Page 31 of Wes

“You can say that again.” With a mix of apprehension and elation, my heart flips inside me like a fucking world-champion gymnast.

Dr. Abbess goes on. “In our last session, we discussed your recurrent dreams. Have you tried the meditation techniques before going to bed?”

“They haven’t done a thing to improve the quality of my sleep,” I huff. “Plus, now I don’t need to close my eyes for the damn man to torment me.” I hesitate before speaking about recent vivid fantasies starring a hot as sin drummer. Then, I remember she never judges me. This is a safe place. I confess, “My skin ignites all over just visualizing his wide chest beneath me as I run my fingers along his slab of muscles. When he’s near me, breathing and thinking become grueling tasks. Then, reality finds a way to bite me in the ass and I resort to my go-to defense mechanism: Retreat! I clam up inside my little protective shell, leaving the man outside and bewildered.”

She leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “You’re aware of what you do and why. That’s a very good thing, Maria.”

I don’t hide the frustration in my voice when I lash out, “Well, being aware of my shortcomings doesn’t mean I know how not to fall into this pattern again and again. When will I ever learn?”

“I hear you. But awareness is the first step on everyone’s journey to healing. No breakthrough happens without it.”

Unable to remain seated, I get up and stalk around her office. I run my fingers on the soft upholstery of the couch and chairs. I admire the warm colors of the cushions and curtains and the solid look of the wooden desk and bookcases. All these elements combine to create a cozy atmosphere. Today, the room fails to calm me down.

I stop in front of her, resting my hands on my hips. “I can’t say I agree with you on this. I often feel like we’re all victims of the unconscious.”

Dr. Abbess interjects, “You’re not a victim. There are no victims in this story. You can’t blame society, your mom, or the world for anything that you choose to do. It’s your decision, not anyone else’s.”

Returning to the couch, I plop onto the cushions and scoff. “Sometimes I wish I’d never started therapy. I was better off when I was unaware of things, just spewing cuss words at the universe.”

She shakes her head and smiles. “No, you were not. We’ve gone over this before.”

I chuckle. “We have. And you’re right. Being aware of something gives me the chance to work on how to change my behavior toward it. It’s better than spending my life repeating patterns, stumbling on the same rocks, and blaming others for that.”

Dr. Abbess pats my thigh. “Absolutely. You’ve just got to be patient and trust the process.”

* * *

Three weeks later, I’m still waiting for the damn process to bear fruit. It has not. In the meantime, I’ve taken every chance I had to observe Wes interact with staff and the kids in Welcoming Hills. Granted, I haven’t had many opportunities because I’ve been busy busting my ass to save the place. Still, he’s proven to be much different than I expected.

I glance at the upper right corner of my laptop to confirm Wes should be here soon. As if my thoughts could conjure him up, the tall drummer pops up and leans against the doorframe of my office. I’ve come to associate that posture with a kind of signature move of his because Wes does that every single time he arrives here.

“Hey, you,” he greets me with a grin as wide as the fucking Pacific. One of his famous smiles that my poor assistant can never resist.

As my heartbeats spike to the stratosphere, I doubt many people can remain indifferent to this man. Doing my best to pretend I’m unfazed, I slump against the leather cushion of my chair and nod, twirling a pen in my right hand.

“Good to see you,” I murmur.

Which is the truth, so I’m comfortable sharing it. As long as we keep a certain physical distance, I can resist his charm. One can hope. Right?

“Likewise,” he grunts, smoothing a hand over the front of the jacket he’s wearing.

When I recognize it as the one I bought for him in Brazil, I have to poke fun at him. “Isn’t it a little warm for this wardrobe choice?”

“C’mon, it’s San Francisco. It’s never too warm here. Besides, this jacket brings me good memories.” His hazel eyes sparkle with mischief.

I shake my head. “I’ve walked myself into this one all by myself, haven’t I?”

“Yep.” He let me simmer for a beat or two under his sizzling gaze before adding. “Hey, I’ve planned something fun for the kids today. You think you can stop by?” The hopeful note in his voice captures my heart, squeezing it in a tight fist.

My hand flies to my throat as if to alleviate the pressure there. It doesn’t. Blood rushes through my veins, and a chill runs over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

I manage to croak, “Not sure. I’ve got a lot of work today.”

His wide shoulders droop as he pushes off the door, making his white button-down sag over his stomach.

He nods and turns around to leave. “Choices and all that. I’ve heard it before,” he murmurs, splintering my heart.

As I stare at his retreating back, I want to call after him and promise I’ll make an effort, but the words never make it out of my mouth. Still, I clean my to-do list as fast as I can. About two hours later, I stand up and stretch my arms above my head to get rid of their stiffness. The long, wide sleeves of the floral maxi dress I wear fall with the movement. My high heels don’t make any sound on the carpeted floor as I leave my office. I repeat to myself, for the thousandth time today, I have not chosen them to offset the disadvantage in height I have when compared to a certain rock star.

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