by Lacy Camey
I’d seen that look in the movies. She was gone! I smiled and looked around. Then suddenly, near the side, standing against the wall, I saw Doctor Hood!
Oh. My. Gosh.
I immediately looked down at my phone, hoping not to be seen. Panic, embarrassment, and adrenaline shot through my body. What was he doing here? Was he stalking me? Was he checking on my progress? My social interaction skills? No, impossible. But who was he there to see?
Not able to handle seeing my therapist see me at a concert, I told Chloe I had an important phone call from Chris, and I needed to go somewhere to be able to hear. I made my way through the crowded warehouse and outside to the fresh air. I was happy to see a green picnic bench and sat down, relieved. I played the Bejeweled game on my iPhone for a quick two minutes, when suddenly I heard the gregarious front man thanking the crowd.
Any minute, I guessed, the guests would start exiting the building, so my best bet was to head toward my Rover. Just as I was about to call Chloe, the hot mystery man I had seen hiding in a towel hours earlier walked out the door. He was just as startled to see me as I was to see him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“What are you doing here? I’ve seen you before. You’re Maycee’s sister, right?”
“Are you stalking me? Looking for Maycee?”
“Um, no.” He laughed. “Cute, but no. My brother is playing.” His phone rang. “Speaking of, that’s my brother, Ryan.”
He answered the phone. “Hey, man. Killer set! You’re taking me to the Grammys when you guys go platinum. Don’t forget. Sure, I can go eat with you. Oh, you’re bringing a friend? A girl?”
Crap, I thought inside. I had known Chloe long enough to know her magnetic charm, and I just knew she was the friend going to eat with the band, which meant that I was the friend of the friend going to dinner with the band. I was going to dinner with mystery man.
Chapter Eight
Moments later, I was with the band eating my absolute favorite kind of food, Mexican, and Mr. Nameless sat directly in front of me. While my BFF rattled incessantly about medical facts, I stuffed my face with chips and salsa as if I hadn’t eaten in days. I had, but I was making up for the weeks of not eating anything. Everything was great until I heard four words.
“How ‘bout them Yankees? Just need to land this game, and we’ll be going to the Series!” one of the band members asked his other band-mate.
“You’re a Yank? You suck. You always stack the teams. It’s just not fair. The Sox better win,” The other guy said defensively, letting his allegiance come out full throttle.
“You’re just a baby who didn’t get his way, and whose team doesn’t have all the money. We got Mason,” his band-mate replied.
“Yeah, whatever. It’s way too early to be betting on the Series.”
I placed my chip on the plate, and it was as if everything went to both slow motion and silence at once. I looked around the table. Everyone was in their own conversations. Chloe was into her conversation with the super cool music guy. Everyone else remained completely oblivious to my silent, fast-approaching meltdown.
We got Mason.
Any second, I just knew I would explode with either tears or some sort of vulgar language to shut up the lame sport fanatics.
Then he spoke to me. “You okay there? Something in your sauce?”
I shook my head from the daze. Before I could reply, it got even worse.
“Pitcher needs to get back into the game. His game’s been off.”
“Exactly why the Sox will go to the Series.”
“The Series is months away. You can never tell,” he protested.
My eyes naturally made contact with him, only to find he was staring at me.
“You, uh…” He smiled and laughed nervously. “Wanna dance?”
There was a dance floor filled with Salsa dancers.
I didn’t know exactly what had gone down with him and my sister, but he was totally being a lifesaver. I couldn’t stand being at that table feeling alone, wallowing in self-loathing over ‘the name not even worth saying.’ So yes, I decided to dance with Mr. Mystery Man, though I didn’t yet know his name.
“Yes, that actually sounds great.” I threw my napkin on the table. As I walked toward the dance floor, I smiled because Chloe looked at me with wide, shocked eyes as she continued to be her animated self while telling a story. Yes, I am actually getting up to dance, my eyes telepathically shot back to her.
We’d talk about it later, I knew.
A song played that I was familiar with. Merengue. Perfect.
We both started dancing. I could instantaneously feel the happy endorphins visiting me.
“You’re a good dancer!” I said in surprise. “Very nice moves.”
“What do you expect? It’s in my blood. I’m Orien Jones, by the way.” He held out his hand.
“Norah.” We shook hands. A spark flashed through his eyes.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know?”
“I know your name.”
“Oh, I didn’t know yours,” I teased.
I continued to dance, enjoying the moment, when suddenly I had an epiphany. He didn’t look at all like his brother, Ryan.
“So, Ryan’s your brother?”
He nodded.
“No offense, but—”
“But we look nothing alike?” Ryan had pale skin and dirty blonde hair; Orien had gorgeous tanned skin and light honey-brown eyes.
He took my hand and twirled me.
I saw sadness creep into his eyes for a split second and decided I didn’t want to ask.
Quickly changing the subject, I said, “I love Merengue. It’s so much easier than Salsa to me. I mean the feet with Salsa-“
He took my hands and pulled me closer. He was smooth.
Um, gulp! My heart rate like shot up to 160 bpm.
