Page 129 of The Penalty

Dr. Frances shifted in his chair, pen in hand, notepad open. He’d grown on me too, mostly because he seemed to figure out my moods and learned not to push me to engage with him. I’d already said everything I needed to say about what happened at Constellations the other night. I even talked about yesterday’s match, which we lost. All of that took a grand total of eight minutes, meaning I still had roughly forty more to suffer through.

Didn’t matter to me if I sat here in silence. He’s getting paid regardless.

My focus tightened on the painting, studying the layered details of the farmhouse. At first glance, nothing about this landscape had seemed extraordinary, but the intricacies jumped out at me now.

The fractured wooden facade.

A buckling snow-covered roof.

Several broken windows.

With every excruciating second that passed by, I noticed the flaws more and more.

“What is it about the painting that resonates with you so powerfully?” Dr. Frances’ inquiry intruded on my thoughts.

“Everything,” I answered without hesitation.

He jotted down a few notes before asking, “Can you give me a specific example?”

Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back. Normally, my resolve to give him just enough information to make these sessions bearable would kick in by now. But the more I thought about what happened the other night and the more I allowed my feelings for Victoria to consume me, the more I fell apart.

Just like that fucking painting. I glared at the imperfections. Their unveiling came faster and faster.

Chipped paint on the siding.

Uneven stairs.

Crooked door-frame.

“No.”

“Do you…maybe…see yourself as the farmhouse?”

Fucking hell. “No.”

An eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses. Without saying another word, Dr. Frances wrote for a few seconds. He paused, looked at me, and wrote some more.

Not going to lie. It pissed me off.

“Is that what you’re writing?” I nearly exploded. “That Xavier Maddox views himself as a broken structure, barely keeping himself together so the adoring public won’t know how fucked up he is beneath it all?” I dug my fingers into the cushion, unable to stop myself from talking. “That my carefully curated life as a global superstar athlete is all for show? That I use attention and adoration as fucking bandages to hide my self-loathing and inadequacies?”

Stunned silence stretched between us.

Shit. I shouldn’t have said all of that.

“Stay with this, Xavier. You’re making a breakthrough that I think will help point you in the right direction.”

“Fuck you.”

I stood up and walked out.

An hour later I sprawled on the couch in the sitting room of Briarcliff Cottage, staring at the drum sander. My plan for the day was to do some work here after my session with Dr. Frances but that clearly went off the rails. Still, being in this house helped relieve some of the stress.

Cursing him out and leaving wasn’t a good look. The man was just doing his job. And that’s why I go to him, right? To stop denying all the shit I’d been burying for years.

If I can’t handle it, that’s on me.

Wow, look at me sounding all adult.

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