Page 41 of Fall to Me
Does excessive cunt teasing count? No, probably not.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Controlling behavior, excessive lying, easily angered or agitated?”
I shake my head to each of those. “No. The only thing he’s done is pursue me. Relentlessly.” I chuckle.
“Ah. He’s persistent.”
“Well . . . that’s one way to describe him,” I mutter.
“Anything else?”
“He’s the only person who’s been able to pull me out of my . . . episodes. Not even Aspen could do it. He calms me down. I guess what bothers me is he’s almost too good to be true. You know? And that makes me wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.”
“What do you think that stems from?”
I sit there with what I know is a “what the fuck” look on my face. Where do I think that stems from? Hell, I don’t know. If I had all the answers I wouldn’t be here sitting in her office, now, would I? But instead of voicing that, I shrug my shoulders.
Her pen moves across her paper, then she sets it down, steepling her fingers together. “River, you mentioned that your mom and dad didn’t display a healthy, loving marriage to you when you were growing up?”
This isn’t news. We’ve been over this time and time again, but I nod anyway because she’s obviously going somewhere with it.
“Then you ended up in an abusive marriage of your own.”
I nod again as she picks up her pen.
“Is it possible that you may be projecting?” she asks.
“Umm.”
I sit there in silence and really think about things. Since my teens, I’ve thought that men didn’t really have feelings or a capacity to love. I didn’t really know what being loved felt like by any boyfriend in high school or my ex-husband. All of my relationships have been purely sexual. My dad didn’t love my mom, and though he never hit her, he wasn’t the nicest to her either. Then, I married my ex, and he turned out to be an abusive sociopath. But Cal’s been good to Aspen. Ivan’s good to Evie. The way Carter treats me begins to run through my mind. Could he? Noooooo. That makes no sense.
Holy shit.
My blurry eyes lift to hers.
“I can see the gears turning,” she says, looking at her watch. “I want you to take some time to reflect on what we’ve discussed today. Write it down in your journal and we’ll talk about it. Same time next week?”
“Yes,” I nod, wiping the stray tear off my cheek.
“I think you’re making progress. I’m proud of you,” she says, opening the door.
“Thank you,” I say as I pass her to leave.
I’ve made three people proud, and, most importantly, one of them was me.
After making a few necessary stops along the way, because you know, retail therapy after therapy, I arrive home. The minute I open the door, blaring music hits me right in the face. Jesus. How are the cops not already here on a noise complaint? I can’t even hear myself think. I toss my keys on the entry table, set my shopping bags down, and make my way into the living room, looking for the remote so I can turn the volume down.
Where the hell is it?
I toss a throw pillow back, and as I do, a very off-tune voice belts the lyrics to Aerosmith’s “Crazy”. My head snaps to the kitchen. Carter really leans into it with his eyes closed and head tilted back, while using a spatula as a microphone.
I stand back, watching him, covering my laugh with my hand, and shaking my head. His eyes find mine, and he smiles, belting it out even louder while he dances his way to me. My head tilts back as laughter flies from my mouth.
God. He is crazy.
“W-What are you doing?” I yell out as he approaches me.
