Page 54 of Her Filthy Mistake

Jace

This is the last place I want to be, but after growling at everyone all week, Everleigh sent me home and told me not to return until I’ve seen my therapist. And if I didn’t love my job and feel an obligation to my employees, I’d have turned in my two weeks’ notice and skipped town.

Where the hell would I go? I sure in the fuck can’t go to KC and shack up with my brother and Carly. By now, they must know about the drugs, alcohol, and my alleged girlfriend. My hands ball into fists.

And the smackdown I did on Fletcher. Which I feel fucking ecstatic about. And how I used Zoe. The image of wrapping my hands around Fletcher’s neck and squeezing until his eyes shoot out across the room flares into my mind for the millionth time.

“So….” Dr. Travers rests her forearms on the desk between us and arches an eyebrow. “You seem on edge.”

“No, shit. You’re very astute.”

“Well….” She nods slowly. “I appreciate your willingness to show emotion, but we know that transference of anger onto another person is unhealthy, don’t we?”

I glare at her for a good minute before standing and pacing the floor. Dr. Travers is the best. She’s the only person who’s not let me off the hook. She’s strict but understanding. I rotate my shoulders but continue to pace. “I drank for the first time in almost three years.”

“Once or fall off the wagon and stay there?” Her eyes pierce into me as she sits in a black executive chair with a pad of paper in front of her and a pen clasped in her fingers. Not that I’ve ever seen her write in it. I think it’s mostly for looks. Or maybe when a patient leaves, she fills it with our pathetic ramblings.

I chuckle despite myself. “Once.”

“Why? That doesn’t seem like you at this point in time in your recovery.”

“I’m not in recovery.” I drag my hand through my hair again. I let that son of a bitch to get to me. No. It wasn’t him. It was knowing Zoe would believe every word he said and choose him over me. That’s what did me in. There was no winning in that situation. Even if that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t do anything that ruined her life.

“Yes, you are. Now explain to me what happened.” A strand of her black hair flips behind her shoulder.

Everything comes out in a choppy blast of sentences, rage, and heartbreak. For one second, I was on top of the world. I had her. And now, she hates me. I made sure of it.

“Shit.” I spin to face her as I swallow hard.

Her eyes are wide in her ashen face. “That’s–”

“Oh, I get it. You’re used to bullshit stories to explain why someone uses. I don’t expect you to–”

“Sit down.” She points her index finger toward me. “Now.”

Without question, I follow her command. She’s no-nonsense, but this is out of the ordinary for her.

“Okay. You know I don’t normally give advice because this is your therapy to explore your own feelings and responses to those feelings. I don’t try to dictate someone’s acceptance of responsibility.”

“Yes. I’m well aware of that.” The muscles in my neck are tense and strained as I prepare for someone else to lose faith in me.

“This is wrong.” She waves her hand in front of her. “This entire situation is criminal. What that man did to you. How he used you to get what he wants. It’s disgusting. And to think he’s doing this to his own daughter as well. The man is a narcissist and a gaslighter. You’ve got to tell her the truth. She deserves to know that he’s manipulating her and lying about you.” She shakes her head, causing that lock of hair to slide back over her shoulder. “And the police. You need to tell the police everything.”

One minute passes. Then two. My brain can’t comprehend that she believed every word I said. I scrub my sweaty palms on my jeans as one layer of anger fades away. “I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t believe me. And the police? They would laugh in my face.”

“How do you know?”

“I…. I just know. I’m not trustworthy and reliable. Her father is those things. No one would believe me over him.”

“Then make her believe.”

“How?” I throw my hands into the air as a fresh wave of frustration and dejection crashes over me. “She smelled the whiskey on my breath. I relapsed. I can’t take that back.”

She leans forward, and while I can’t see them, she adjusts her legs, setting the right one down and crossing the left one over it. “What was the alternative?”

“What do you mean?”

“What was the alternative to drinking? What would you have done?’

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