Page 69 of I Shouldn't Feel This Way

Aria was not just my daughter, she was my world. My self-destructive days were done, and I did not want to go back. I rotated the rubber ball in my hand a few times, releasing a very irritated sigh. My mind was a huge fucking mess, my marriage was in crisis, and to top it all off, I was working on my biggest case ever with a cocky client who refused to listen to my legal advice. What the hell had I been hired for, then? To make matters worse, my teenage daughter was emotionally confused, and now I was failing as a father because I was too busy dealing with my own problems.

Oh, come on, Noah, you’re overanalyzing things way too much. Simplify it. Life doesn’t need to be all that complicated. Divorce the wife while you still can, before you’ve got a baby on board. Drop that dumbass client and just give in to your desires regarding Ar—

Nope, didn’t want to hear her name, which is why I muted out the last bit as I struggled to sustain some dominance in my psyche. Was this how it was always going to be now, living life through the eyes of Jekyll and Hyde? I squeezed the ball harder, hoping that it would stop my paranoia because I was possibly going insane. In which case, I should have volunteered to be restrained in a straitjacket, confined in a padded cell for God knows how long, until I was cured of this … whatever the fuck it was. It wasn’t normal, and I still felt ashamed about the night before.

No, you don’t. It felt good—admit it. When was the last time you ever blew a load like that? Never.

I snapped and hurled the stupid stress toy at the wall, then stood up and paced my office.

You want her, Noah. You wanted to kiss her in the car. You wanted to kiss her last night. And trust me, you want so much more than that. Shall I list the fantasies in detail?

The thoughts were pure torture. I couldn’t tune them out.

I’m not trying to torture you, pal. I want you to be honest with yourself.

Why the fuck was I talking to myself?

You’re not, I’m talking to you.

What the fuck?

Pour yourself a glass of whiskey and wind down for the afternoon. You need it.

I was losing it, dissociating from myself. Desperate to get a grip, I picked up the phone and dialed my assistant.

“Diane, I need you to make an appointment for me with Doctor Grey … Any available time is fine … I can clear my schedule.” I hung up, and minutes later she called me back confirming my ten o’clock appointment on Wednesday next week. Alexander Grey was a great psychiatrist, specializing in cognitive therapy. He had counseled me before, when I was struggling with my drug addiction. I was referred to many doctors during that time, and the only one who seemed to make a difference was this guy. Coincidentally, I had discovered last year that he had moved to LA. One of my colleagues had mentioned that his son was seeing him for counselling, which is how I had found out. I had paid him a visit before the new year, just to say hi and see how he was doing. He gave me his card and told me to call him if I ever needed someone to talk to. I had faith in Grey’s abilities. I wasn’t going to settle for less.

So, you’re just going to march into his office, make yourself all comfortable on his leather sofa, and tell him you want to fuck your daughter?

There it was, that taunting voice, laughing at me once again. I guess he took pleasure in my torment. The only person I could be angry at was myself. Split personality or not, that darkness within me did exist. I needed answers. I needed to find out why, and the only way I was ever going to figure out what was going on, was if I opened that door that read DO NOT ENTER. I knew I’d have to allow Doctor Grey to take a look inside and assess the damage. I didn’t want to do it alone.

A knock at my door suddenly sucked me right out of my personal purgatory. I cleared my throat first and adjusted my tie before saying, “Come in.”

My colleague Lewis stepped into my office in a sharp navy suit. Ever since he started showing signs of hair loss, he’d been shaving his head.

According to him, he was “bringing bald back.” Lewis was tall and in good shape. He had brown eyes and a dimple in his chin. The man was happily married with kids, and one of my best friends.

“Good, you’re not with a client,” he said. “What the hell are you doing cooped up in here? Let’s do lunch—I’m starving, my treat.”

I abandoned whatever warped reality I had traveled to in the dark dimensions of my mind and plastered on a winning smile. There I was: my cheerful self again, pretending that I wasn’t slowly unraveling at the seams.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

aria

The house was empty when I came home from school, which wasn’t surprising because Vanessa was rarely around. I’d had a pretty average day full of the usual boring stuff, so I decided to liven up my evening by inviting some friends over for dinner. Jessica was the only one who said she would make it—the other girls had cheerleading practice.

Lives of the Beautiful and Popular:that would be a cruddy title for a soap opera.Where do I even fit in?I wondered. My stomach churned every time I thought about Noah.For once, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him.

How stupid can you be? You’ve officially made things awfully awkward now, Aria. Great job!I dragged my feet to my bedroom and tossed my bag on the floor. My weight hit the mattress hard when I collapsed on my bed. The ceiling seemed to be my only focal point. I stared up for the longest while, harnessing my energy to erase the memory of what had happened between me and Noah in the morning. But it was impossible.

After what seemed to be forever, I decided to turn on my iPod and listen through a playlist. I was in the mood for some ’80s music. Now, I know I’m not a product of the ’80s, but the music always puts me in a good mood. That era was certainly the most fashionably confused. Shoulder pads, parachute pants, mullets … I’m so thankful that the fashion industry had significantly advanced and had abandoned retro fashion, locking it away forever in the fashion hall of shame. However, I must admit that I truly loved ’80s films likePretty in Pink,The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles,andWhen Harry Met Sally—oh, andDirty Dancing.I was a sucker for those chick flicks.

When I finally found my favorite track, I turned up the volume and listened to “Talking in Your Sleep”by The Romantics. The only thing getting between me and my math textbook now was myself. Procrastination was a bitch.

****

I had already changed out of my school uniform when Jessica came over. It was almost five, and we were hanging out in my room until Noah would be home with dinner. Jess was your typical all-American teenager, standing at five foot five, green eyes, thin frame, with super straight, dirty blonde hair. She was tanned as well. Almost everyone in this state had cinnamon skin due to the California sun.

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