Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles)

by Christopher Harlan

  Therapy.

  It was a four letter word when I was a kid. You never talked about your problems—ever. And on those rare occasions that you did, it was never with strangers. Talking is for pussies, he used to say, usually after one too many. He said a lot of stupid shit after he got home from wherever he was drinking his issues away. I’m going to try to be more open minded, but I’m still skeptical for some reason.

  I get into the city early, and for some reason I’m nervous. I can’t explain that part because I really don’t get nervous like this, but my heart is fluttering like I’m being dragged against my will to some medical procedure that I may not come back from. It’s over the top, I know, but maybe it’s the idea of having to open up to a stranger that’s throwing me off. I usually keep to myself. I learned to keep my emotions inside and only let them out to certain people, but never to outsiders who are getting paid to listen to me. I hope she’s as good as advertised.

  My cab drops me in front of her house which also acts as her office—an amazing historic Brownstone that just looks like a place I could never afford unless all of my books hit the bestseller lists at once. Fat chance. Speaking of books, I need to do some writing later, it’s been too many days and too few words. Gray’s working on a book, and Mike’s trying to follow up the success of ForEver with a new series. Fuck, I need to kick my ass into gear!

  Walking up the steps slowly, as if to avoid the whole process by not moving too quickly, I see the front door swing open. The person I assume to be Cordelia steps out to greet me. She’s smiling ear to ear and seems to have a really positive energy, which puts me at ease. “Colton?” she asks.

  “That’s me? Dr. Summers?”

  “Cordelia, please.”

  “Okay, Cordelia. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks. Looking forward to our session.”

  “Really?” I ask, a little confused. “How come?”

  “I always love starting with new clients. I’m sure you’re not thrilled to be here, but I think we can do some good work together. Have you been to therapy before?”

  “That’s a big no.”

  “Wow, you say that like I asked if you’ve ever had Cancer. Don’t have a great view of therapy, do you?”

  I can already tell that she’s good at her job. She’s already done a few things in our short interaction that I notice. She came out to greet me to make this whole thing more personal, and she read the tone in my voice right away even though I didn’t think it was that obvious. I guess a good therapist should be good at reading people. Maybe being a psychologist and being an author aren’t that dissimilar. “Wow, did I make it sound that bad?” I already know the answer to my question, but I want to see how she takes it. “I’m sorry, but where I come from. . .scratch that, it’s not geographical. What I should say is, in my family, it was always a taboo. You didn’t talk about things with strangers.”

  “What, then?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well I assume you and your family weren’t Spock—you all have emotions and feelings, which means you had problems just like everyone else. So what did you do with negative emotions? What were your coping mechanisms?”

  I start to laugh. It’s not intentional, but it’s like when someone says something so ridiculous that you don’t have time to consider the social etiquette of the situation, you just laugh. She makes a face and I stop. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. “I’m sorry, it’s not you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The idea of my father having coping mechanisms that didn’t involve cracking open a bottle of whiskey and hitting things.”

  “So you come from an abusive home, then?”

  “Shit,” I say, a little taken aback. “You get right to the point, huh? Don’t you want to ask me some easy ones, like how old I am or what I do for a living?” I smile, but she doesn’t smile back. She’s laid back, but I can tell that she takes her job very seriously.

  “I know how old you are and I’m familiar with your work.”

  I raise an eyebrow. It’s another unconscious thing, but I’m surprised she knows about my books. “Oh, you mean the judge gave you all my info?”

  “I did get paperwork on you from the court, yes, but that’s not what I meant.” This time she grins. It’s almost bashful, so I smile back when I realize what she’s saying.

  “You read romance?” I ask, a little shocked. “And you’ve read me?”

  “I read a lot. You’re a talented writer, Colton. I read academic papers, Pulitzer winner novels, and I also read romance, fantasy, and mysteries. You have to mix it up in life.”

  Her statement makes me more comfortable right away. Usually I just tell people I’m a writer, which always leads to the logical follow up of, so what do you write? That’s when it gets a little sticky—no pun intended. Ha. I know Mike likes to fuck with people and tell them he writes porn for women, but I avoid the question altogether when possible. There’s a lot of judgement out there about the kind of books I write, and I don’t deal with judgement very well. It makes me angry as hell. Then again, everything makes me angry as hell. I guess that’s why I’m here.

  “Dr. Summers. . .”

  “Cordelia,” she corrects.

  “Cordelia. That’s a very. . .a very refreshing sentiment, thanks.”

  “It’s the truth,” she says. “But let’s get back on track. I asked about your home, not your writing.”

  I hesitate for some reason. We head inside and I look at her, then look down, then look around the room aimlessly some more. Cordelia leans forward in her chair and gets close to me to force eye contact. “Colton,” she says firmly but kindly. “This situation is a little unfair. After all, you walked in here and I already knew a lot about you. I started with an advantage. Here are a few things you need to know about me before we go any further. First, I am direct. I’m very direct. I don’t think therapy should be something that you’re in for twenty years, and in this case we only have a short time, so I’m not going to beat around the bush to spare feelings. I’m going to get at the heart of the matter right away.”

