Page 49 of Mangled Memory
She knows it’s fake and drops her hands to my shoulders. “Will do, but first things first. What are we doing with this gorgeous hair?”
“I trust you implicitly. Carte Blanche as always.” I wave my hand in a flourish. “Now catch me up.”
She hums and stares at my hair the way an artist stares at a canvas. After a nod like she can see the finished sculpture inside a block of marble, she begins. She chats and tells me what’s happened since I last saw her, how the salon is doing, the growth of the coffee shop and bookstore she opened next door. She’s living the dream of every woman of our generation—bookstore slash coffee shop slash salon entrepreneur.
Every woman but me, anyway. I have my own dream. Aspen & Evergreen is everything I could’ve conjured and more. The nightmare is in not knowing a damn thing about it. So much of it is in the dark, a shadow creeping in my memory. It has thecomposition of the perfect snapshot, and I just can’t find the right angle to make it work.
A lone tear escapes, and Jessi stops her work to hold my eyes in the mirror. She says nothing, waiting for me. If I’m going to pay a therapist, I could see her weekly for the same price, and my hair would be incredible and my heart would be full.
I give her a small smile. “I wish you were a licensed therapist. I’d see you weekly if I didn’t think you’d go home thinking I drive the crazy train.”
“Ayla, I own the railroad. We are all a bit nuts. It’s whether we own it or it owns us. I’m not judging, I promise. But this—” She holds my eyes in our reflections. “This isn’t you having a rebellious streak or feeling antsy or even hormones. There’s more going on in this beautiful brain of yours and the woman I knew—and the woman I know—would settle for nothing less than one hundred percent effort in its untangling. See Joanie and come here anytime. It is no hardship for me getting time with you.”
I laugh as a second tear escapes my lashes and give a firm nod. “You’re on.”
We finish up and I give her a hug as I leave, wandering through the bookstore on my way out.
When I get to my car, a text comes through.
Jessi: Joanie Jacaruso 303.555.1203
Me: You’re a lifesaver. I adore you!
Jessi: I feel the same!
I click the number and the phone rings, spiking my anxiety. While I wait for the receptionist, I hum “Crazy Train” and snicker at how inappropriate my brain is only to be interrupted.
“This is Joanie.”
“Oh. Hi.” I allow the world’s most awkward pause. “Joanie, my name is Ayla Barone. Jessi Marask gave me your name and number. She said you may be able to help with some… challenges I’m having.”
“If Jessi wanted to be a therapist, my practice wouldn’t be half as successful.” Her voice is warm and kind, and I instantly feel like she’s safe.
I wait and she continues, “Ayla, what challenges are you having?”
I bark out a laugh, but it’s full of derision and self-deprecation. “How much crazy can you handle?”
“A lot. And we don’t use the term crazy anymore.”
“Well, I’m no professional and sometimes that word seems to be the tamest I can conjure up. I have memory loss and what I do remember seems to be pieces from more than one puzzle. My family is following doctor’s orders not to spark my memory with anything from my past. And my husband is… well, he’s a whole story. I need a professional who can help me work this puzzle without the image on the box as a guide. Does that make sense?”
“It does. And it sounds like a challenge I’d enjoy. Would you be willing to come in and meet so we can see if we’re a good fit? It’s not a matter of qualifications, it’s a matter of trust. We’ll need that to find that picture together.”
I exhale. She sounds so reasonable and kind and just enough like a nurturer that I don’t getclinicalfrom her as much as curious and caring.
“Yes.” My one-word answer is sincere, verging on desperate.
We make an appointment, and I relax into the drive home, cranking up the music and taking the long way. It’s considerably out of the way, but I pass the studio just because I can, and thrill at the tourists meandering through the street and in the shop.
I’ve got this.
15
boss-level move
Ayla
He pistons with such force, I move up the bed with every thrust. The movement is so powerful, my body recedes back each time he withdraws. I wonder how I can be so aroused, so wet, so into this.