“Norah, its okay. You can ask me. You can finish your question.” But before I could, he continued, “We have different mothers. My mother died when I was younger.” He twirled me.
Not knowing how to respond since I was learning what it meant to face my own pain, I didn’t want to linger on that topic. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. She’s in a better place” He smiled.
The music changed to a slower tempo, the type of song that couples danced to. Now, come on, I didn’t want to be completely rude. The guy had just told me his mother had passed away. What was I supposed to say? “Thanks for pouring your heart out, now I’m going go sit back down?”
So, we kept dancing.
He kept looking at me with a soft smile and a gentle gaze. Feeling a tad uncomfortable, I glanced away and felt a strange heart palpitation.
Were those butterflies in my stomach?
He studied me for a bit. “You have such beautiful, hazel eyes.”
I felt myself blushing. “Thanks.”
And he had beautiful eyes as well, I noticed. And his arms were… well, strong. A glimpse of him running on the beach flashed through my mind-those amazing abs, that perfect hair, that-
What was I doing? I had to shake myself free of the craziness. After all, it appeared he had stayed over with Maycee from the evidence of the remains of pancakes and plates and two coffee mugs left out from their breakfast, and him hiding as soon as we drove up. What type of guy does that? I mean, my sister is practically engaged.
I decided to confront him.
“So, tell me. Um, so you know my sister is like, almost engaged, right?”
“Yeah, really? Oh, that’s great,” he said like nothing even registered.
I furrowed my brows.
Try another tactic.
“So you have a thing for blondes?”
“What?” He laughed “Um, I really don’t have a type.”
Does he not get it? Okay, enough with the pleasantries. I would take a more blunt tactic.
“Okay, look. I saw you in a towel, outside, by the side of our house this morning.”<
br />
His face froze, completely still, for an entire three seconds.
Then, his innocent angel face exploded into laughter.
“I was in the black Range Rover that pulled up,” I said.
“Oh, is this what the blonde thing is about?” He laughed more. “It’s not what you think. It’s actually quite embarrassing. Your father was there. I have this, um, passing out syndrome, called Vasovagal. Actually, George W. Bush has it, too. Anyway-”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Anyway-” He twirled me around and pulled me closer.
“I actually feel stupid saying what I am about to say, but why not tell you? You already saw me in a towel.”
He looked like he was bragging, so I said, “Yeah, it was really nothing. You had your shirt on.”
I saw his eyes dance, and I started to get even more nervous. But with what he was about to tell me next, I should have just opened the gate of my stomach and let a thousand butterflies fly in.
“I found this journal a few days ago, and I… well, read it. It was very interesting and-“
Enter thousand butterflies.
Enter humiliation.
Enter a billion spotlights shining brightly on my face.
3, 2, 1… I’m humiliated!
“Hey, are you okay? Your face looks incredibly flushed. Sorry, I can’t help it that I’m incredibly sexy.”
True, I thought, but then I shook my head.
“A journal?” was all I could say, barely getting the words out. For a brief sliver of time, I was still in the clear. The fact that it was my journal had not yet been confirmed. Maybe someone else had left their journal in the same area yesterday. I still had hope. I clung to hope.
“Yeah, some type of journal. Anyway, it was so interesting, and this is where I feel like a girl, but I just felt connected to whoever wrote it. Since I had just found it, I thought maybe she lived nearby, and I was kind of determined to find her. And well, I hate to admit this, but I thought it was your sister. I saw her at the coffee shop that same day, so I thought it was some sort of sign. On top of that, she had the same initials, N.J., on her portfolio or something.”
Crap. You should have looked closer! It was an M.J., not N.J.! And crap, confirmed; it was my journal.
I looked at him in bewilderment.
“Yes, I know she has a boyfriend, trust me. She finally told me the next morning on our run, before I passed out. She invited me to run,” he added quickly with a tone of defensiveness.
“That much of a blow from the letdown?”
“No, I didn’t pass out from shock; it was because I was dehydrated. Dehydration is a major trigger for Vasovagal. Anyway, luckily, your dad was home. I actually know your dad. Did you know that? Your dad has known my grandfather for years.”
It was all beginning to be too much. I just wanted to sit down. He read my humiliation, my hurt, my pain, my heart! Does he know I wrote it? He can’t know. Will he go to the press? Suddenly, I had to sit down. “Oh, look. Our fajitas have come; let’s go dig in.”
“But don’t you want to finish this dance?”
“I’m so hungry, I’d hate to pass out or something. Uh, thanks for the dance,” I said and left as quickly as Cinderella must have left the ball. But instead of leaving in fear of changing into a pumpkin, I left in fear of further humiliation.
Chapter Nine
As I sat in the doctor’s office the next morning, I had an influx of emotions—nervousness, had to produce pieces by Saturday, anxiety, forced inspiration, humiliation, a guy read my journal. My journal. Doctor Hood had requested in the last session to read my journal, so I had to buy a new one.
I was tempted to try and rewrite everything, but I just didn’t have the energy, nor did I have the time. I was tempted again to Google fake journal entries I could copy. But I didn’t. Progress somewhere, at least.
“New journal?”
“Yeah.” I smiled innocently.
