I gingerly sip on some coffee as Jamie, fresh-faced and chipper, sips on some tea, watching me.
“Don’t you feel better now?” she says with a pleased smile.
“I feel like shit.”
She cocks an eyebrow as she settles her tea cup back on the saucer.
“Yeah, well, next time don’t bottle up your emotions, and I won’t need to witness an exorcism.”
I snort out a laugh, feeling wrung out but grateful Jamie was there to weather the storm with me. “When did you become so wise?”
Her mouth falls open in mock shock, and more laughter bubbles up my throat. But Jamie surprises me by answering truthfully.
“Probably around the same time I broke up with Zachary.”
My lip curls in disgust at the mention of her abusive ex. She was trapped in that relationship for almost four years. Thankfully, Ozzy eventually came along and made her realize she deserved the world.
“Not that fucking loser,” I mutter under my breath.
Her smile is sad, as if she’s connecting to her old self. She takes a dainty sip of tea before speaking again.
“All I mean is that I never realized back then how much that kind of toxic relationship could consume all of my thoughts, you know?” Her smile turns into a wistful grin. “You’d be surprised how much space you have left for self-reflection when you’re not constantly in survival mode.”
I narrow my eyes as I study her but keep the levity in my expression, my finger playing with the lip of my coffee cup.
“Are you implying I’m in survival mode?”
She smirks. “Wouldyou?” She flattens her palms on the table and leans closer. “Look, I’m not saying that, in the grandscheme of things, moving back and buying the Remington wasn’t a good idea. It was — Itreallywas, but …” She leans back into her chair and crosses her arms, hitting me with one of her all-knowing stares. “You can’t tell me that those decisions were not hastily made as a counter-reaction to finding out Oliver cheated on you.”
I say nothing for a few seconds, still toying with my mug.
“Ouch,” I mutter.
Jamie’s eyes turn rueful but loving, the care oozing out of her, and we exchange a few unspoken words before she says, “You know I’m right.”
I hate to admit it, but … she is.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
There’s defeat in my voice, but it’s paired with a silent plea, hoping that my best friend will swoop in and fix my life for me.
“Whatdoyou want to do now?”
Her question is ripe with a million and one unspoken questions I should also have an answer to. Namely, the ones about Huxley and Oliver.
My bottom lip starts to tremble, and I inhale deeply before answering. “I don’t know,” I whisper, the words stained with unshed tears.
Jamie leans across the table and places her hand over mine, her thumb caressing my skin.
“So let’s start there, then.”
36
HUXLEY
“And what about your mother?”
I shift on the leather couch. My therapist, Dr. Frances, faces me in a chair, notepad balancing on her knee. She looks exactly like what I’d imagine a therapist would look like. Mid-forties, mousy with glasses, brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and an affinity with the color beige.
