My receptionist, Sophie, has been with me since I opened. She’s the perfect compliment to my quiet intensity and drive. She’s silly, loves some good gossip, and generally balances the office out. She’s also insanely organized—not to mention good at finding and vetting new patients, something a young practice like mine desperately needs to keep our doors open.
“Anyone?” I ask.
It’s become my daily question to her. I’m about one step away from chasing ambulances to the psych ward at the local hospitals. When you’re writing your dissertation, conducting studies, and trying to generally keep your head above water, you forget about the business side of it—the part that’s currently kicking my ass right now. Give me your hardest psychological case and I’m good. I can figure it out. But talk to me about patient acquisition, rent, and dealing with insurance companies on a daily basis and that’s where you’ll see my inexperience.
Sophie looks at her giant, double computer screen, which she’s only doing for my benefit because she knows how much I spent on this fancy, overpriced office software. Even though she’s just about my age, Sophie’s an old school secretary, and after humoring me with a scanning of a screen that’s probably open to a celebrity gossip page, she looks down at her giant tome of an appointment book. “Nothing at two,” she tells me. “The porn addict called back wanting to try a second session, so I put him in at three.”
“Perfect,” I tell her.
“Good. And if you want my two cents, I’d have him wash his hands immediately before you start any sessions, we all know what he was up to—no pun—before coming in.”
“Ewww,” I say, laughing. I’m pretending like I wasn’t thinking the exact same thing. “And that reminds me,” I joke, “let’s get on that cleaning service to sanitize the bathroom.”
“On it,” she laughs. “Although, it might be better to keep him out of the bathroom. I’ll stop at CVS on the way home and grab a giant bottle of sanitizer—pump action. No pun again.”
I laugh hysterically. “That works too. Anyone else?” I’m trying not to sound desperate, but I could really use some new clients. Money is getting to be a real problem in my life.
“Nope, the masturbator is the last one.”
Shit.
I look down and see her doodles. She scribbles little notes and sometimes pictures next to names as her own mnemonic device. I’ve spoken to her about it a few times but I’ve all but given up on trying to change her inappropriate appointment shorthand.
“Wait,” I say, looking down at the doodle she made next to Michael’s name—or as she calls him, ‘the masturbator’. “Is that a…”
“Little dick? Yup. It seems appropriate given his issues, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m never going to remember his name unless he becomes a regular, but in the meantime, I can use my doodle to remember him for his issues.”
“Jesus, Sophie.”
“Hey, we all have our systems. I haven’t done you wrong yet, have I?”
She really hasn’t. “Nope. You’re the best in the city.”
My phone vibrates. I look at it and remember that I can’t take new clients today anyhow. “Fine,” I say, submitting to her pornographic doodles. “Actually, even if any new clients call looking for a last-minute appointment, push them off to a different day, alright? I don’t want to stay past my four o’clock appointment slot today.”
Despite being insanely professional when dealing with the practice, Sophie’s like a bloodhound when it comes to anything involving gossip and scandal, and especially anything involving my love life. Not that there’s much to gossip about lately, but when there is, she’s on it like ants on a dropped piece of candy. I swear she’s practically sniffing her nose up in the air right now.
“You got it—nothing new today. And why’s that, exactly?” she asks that while pretending to do something on the computer.
“I’m going to. . . oh, wait, that’s right, it’s none of your business.”
She stops pretending to work and looks up at me from her seat. “So, where’s he taking you this time?”
“Who?”
Her eyebrow jumps up a few degrees. “Come on, you know who.”
I decide to play coy, just because I like to mess with her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Fine, keep your non-secret secrets. And tell Andrew I said hi.”
The Andrew she’s referring to is Andrew Barnett, an upscale attorney I met at a bar a few weeks ago. He’s nice. That’s about it.
“I will,” I tell her, finally breaking the facade.
“So where is he taking you?”
“Same place as always. It’s our spot now— not that I was looking for a spot in the first place.” O’Malley’s is a huge lawyer bar downtown, which I didn’t even know was a thing. Andrew loves it there. I already know what he’s going to order when we sit down—rum and coke. And you know why I’m so confident in that order that I’d put $1,000 I don’t have down on it? Because Andrew is as predictable as the sun rising in the east.
Sophie does her sniffing thing again as soon as she hears the obvious blah in my tone. “And you sound thrilled about that. Like, prom night level anticipation, right?” You can cut her sarcasm with a knife, but she’s not wrong.
“It’s just. . . I don’t know, maybe my standards are too high.”
“No such thing when it comes to guys. Go ahead and say it. I won’t tell Andrew, I promise.”
“Say what? He’s a good guy, Soph—he has everything a girl could want. His life is the perfect dating profile.”
“I’m sensing a big but.”
“I feel like a bitch saying it.”
“Bitch is just a word guys invented for women with a strong viewpoint. Just say how you feel. This right here,” she says, waving her fingers in a circle. “This is a no-judgement zone.”
Floodgate opened. Challenge accepted.