  “Second?” I ask.

  “Second, I insist that my patients be with me. Think of therapy like hypnotism—if you resist, it just doesn’t work, or it works too slowly to be effective. I need you to be a partner in this, a majority stakeholder in your own mental health. Otherwise this is a waste of both our times. You could be writing and I could be seeing someone who’s trying to get better. I’m not a fan of wasting time.”

  “Is there a third?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she answers, leaning back in her chair. “The third is that I’m here for one reason and one reason only—to help you get on the path to a happier, healthier, and more fulfilled life. I have no agenda.”

  I believe every word she’s saying to me. There’s a quiet confidence and sincerity in her statements that gets me on board right away. I’m a little skeptical of people, at least at first, so if just anyone told me they were here to help me I’d immediately question them, but I believe her wholeheartedly. I don’t respond to any of her statements, I understand them all. Instead I try to show her that I’m here to be a dance partner. “My father was abusive, yes. A mean drunk, a cheater, and a general piece of shit.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “That was a great start. I think we’ll stop there.”

  “What?” I say, shocked. “That’s it?”

  “For today, yes.”

  “Wait, wait. I came all the way here just for that? Don’t you wanna probe the inner workings of my mind or something.”

  “You’ve been watching too many movies,” she jokes. “No probing required. And I’m sorry it’s a little bit of a trip for you, but distance isn’t the point.”

  “Then what is the point?” I ask.

  “Progress. Inch by inch we’ll take steps towards getting at the root of your issue. If you understand why you lash out, and how that behavior is putting what you love
at risk, then there’s a way to change it.”

  I’m dizzy by the time she’s done talking. This is some Karate Kid, Mr. Miyagi shit. I don’t know if it’s just her, or if I just had some really messed up notions of what therapy was like, or maybe both. But I’m a little thrown off by the whole session. She stands up like it’s time to go so I stand up too. “You did a great job today,” she says kindly, shaking my hand. “You pushed past your comfort zone. We’ll go further next time.”

  “Okay,” I say. Mostly I don’t know what to say, but I walk out of her Brownstone feeling good for some reason. Maybe I did have therapy all wrong.

  It’s a good day for my first session, mostly out of convenience. Greg texted me yesterday that he was going to be in the city doing a photo shoot with some new models near Central Park, so I decide to meet up with him. I text him as soon as I say goodbye to Cordelia.

  Me: Hey man, you still shooting?

  G: Just finished the last guy. You?

  I don’t know why, but I don’t tell him where I am or why I’m in the city. There’s something ingrained in me about not admitting weakness, so I just decide to make something up.

  Me: Yeah, I came in to get some inspiration for my new book. I have a scene set in the city. Been a while since I was here. Wanna meet up? Get lunch or something?

  G: Screw lunch. Let’s hit the gym!

  I should have known that was coming. G is a beast—he’s tall and heavily muscled. His instagram is filled with gym shots, and all of them make me want to get off my lazy ass and lift some weights. I’ve been doing a lot of MMA and Jiu Jitsu training for my book, but G is on another level when it comes to physical fitness. I don’t see any harm in a little cross training, even though I know I’m going to get my ass kicked.

  Fuck it!

  Me: Just tell me where and when.

  9

  Colton

  “You look like someone just fucked you in the ass for the first time!”

  The sound of Gray’s laugh is deafening. He can be even more blunt than me sometimes. What he’s referring to is the way I walked into Starbucks. It’s been a crazy day so far. My first time at therapy, a little walk around Manhattan while I waited for G to pack up the stuff from his shoot and meet me, and then our infamous gym session. G’s one of those guys who reminds you that no matter how you look, physically, you’re not in the kind of shape that he is.

  It was a leg day for him, so I blindly agreed to just do whatever he was doing. I’m not a gym guy, so I just took G’s lead. Big mistake. Kettle bell squats, dead lifts, leg presses—I did them all, and now I’m paying for it. I’m walking funny, feeling the soreness in my calves and thighs and yes, walking like I just got ass-fucked for the first time. “Shut up, dick,” I tell him, holding back the smile.

  “G didn’t use any lube, did he? I get it now.”

  “I’m gonna kick your ass if you keep going with this.”

  “Right,” Gray jokes. “You were struggling just to walk to this table, you think I’m scared of you? It’d probably be bad press, though. I’m sure one of the people in here would take out their phone to record the fight and upload it to YouTube. The title would read ‘local author beats up physically disabled person at Starbucks.’—it might go viral, who knows.”

  “Did you order it?”

  “Your heart attack in a cup? Sure did. The guy looked at me like he didn’t understand me or something.”

  “I need my caffeine to write,” I tell him. “Give it here.”

  A venti Americano usually has four shots of espresso that it comes with. I get six. I’ve gotten those looks Gray’s taking about before, but I mostly ignore them. I’m good at that. I take a sip of my heart attack in a cup and it feels amazing going down. I need the energy after it all got sapped at therapy and the gym.

  “Heart still beating?” Gray jokes.

  “Just the right amount, yeah. Seriously, G kicked my ass.”

