Page 130 of The Last Good Man

She moves her eyes to her notes and writes some more while I wait for her tobring her gaze back to meand give me some pointers.

Luckily, I get it before she does.

“So you’re saying that…” I murmur. "You think this process is essential. I need to kiss many frogs before I find my prince, but I’m not looking for a prince.”

The thought annoys me so badly I could go through a pack of cigarettes right now, but I’m not glancing at my bag.

Besides, I no longer carry them with me.

What’s the point?

“I’m not looking for a prince,” I say again in a softer voice.

I lean forward, wincing as if I’m in pain.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of quitting,” I go on. “I don’t think I can do this for much longer. I don’t want sex. I mean, I do, but I don’t like this… process. And I don’t know how to find and then connect with a high-quality man. I’m wasting my time, and it’s distracting and tiring to always have my guard up. I mean, look at me,” I say, straightening my back and taking a short breath. “I’m worse now than I was last week. I have a meetup with the Frenchman tomorrow evening and then a booty call with my neighbor.”

“It’s not that yet.“

“Yes. It is. It’s a scheduled booty call.”

“As you say.”

She gives up on taking notes.

I begin to feel that spending time together is pointlesstoo, and I’mactuallythinking of cutting this session short and just going home.

Not waiting to run into Jax again.

If he indeed is supposed to come tonight.

She sighs, and it’s never a good sign when your therapist loses her hope.

“What about this?” she says, sliding the notepad and pen onto the couch. “Let me make some tea, and we can talk some more. I won’t take notes. We’ll just talk. Okay?”

I agree reluctantly, and she moves away while I slump back when I open my mouth and speak.

“Men pick us. Why do men have to pick us? It drives me nuts.”

My stream of consciousness brings her to a halt.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s true. That’s how it is. I can’t be upfront with any ofthem. I mean, I can, but they won’t stay. Too much truth, and they’re gone. Too much reality, and they’d rather spend their time elsewhere with someone else.”

She turns to me and clasps her hands on her hips.

“But that makes things easier for us, doesn’t it? Your man will never do that. He wants reality, the truth about you. He won’t walk away from you or spend time with someone else.”

Regret blossoms in my chest, as if I’ve gotten so close to that and screwed it somehow.

“I’ve made some mistakes,” I say, staring at her.

She unclasps her hands and crosses her arms over her chest.

“What mistakes?”

I chew on my lip in silence.

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