Page 5 of A Photo Finish
“Catch you later!” he calls out as he slips his shades on and folds himself into his silly little car.
I grunt back and offer a terse wave, feeling acutely aware of how growly I am. How different we are.
With the door closed, I walk upstairs to the master bedroom to unpack, and I won’t lie, I’m relieved to find it just as meticulous as downstairs. They painted the room in soft grays and warm whites. It’s a little feminine, but it feels fresh. I even crack a small smile when I see the way Billie has turned down the covers and left a chocolate on my pillow. She is truly ridiculous.
I fold my clothes into the dresser carefully and lay everything out in the ensuite specifically how I like it. Straight. Organized. And a bit OCD about placement. Some habits you pick up in the military never leave you.
When my phone rings, I sink onto the oak rocking chair in the corner and swipe to accept the video call. My therapist’s small, heavily-lined face fills the screen like she’s peering through a pair of binoculars or something. The lenses of her bifocals are so thick they look like magnifying glasses over her eyes as she furrows her brow at the phone as though it’s performing some sort of sorcery. A stack of silver bracelets jangle on her wrist as she tries to hold it out in different positions.
“Cole, I’m not so sure about this. I don’t look good from any angle on this thing,” she muses distractedly, poofing her hair with a small, wrinkled hand.
“Hello, Beatrice,” I reply, not caring about my seventy-something-year-old therapist’sangles.
She tuts me as she settles back in her chair. “I’ve been talking to you for two years. I’m tired of telling you to call me Trixie.”
I stifle the shudder that runs down my spine. There’s just something about calling a grown woman Trixie that feels wrong to me, and I kind of enjoy ribbing her, to be honest.
One side of my cheek quirks up as I stare back at the screen. Her office differs from every other therapist’s I’ve seen over the years. She sees patients in the comfort of her early 1900s-character home. Persian rugs blanket the old oak floors, plants thrive on stands in every corner, crystals dangle in the big windows, and art from her decades of international travel cover the walls. I swear I can smell the patchouli oil she diffuses through the screen of my phone.
Yes, Trixie Bentham is a funny old hippie. She couldn’t be more opposite from me or my family. But she’s also the only therapist I’ve ever had that has gotten through to me. So, I keep coming back, because as detached as I might be, I also know I need this therapy. Which is why she agreed to do video appointments with me while I’m out being a country bumpkin.
“Want me to tell you how I’m doing? About how all I see out here are memories of my dead dad?”
She quirks her head and smiles. “I don’t know, dear. Is that what you’d like to tell me about?”
Ah, the rhetorical question game. One of my favorites. I just stare back at her, which never works, but I do it anyway.
Except today she cackles, all raspy and amused, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and whispers conspiratorially, “Have you run into the girl yet?”
“What girl?” I’m intentionally playing stupid.
She laughs again. “The one you can’t stop talking about.”
Violet
Two years earlier . . .
AmI really about to do this?
I nibble on my bottom lip and let my index finger hover over the mouse. On one hand, this is a colossally bad idea. This could backfire in so many ways. But who am I in the grand scheme of things? A twenty-five-year-old with little to show for herself—except a distinct lack of life experience and independence.
Growing up on a farm smothered by an overprotective dad and three older brothers will do that to a girl.
But now I’m here. On Canada’s West Coast. New job under my belt, new place to live, lots of possibilities on the horizon. Now I need to get to know myself. To rack up some experiences and push my boundaries.
I’m not sure why posting a nude on Clikkit—an online forum with millions of users who dabble in a wide range of interests—is that thing, but it seems risky. . .a little bit exciting. . .and a lot out of character. Which is what I’m going for. I’m tired of being sheltered. I want to feel exposed and uncomfortable without someone here to leap in front of me.
I want to do something young and stupid. Plus, I’m horny and lonely.
I click the button with force. The pad of my finger slaps against the mouse loudly. I immediately feel myself blush. It starts at my toes and creeps up my body. It pools between my thighs and crawls up over my chest before staining my face with its heat.
I can’t believe I just did that.
The image stares back at me. It’s taken from above as I lie on my bed. You can’t see my face and I’m wearing my panties, so it’s not too outrageous. Okay, you can see my small breasts, but in Europe people go to the beach like this all the time. It’s no big deal—or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. The warm morning lighting is nice on my features, and it’s sensual. Usually, I’m hard on my body. Usually, I think everything is a little too small, not what I’d consider ‘womanly,’ but in this picture . . . I feel sexy.
So, fuck it! Look at my tits, world. See if I care!
I almost immediately consider deleting it. But the new Violet Eaton will not give in to that voice in her head, and my new internet alter ego, Pretty_in_Purple, doesn’t give two shits about that voice either.
