’s boundaries. Instead of rolling my eyes—as I was sorely tempted—I got straight to the point.

When he doesn’t comment, I continue. “Which means I need to get healthy. He’s not going to regret losing this shell of a person I’ve become, so I need to fix things. And since I only have thirty days, I need you to tell me what to do without any placating bullshit—no offense. I’m not that fragile anymore. Just tell me what I need to do to become the woman I was four months ago.”

He doesn’t flinch at my rudeness. I’ve always appreciated that about him. He has the perfect demeanor for a psychologist—pleasant and unflappable.

If only he also had helpful things to say.

“That’s not really a question I can answer. If you want to ‘get healthy’”—he makes air quotes—“we can talk about strategies, but I can’t guarantee you’ll become who you once were. I’m an existentialist.” He smiles. “I believe we are who we are right now. It’s impossible to become the Leilani of four months ago.”

I fight the urge to scowl at him. Isn’t there some psychology rule where you don’t allow your personal beliefs to guide therapy?

“Well, I’m the one seeking therapy right now, and I’m a nihilist. So nothing matters, and nothing you tell me will have lasting consequences in a world that may not actually exist. So just tell me what to do to make my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend suffer.”

He smiles faintly, because he thinks I’m being facetious. It’s annoying how he always assumes the best of me, that all the snark I throw his way is just playfulness. Even three solid months of weekly therapy hasn’t taught him my vindictive streak.

“Up until today,” he says softly, “you weren’t open to weaning your Ativan use. Is that still the case?”

Startled by the question, my eyes dart to his face. There’s a wealth of understanding behind the dark eyes staring back at me. My throat freezes when I realize he knew. He knew all along. Apparently, he’s not as dense as I’ve always thought he was. He knew I was taking too much. Was it that obvious, even to someone I see for fifty minutes once a week at ten in the morning on a Monday?

“No,” I answer, my voice strained. “I’m willing to cut back. Even cut it out entirely if necessary.”

“In that case,” he says, and suddenly his voice sounds very loud, like he’s shouting at me. “I recommend cutting out daily use, at the very least. That medication was never meant to be taken every day, as I’m sure your doctor has already explained.”

My doctor prescribed it at your recommendation, I want to say. “Yes,” I say instead.

“If you feel a panic attack coming, use the other strategies we’ve practiced instead. Try to cut your use to every other day at first.” In a lowered voice, he adds, “even if it means allowing yourself to have a panic attack.”

I want to shut my eyes in despair, but instead I nod faintly.

“And if you find you can’t do that, Leilani, and you may find that it’s very difficult, then we should talk about other options.”

“Like a Narcotics Anonymous program?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.

“Yes.”

***

My heart pounds as I leave the counseling office, but even fear can’t curb my anger. On the contrary, I’m energized with rage. My body feels so light, I could almost skip to where I parked my car this morning in Lot 22.

When I step into my bedroom, I glance at the clock on my desk. 12:06. Over twenty-four hours since my conversation with Logan, and yet my exhilaration hasn’t waned. How can brain chemistry change so drastically from one moment to the next? I remember sitting there in silent panic, waiting for him to deliver the final blow, and then storming out of his apartment in righteous fury not ten minutes later.

How is this happening? Losing Logan was my greatest fear!

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