  “Of course he did, that’s what G does. He’s a monster.”

  “Tell me about it. Books are on their way, I should have them soon.”

  “Thanks again for running point on the cover, man, it really was a great idea to use Brody. The women fucking love that guy.”

  “Of course they do. If I was into that sort of thing I’d be all over our cover.”

  “RAAC is coming so soon, dude, I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

  Gray sounds unlike himself. He sounds worried—uncertain. I’m not used to that tone in his voice. He used to be the most confident of any of us. When Mike proposed this whole romance writing thing at the bar that night in the city, it was Gray who took the idea by the reigns. He pumped out two books while we were still working on our first, and at first he became the most successful of us. Gray’s real strength is his social media presence. He has more followers on his accounts than any of us. Mike’s are growing, fast, and I’m no slouch, but Gray has always been great on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and now even on Snapchat. He has a talent for it. I know he’s hit some skids recently.

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “I am happy, Colt, it’s just that. . .” He stops himself and looks down.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m having some of my old issues again. The ones from college.”

  “Oh, shit. For how long?”

  “A few months now.”

  “Months? Dude, you promised Mike and I that if you ever got like that again that you’d reach out to us.”

  “I know I did. And I’m sorry. It’s just hard to do much of anything sometimes, writing in particular.”

  The issues Gray is alluding to are his mental health issues. It’s a weird term, right? Makes him sound crazy or something, but he’s anything but crazy. Gray suffers from depression. Bad depression. It runs in his family. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but his twin sister committed suicide when we were freshman at NYU. It almost destroyed him, and he had to take an entire semester off just to recover. Mike and I helped him get over the hump, but he’s never been quite the same. I thought he was mostly past the depression issues, but I’ve seen them get bad. It makes sense now why he’s seemed off.

  “It’s okay, don’t apologize. I didn’t know. I could tell something was off with you.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I don’t hide it that well, do I?”

  “You shouldn’t have to hide it, man. Never. That’s part of the problem. Remember what happened last time you tried to hide it?”

  “Don’t remind me,” he says. “I want to forget.”

  “Are you getting help?”

  “I’ve been trying to just stick it out.”

  “You can’t ‘stick’ depression out, Gray. You should know that. Even I know that and I don’t suffer from depression. You need to see someone. Why don’t you come to training with me in the meantime? Exercise helps, remember. Body over mind when mind over body isn’t working.”

  “Right. Body over mind.” He repeats. It’s a phrase I heard somewhere, and it’s held true. Everyone always talks about mind over body—about willing yourself to do something that seems unattainable physically. But what that doesn’t account for is what to do when your mind isn’t right. In those moments, it’s about body over mind. “I think that’s a great idea. And I’ll give my therapist a call and let him know what’s going on. I’m not going on any medication, though, that shit made me feel like a zombie.”

  “You don’t need it,” I tell him. “What you need is some cardio, some support from your friends, and some good therapy sessions. You also need to start letting those sausage fingers hit the keyboard, man. How’s your latest going?”

  “Slow,” he says, sounding a little defeated. “Slower than slow. I wanted to be done with the first draft two months ago, but I’m still where I was then. It’s hard to do anything when I have my spells of depression, let alone be creative.”

  “Alright,” I tell him. “Then don’t force it. Let’s start with the body, then we
’ll get to the mind. Tomorrow? Come training with me?”

  “Jiu Jitsu?”

  “Striking tomorrow. I have my MMA coach in Queens.”

  “You know what,” he tells me, looking excited for the first time since I walked in. “I’m going to take you up on that. I can hit a heavy bag and sweat a little. Maybe we’ll go a few rounds.”

  “Don’t get crazy over there, okay tough guy. Let’s start with the heavy bag and your jab. Me hitting you in the head isn’t going to help your depression any.”

  We laugh and sip our coffee. I’m really feeling the caffeine and it’s making my brain feel creative. I wanna get some writing in later. I’m not that far from finishing The Gentle Art. I don’t know if it’s going to connect with readers, but I sure hope so.

  “Fair enough,” Gray says. “But enough about me and work. Tell me about Harley.”

  “You want her measurements or something?”

  “No, you douche,” he jokes. “I mean tell me about the two of you. What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m seeing her later this week. We haven’t had too many real dates, but it’s going good. I really like her, man. Of course she’s hot, but there are a lot of layers to her. And she was there for me when I was at my lowest.”

  “That’s great to hear,” he tells me. “I envy you that. She’s a great girl from what I know of her. Pretty, smart, a little weird. She’s right up your alley.”

  “Can I run something by you?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  I know that I technically don’t need Gray’s permission to do anything involving the Wordsmiths, but in a lot of ways he became the de facto leader of the group when we first began. It was his idea first, then he brought it to me, and then the two of us brought it to Mike, but for some reason I think of it as his thing. “I asked Harley to help at the table at RAAC. Are you cool with that?”

  “Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Just making sure.”

  “Like, as what? PA?”

  “No, I don’t want her to be my PA, literally, but I just want her to help with some of the responsibilities. I thought it would be a cool way to involve her in my career. Get to know her a little better.”