Page 21 of Always on My Mind

Chapter 6

Picking at her nails, Jamie took in the office. It wasn’t what she imagined a therapist’s office to be. In the movies, they were always clinical in appearance. Lila’s office, despite the crisp white and beige color palette, had yellow flowers and old leather books, and crochet blankets in the soft cushioned chairs, which made it homey. Or straight out of a Nancy Meyers film, Jamie hadn’t decided.

Not that it put Jamie at ease. A blanket didn’t cover up that this woman was clearly an agent of her father. Dexter Hupp had his hand deep into anyone that was remotely close to Jamie, especially when it came to her career. He’d been in the ear of every manager, agent, and physio she’d been in contact with. A therapist would be no different. She didn’t even want to be in therapy. Who needed therapy when she was perfectly capable of smothering her emotions until her inevitable death?

“Fucking hell. . . ” she muttered to herself, thinking that perhaps she did need therapy after all.

The door swung open and Lila walked through in an oversized button down and jeans, her graying brown hair tied back with a scrunchie. Funky floral glasses framed her face. She resembled the photograph on her website, which Jamie had stalked for most of the previous evening. Lila had been a therapist for fifteen years. She specialized in women’s issues and ran her own practice. All of that was well and good until Jamie found, under the “Other Services” tab on the website, that Lila also claimed to be a psychic. Or “past life regressionist” as she called it online, but that didn’t fool Jamie. She offered Jamie a smile that went unreciprocated.

“Good morning, Jamie,” she said, taking a seat across the coffee table from her.

Jamie sucked her teeth. “Morning.”

“I must say, I’m excited for this journey with you. I’ve never worked with an athlete before, though they do fascinate me.”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, wondering if she ought to be offended by that, but she didn’t get the chance to say as much before Lila continued.

“Especially the men. Can you imagine having that size ego? I supposeyoucan, given your father is one of the most prolific footballers in England’s history.”

“Spoke to him, did you?” Jamie tried to keep the venom out of her voice, but wasn’t successful.

Lila took it in stride. “Yes, in fact, he booked this appointment for you. He warned me you weren’t keen on the idea.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet you showed up.”

Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “So?”

“Well, you are an adult, Jamie. Most adults would simply ignore their parents if given a suggestion they didn’t agree with. And your disagreement is written all over your face.”

Jamie schooled her features, but folded her arms over her chest. The corner of Lila’s mouth turned up as she leaned back in her chair.

“I’m here under protest,” Jamie said.

“Shall I make a note of that in your file?”

Jamie huffed and pushed herself to her feet before striding over to the bookshelf. She expected to find volumes on psychology and other sciences behind therapy, so it took her aback to see book after book of poetry. She blinked at a tattered hardback—vintage by the shabby appearance of it—of an Emily Dickinson collection that held her gaze. Before she realized she was doing it, her hand was reaching toward the weathered spine, fingers outstretched with a familiarity she couldn’t explain.

“Lovely things, aren’t they?” Lila asked, her voice drawing Jamie out of her stupor.

She snatched her hand back to her side.

“You can touch it, I don’t mind,” Lila said. “Though do be careful. It’s over a hundred years old.”

Jamie shook her head, even if her eyes kept flitting over to the book. Where did that possessiveness come from? “No, I. . . sorry.”

“Quite alright.”

“Why poetry?”

Lila crossed one leg over the other. “Because I don’t believe there’s any greater insight into human nature.”

“What? You’re a therapist.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“So you should know that it’s trauma or genetics or something. Poetry, are you serious?”

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