Chapter 22
Cash
Eventhesunseemsto mock my misery. It’s been a perfect fall. The weather is warm, the Patriots are winning, and everyone around me has fucking smiles on their faces. People in Boston never smile—they’re called Massholes for a reason. They grimace, they gripe, they’re fucking miserable—but it seems the entire city is delighting in my misery which only makes me angrier.
My first appointment with my therapist was completely useless. She expected me to do all the work and refused to tell me how long this would take, when I could reach out to Grace, or provide any other metric as to when I’d be deemed mentally healthy enough to pursue a relationship.
“There’s no time limit, Mr. James,” she’d said in her cool tone as if she thought I was an imbecile. And I must be because I’ve gone back to her bi-weekly for the last two weeks. Four sessions in, and I’m no closer to figuring out how to move on from what Grace did. I just don’t know how I’ll ever trust her again…and without trust…
I haven’t even begun to skim the raging ocean wave that is the discussion I had with my father. To say the words aloud, to admit the truth of his statement—that I killed my own mother—is too much for a therapy session at this point.
To make matters worse, or better I suppose some would say, Cat and Hanson’s latest plans for the company aren’t half bad.
I’d actually sat across from them at a meeting and cracked a smile when Cat suggested a fashion show for the release of our newest malt. It will attract a different crowd, and honestly, old-money investors will have their chins on the floor over Cat’s model friends. The plan is for the models to carry different liquor bottles down the runway, and we’ll be serving only drinks made by our two companies—now our combined company. Even I could admit that it sounds fun, but as I watched Hanson squeeze my sister’s hand reassuringly after she sold me the idea, I felt a pang of jealousy. I used to have that with Grace. Will we ever have it again?
So now I’m walking into my useless therapist’s office again hoping today she can provide me some sense of when I can talk to Grace. Or provide some insight as to how I can move on from what happened.
“How has your week been?” Lydia asks as she settles her pad against her knee and quirks an eye up to look at me. There’s no couch for me to lie on. Honestly, it would be easier if I was lying down and looking away from her. Now I have to come up with an answer as I watch her study my every facial expression. It’s like she can see that I’m calculating a reply. Trying to come up with the answer that will have her declaring me mentally healthy enough to be done with this exercise so I can tell Frank I’m ready to be reunited with Grace.
“It was good. I actually had a very productive meeting with my sister and her”— I choke on the word—“fiancé.”
That’s something else that happened over the last two weeks. Hanson publicly proposed, and my sister accepted as was the plan all along. I gulp down my disdain that she has to go through this because of me—because of what Grace did.
And we are back to circling the problem I live day in and day out. How do I forgive Grace for something that affects every one of my siblings’ lives? How do I even attempt to get her back when I can’t face what she did? I can’t understand it. I can’t make peace with it.
“Well, that’s good.”
“It is,” I admit. “And the event that they’ve planned is only about a week away, and I was thinking of using it as a peace offering with Grace—maybe ask her to come.”
Lydia’s face transforms into instant disapproval, so I roll back my suggestion. “Or not…it’s probably a bad idea to do that in a group setting, huh? I should probably reach out when it’s just the two of us,” I offer.
Her face remains tight. “And what would you say to her at that type of get-together?”
I huff in annoyance. I’ve been quite obvious in my reason for coming here. “I’d tell her I want to be with her. That I want to work on us…that I”—I hesitate—“forgive her.”
“Do you?” Lydia says, her tone giving nothing away.
What is the right answer here? What will get me her approval? “I understand that she didn’t think Vanessa would use the interview to disparage my family.”
“But you don’t understand why she did the interview in the first place,” Lydia counters, hitting the nail on the head.
“Well, yes and no. I know why she did it—to help her career,” I admit begrudgingly. But I still don’t know why she would do that tome—why did she pick her career over our relationship?
“And do you forgive her for that?”
I grimace. It’s an impossible question. After an hour I leave the appointment with no new answers and angrier than when I walked in.