Dr. Hood looked at my journal. I sank sheepishly into the oversized leather sofa at the lack of, well, words.
“Things are complicated, and I want to time travel,” he read out loud.
I kind of felt like that movie that came out on Christmas day last year, How Do You Know, where Owen Wilson tells Reese Witherspoon’s character that he wrote her a letter after she left. “I got so mad when you left that I broke a lamp,” He told her over the phone. And she said in return, “Well, read me the letter.” So he reads it and says, “I got so mad when you left that I broke a lamp.” That’s it?
“Well, woman of few words, sometimes one doesn’t need to elaborate on their feelings. But, what happened? I thought you said you were journaling a lot.”
“Well, I was. But I got angry and threw it in the ocean. But now, someone’s found it. Maybe I should just ask him to give it back, but then I would be revealing myself.”
Dr. Hood lowered his glasses on his nose and slid my journal back to me, while nodding slowly as if he were debating in his own mind to inquire further on the journaling matter or go on to the next question. He chose the next question.
“What’s on your mind this morning?”
“Well, first off, I’ve had a lot of caffeine. I’m under a major time crunch and have to produce a few pieces in two days. I’m feeling the pressure. I literally can’t stop moving my leg. It keeps shaking!”
We both looked at my shaking leg. My knee was going up and down. I laughed as I slapped my hand on my knee, trying to stop it. I crossed my legs, recomposed myself, and cleared my throat.
He sat, waiting to hear more. He was a good listener. He never interrupted my thoughts. Even if I went off on a long, ten-minute tangent, he never interrupted. But I was sure he would eventually interrupt if I said things like, “I’m making a bomb,” or “I just want to die.” But I was neither a terrorist nor suicidal; I was just screwed.
“It’s okay, Norah. I have great confidence in you, and I know you have great confidence in yourself. You’re a very strong woman.”
I smiled at his confidence in me and his encouragement. He was so kind and just a nice man. Yes, therapists basically were supposed to make you feel like a million dollars, but I sincerely felt like he could be my grandfather or something. So I decided to open up to him and tell him how I was really feeling.
“Truth is, I can’t help but think that…” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I feel like a mess. I’m so stressed and in the middle of my stress, it’s easy to think that things would all be different if Truett hadn’t made this mistake. I feel like my line would already be together. Heck, I’d probably be vacationing or being snapped by paparazzi displaying my designs and-”
He decided to interrupt me.
“Norah.” He lifted a finger. “I must stop you, sorry. But you must know, and be reminded, change is inevitable. In our difficulties, it’s easy to wish to be ‘anywhere but here,’ which I think you know is what you’re doing here. Your mind wants to take the easier road.”
I looked at him, offended because I considered myself a strong person.
He held up his hands in a calm way. “It’s human nature. We all do it. You’re on the right path and you have to follow it to completion. We have different seasons in life which run their courses to make us mature and ready for the next season ahead. We all squirm like little worms on a hook. Stay the course. Looking back is not going to help things. If it helps you feel better, you’re not the only one that feels this way. Which is why…” He reached under his desk and held up a book with shining pride. “I want to recommend this book.
“Looking Back,” I read. “Written by Dr. Ryan Hood.” I smiled.
“Apparently, this very smart, handsome therapist wrote this book, and it happened to make the New York Times Best Seller List. But I’d like to give it to you today for a very special price, free.” He slid the book across to me.
“As long as you promise to read it, that is. I want a report.” He flashed his charming smile.
I flip
ped through the pages and read key phrases like, “You can’t receive the new things in your life if you are looking behind.”
“This looks like a great book,” I admitted. “Do you have it on audio? I have that deadline. I literally don’t have time to read anything.”
“Of course, but please make sure you do one thing for me. Relax.”
“I am. I mean, I’m trying. I’m actually going horseback riding when I get back. Chloe is dragging me to do it. But just for an hour.”
“Well, that’s good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll get Georgine to get you the audio version so you can listen to it and be on your way for the new things that lie ahead.”
Chapter Ten
It was only a couple of hours later, and I had made remarkable progress. Horseback riding was more enjoyable now that I knew I just had to hem a skirt line, make one more top, and finish the overlay for a dress. Then I would be home free. Well, at least halfway home free. I still had those remaining five pieces, but now I at least had something to show Chris and his friend Tim at dinner. Five full pieces.
My horse’s name was Betsy, and she was white. Chloe’s horse was black, and our instructor was a charming southern man who reminded me of someone who ran a dude ranch.
“Now, this here, ladies, is your harness. It’s the most important component. It’s like your director. It’s like a leash.” He went on rambling about leading the horse. Truth be told, I wasn’t listening. I was picturing the overlay and pattern I had created. I felt that if my horse was going to go anywhere and venture off on her own, the instructor was trained enough to calm the situation. Not a very good plan.
Now, mind you, the last time I had ridden horseback was the time I had begged my father to let me ride a pony when I was in the second grade. Even though I didn’t know what I was doing, how hard could it be to sit and hold on?
The ride along the ocean shore made me happy. And I instantly felt inspired to design a new line. I was already picturing it-nautical, combined with an English horseback riding flair.
