Page 13 of Choosing Hope
“Room 212.”
“Kalie?” he asks, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“And Jen.” I shrug.
“You’re off your head,” Travis grunts. Throwing back his shot of vodka and grabbing the card, he pats me on the back. “Thanks, mate.”
Spinning on his heel, he sashays off toward the room I’ve just vacated. No doubt with his balls hanging down to his knees.
The moment the bartender saw me; he poured my customary glass of top-shelf Macallan whiskey. I gulp it down without hesitation.
The liquid burns as it goes down, but not enough to wash the filth from my soul. Not enough to scrub out the shame. Because the truth is, this isn’t about dominance or games. It’s about running. Running from the truth, Sophie once spat in my face like acid; that I’m twisted. That the man I really want will never stop making me filthy. That one day my daughter will look at me the way Sophie did—like I’m something rotten.
Kalie’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and lack of boundaries have numbed some of my cravings. When I first met her, I wondered if life would be simpler if I left Sophie—let her move on without me. Back then, it felt like the kindest thing I could do.
But I can’t.
I might not deserve Sophie, but she’s my dream woman. And I’m too selfish to walk away.
I have the perfect wife.
The perfect child.
The perfect life.
But I’m still a waste of space.
The following day, after consuming far too much of a bottle of scotch than is healthy the previous night, I stroll back into my psychologist’s office. I took a cab today to avoid my driver’s scrutiny after my meeting.
“Good morning, Mr. Barton-Jones,” the doctor greets me warmly.
She indicates the chair I met just yesterday, though it already seems like mine.
“Can you call me Spencer, Dr. Klein? It seems less sterile.”
Her smile today seems brighter, as if she knows she’s making progress.
“Whatever you’d prefer, Spencer. You may continue to call me Dr. Klein or Harriet, if you wish.”
I kick off my shoes and slide onto the shaped chair, relaxing into its contours and letting the residual ache left from my drinking binge last night subside.
Following various questions about my state of mind after leaving yesterday evening, Dr. Klein directs me to continue my story.
I close my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to drift back to that time twelve years ago.
“Chess and I kept in contact all year; we regularly exchanged funny videos or messages to amuse each other.”
The doctor bobs her head, her pen poised ready to fill more of her notebook.
My chest tightens as I think about that summer. It's not an easy memory to revisit—not because of what we did, but because of how it ended. Still, I close my eyes and let myself go back to the beginning...
Carlo spoke to her daily. That summer, the three of us forged a close friendship, but like everything with Carlo, his connection with Chess was deeper and more intense.
He found it hard to leave her behind. By the end of the following school year, once the pressure of our exams, followed by the elation of our high school graduation, had passed, we were both eager to get back to her.
Perhaps because of their regular contact, their love had blossomed during our separation. They couldn’t have been more perfect for each other. I assumed they’d exclude me.
Though I needn’t have worried, Carlo had no intention of leaving me out.