“Fine, he’s vanilla ice cream, okay?” She laughs, hard. It sounds harsh hearing it out loud, but I’m finally being honest. “And not even those small batch gourmet vanilla bean ones you get at Whole-Foods, either. He’s one of those cheap 711 tubs—the ones with ice all over them ‘cause they’ve been in the freezer too long.”
Sophie applauds—literally. “Yes, girl! Finally. And I get it, he’s as exciting as dry toast and a glass of tap water.”
“That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? We just compared him to prison rations. He really is a nice guy.”
“Stop right there. You’re the expert in, like, everything, but I know men. Trust me, no woman wants to fuck the nice vanilla toast man. And if you don’t want to fuck him, then you don’t want him at all. He’s basically a dating placeholder—and a boring one at that.”
Things with Andrew are comfortable, but Sophie’s right, I don’t want him in that way. Not emotionally, and sure as hell not physically. The problem is he’s tried to get me back to his place a few times now, and each time that he does I have to make up some terrible lie to avoid the situation. I know he’s going to try again at the end of the night, and I’ve already composed a short list of excuses to choose from when he does.
It’s not his fault, he isn’t doing anything wrong, but I’d be lying if I said I was into him like that—he’s every mom’s dream, but he doesn’t make my body tingle in the places it should. Not even close.
“Anyway, that’s my problem to deal with. What about the rest of my schedule before my boring date. Is there anyone slated for my four o’clock appointment?”
Her eyes light up. “I don’t know where my brain is. I totally forgot to tell you about this one.”
My ears perk up at the sound of a potential new patient. “Oh yeah?”
“This guy called right after you left yesterday. He specifically asked for your last appointment for the day, so I put him in the books for four.”
I’m intrigued. “What did he sound like?”
“Like an orgasm.”
I giggle. I love when Sophie’s inappr
opriate. “Why’s that?”
“Really deep voice. The kind that makes you tingle in all the right places.”
I smile. “Okay, so what did this sexy stranger say his issue was?”
“I don’t know—making women soak through their underwear too often?” I laugh hysterically. “He didn’t, really say. All he did say was that he’d heard you were one of the best therapists in the city.”
“Well, he’s not wrong there.” I’m joking, of course. Unlike a lot of my colleagues who do this work to stroke their own ego and write books about all the groundbreaking things they do, I’m in this for the patients and nothing else. But, still, its nice to be recognized for doing what I do.
“I told him that very thing.”
“Good job,” I praise. “Remind me to give you a raise, okay?”
“Oh I will, don’t you worry. Thing is, he was insistent that he be your last appointment and that he see you today.”
Weird. “Why? Does he work nights or something? Why the last appointment?”
“Didn’t say,” Sophie tells me. “He was a man of few words. Normally they chat my ears off about all their issues like I’m the damn head shrinker, but this one was curt. Not in a bad way exactly, just sparing with his words.” Interesting. “I’ll tell you what, though, I almost got your fancy office chair wet when he spoke to me.”
“Really? That sexy of a voice?”
“It’s hard to explain. It wasn’t just that it was deep—it was the command he had in it—the type of voice you’d say yes to no matter what he was asking you—or telling you—to do.”
“And I get to meet this mystery man at four, you say?”
“That’s the weird thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re going to be meeting him exactly?”
Okay, now I really am confused. “What do you mean?”
“He said that he knew you already. His exact words were, ‘from a past life’. And he had a really strange name.” Strange name? Oh my God, it can’t be. “I wrote it down ‘cause Lord knows I wasn’t going to remember.”
“Show me.”
Sophie turns her book towards me, and I see it right there in black ink—a name I haven’t uttered out loud in years.
Preacher.
The boy who owned my heart and possessed my soul.
The one who broke me.
Two—Lyric
The Past (June of Junior Year)
“You are. . .a melted peanut buttercup—a little messed up, but still delicious as hell.”
Kennedy is starting to piss me off. She just won’t let it go.
“You’re one hundred percent Kyle’s side piece. Just in case no one’s had the balls to tell you.”
That’s my best friend, Kennedy, doing her judgmental best to make me feel bad about the boy I’m getting all dressed up for. So far, I’m not biting. “I disagree. I think I’m definitely his. . . piece.”
My twin sister Jessalyn seems indifferent to the whole issue, but then again she’s indifferent to most things. Right now, she has her face buried in a book you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to read. Kennedy turns to my genius sister and forces her to choose a side in the age-old debate that’s baffled philosophers for centuries—'Is Lyric Kyle’s side piece?’
“Jess!” she yells. “Stop reading and help me win this argument with your sister.”
Jess looks up with her trademark expression that’s a seamless blend of mild judgment towards whatever it is someone is talking about that isn’t what she wants to talk about, combined with mild contempt. Easier to separate a starving dog from a piece of meat than to separate Jessalyn from a book. I guess that happens when you have an IQ as high as hers. The girl’s a literal genius.
“Huh?” she asks.
“Jesus, get your head out of the clouds. Thank God you’re pretty, Jess.” She’s really stunning, she just doesn’t know it—imagine a supermodel face and body, but with Stephen Hawking’s brain, and you have she-with-whom-I-shared-a-womb-with.
“I guarantee my head’s in a better place than yours.”
“Of course you think that.”
“Ladies!” I yell, breaking up the non-fight. “Who cares? There’s no debate anyhow, Jess, so you can get back to. . .” I strain my neck to look over at the cover of that tome she’s holding but I can’t quite see. She saves me the trouble and turns it so the cover is facing me. “What the hell is that? It’s like, textbook big.”
“That’s because it is a textbook, silly. Did you know you can find these online for practically pennies on the dollar. This one is a few years old but it’s still amazing. I think it’s from an Intro to European Political Philosophy course or something. Six bucks used on Amazon—can you believe that?”
“That’s not what I’m having trouble believing,” Kennedy answers. “It’s that you treat old boring school books like you just got your dream gift on Christmas morning.”
Jess ignores Kennedy. She’s good at that. “So what’s the debate you want me to settle?”
“Whether or not Lyric is Kyle’s sidepiece.”
“Well that depends,” Jess says.
“On what?”
“Well, what’s the alternative?”
Kennedy looks at her, puzzled. Jess has a talent for taking what you think is a simple question and making it into that problem in math class that you can never solve no matter how hard you try.
“The alternative?”
“Yeah,” Jess repeats. “As in, what else could she be if not his side chick?”
“His girlfriend,” Kennedy answers. “Duh.”
“Wait, I thought Kyle already had a girlfriend.”
“Ha!” Kennedy screeches. “Side piece, like I said. Thanks Jess, I knew I could count on you.”
“He said they’re broken up.” Uhh—if there were ever a line spoken by the other woman, I’m pretty sure that was it.
Kennedy gives me the skeptical eyes. “Girl, please. That’s what they all say to their side pieces.” They both laugh hysterically at my expense. “But it’s not Kyle who really wants you anyhow.”
I make a face. “You and I both know that’s not ever happening, so don’t worry.”
“Draven’s a kid who’s used to getting what he wants,” she says. “One way or the other.”
Draven. How do I describe him?
Imagine every high school bully in every movie and TV show—the cartoonishly cruel one who has so few redeeming qualities that you hope he gets his ass kicked by the hero. Now take that kid, make him the entitled only son of the richest family in Arkham, give him a varsity jacket and amazing grades, add just a few more drops of douche—then you’d have Draven Griffin.
And, just my luck, he’s always had a thing for me. When we were in middle school he called me his project—the girl from the wrong side of the tracks who wouldn’t drop to her knees the second he smiled at her.
He’s tried to get with me every year since he was old enough to realize he could use his dick for more than just going to the bathroom. Draven trying to get in my pants became part of my calendar, like Christmas break and finals week, and every time he tried I turned him down because. . . just. . . no.
“Wait,” Jess says. “Back to the Kyle thing. Did we settle anything?”
“Nope,” Kennedy says. “It’s settled in my mind. But maybe you’re okay being side pieces on the East End.”
Kennedy knows how to push my buttons, and the best way is by calling me an East Ender in the way that she means it. I’m proud of that title, but not when it’s used as an insult. And technically I’m really a tweener—one of six houses that sit along Houston Street, the block that separates East and West Arkham.
Even though I’ve gone to school with the West End kids since we were in diapers, I’ve always been considered an outsider because of where I live and the fact that my parents actually work for a living.
“Maybe I’m just a secret girlfriend.”
I hear it as it
leaves my lips, and I’d do just about anything to take those words back. It’s like a movie, when the main character says something dumb and every action in the room just stops. That’s what just happened. I kind of deserve it.
“I’m no expert,” Jess says. “But I’m pretty sure the words ‘secret’ and ‘girlfriend’ don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“However,” Kennedy jumps in. “Secret and side piece go really well together.”
Fuck my life.
The truth is my self esteem is in the same place as my physics grades—total trash. And when your self esteem is low you make bad decisions. I’m years away from the psychology degree I’m going to get one day, but I already know that much.
I don’t need a psychology textbook to tell me that, either. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. What’s worse, I’m doing it to myself right now. I know deep down that my sister and Kennedy are right—there’s no such thing as a secret girlfriend, and I have seen Kyle’s ex, Miranda, hanging around his locker lately—laughing too hard at whatever he’s saying, twirling her hair in annoying little circles, touching him on the shoulder. I haven’t seen him return her affection, but I’ve heard the rumors that they’re back together.
I guess I let myself believe what he tells me because I like the way I feel when I’m with him. When we’re together, I feel attractive—I feel wanted, and those feelings are a drug cocktail more powerful than any pharmaceutical company could ever invent. When he’s kissing me, I feel like the hottest girl in the school, and all of my problems seem to melt away.
Maybe I am that dumb girl I always made fun of—the one who believes a boy who tells her she’s beautiful because she needs to believe him. I probably am. But I can’t seem to stop hooking up with him, and even though I know Jess and Ken are just looking out for me, I really want them to just let me live.
I know they have a point, but I’m going to argue it out just to make sure. “He just told me that he’s still hurt from his breakup with Miranda and that he’s not ready to be open about us because his friends will ask too many questions.”
Preacher: The East End Boys Page 2
