Insta-Hate (Instant Gratification #1) Page 7
“It’s the girl, huh? From the party?”
Sitting what was left of my sandwich down, I took a swig of Coke. “Yeah.”
“She looks like Trinity.” He held up his hand. “I know. I’ve seen pics. But it’s not her, dude.”
“I know.” She acted nothing like Trin, who was sweet and loving and would melt into my arms at every opportunity.
“But,” he said, easing the chair back. “She might help you, you know. You could scratch that itch that’s been digging at you for years. If she’s into you, go for it. Have a fling and then maybe the ghost of Trinity-past will leave you the hell alone. For good.”
From the second I saw Alexandria I wanted to do two things, simultaneously: strangle the shit out of her and fuck her until she couldn’t walk. It was a great plan, actually. Cody was brilliant. “There’s just one problem.”
He laughed. “She fuckin’ hates you!”
I raked my hand through my hair. “Yep.”
***
Doctor Joseph Cantor’s office was always packed. From the time he opened his doors in the morning until he shut them in the evening, he helped people cope with silent struggles that the outside world knew nothing about. He also helped us evaluate each candidate that passed our initial analytics, revealing latent needs and goals that even our carefully designed questionnaires couldn’t unearth. Computers could never figure out the human elements. They understood numbers, zeros and ones, codes and probabilities, but they would never be able to touch the personality or the soul.
Cody was the one who suggested him. His sister interned with him during college and was confident that the man could work miracles. She’d witnessed them with her own eyes. His sister went with us for the initial business meeting to discuss the potential working relationship, and it was clear that Cantor was good. He was sharp as a tack. In his late fifties, he’d already pioneered several advances in psychological treatments that were published in journals across the globe. He was tall and slender, his glasses were thick and black and slid off the bridge of his nose the longer he spoke to you, and his gray hair was brushed to one side, the occasional wisp blowing from across his small bald spot.
It had been three months since I’d seen him. We’d had lunch and exchanged money for his assessment of one of the halves we were now pairing. The man, a young widower, and the woman, a widow herself, were eager to accept our offer and wanted to meet right away. We made the arrangements and sent invoices for the monies due. Both paid promptly and two days later, I was rushing across the city to make it to the Doc’s by noon. We’d have forty-five minutes to eat and talk and then he would rush back to work, and I’d feel like I could breathe knowing that we did a great job.
Our business was located in a flat on the Upper East Side and Doc was on the West Side, just across Central Park. We’d walk outside, grab some grub from a vendor, and talk about life. As unremarkable as that seemed, it was one of the highlights of my life. Doc wasn’t that much older than me, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in wisdom, dispensing that knowledge in just the right dose.
The park was serene—or as serene as Central Park ever was. A few folks tossed a Frisbee around, people jogged along the path or perched on the boulders. They dotted the benches and walked their dogs. With earbuds or Bluetooth devices perched in their ears, some talked loudly as they went about their days.
I just soaked in the sun as I walked the paved pathway. Just a few more weeks until fall. Most people rushed things, but I never did. I’d lost too much not to learn the lesson of savoring the small things.
***
Alexandria
Dr. Cantor was a gentle man, pensive and kind. But he wasn’t your typical psychologist, not that I’d been to another. He was quirky and had a way of looking at things and asking questions that led you to find answers within yourself. And yes, Ava and I called him a shrink, but technically he wasn’t a psychiatrist. He was one of the only people I trusted on this planet; the only one who knew my thoughts and fears and the reason I began writing at all. After the accident, I was angry and frustrated. My memories were gone. It was like I was an alien who’d been dumped on Earth. I was a shell.
Doc helped me work through those angry years.
“Channel your emotions,” he said. “What do you like to do?”
“I don’t know,” I cried, wiping frustration-filled tears from my cheeks. I was aggravated that Mom felt I needed mental help.
“Do you like to run, read, write, or paint? What calls to you? Or maybe try something new each week until something strikes a chord.”
I didn’t have to try anything else. Writing called to me immediately. When I first started, it was with a pen and blank printer paper. But my mother bought me a laptop for Christmas that year and I never looked back. My writing wasn’t always perfect, but it was mine; something new that I made to fill the hole in my chest.
Because something was wrong, so very wrong. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t find the answer, couldn’t solve the equation. Writing became a compulsion. It filled hours, days, and quickly turned into a passion. It also helped because I had no memory of my early teen years at all. But my characters, they needed a story. They had to have a background, a childhood, or a coming of age. I could give that to them. So I poured myself into their lives and they became the page.
The pages became the chapters and the chapters the story. I lived through them and they helped make me whole. They filled in the blanks as much as anything could. I came to terms with the fact many years ago that my memory would never return. It was a hard pill to swallow, but I was okay with it.
Doc tucked his pencil behind his ear and leaned back in his plush desk chair. It was regal, maroon with a tiny scar on top. I always wondered what the story was behind it. Every scar had a story. “Why are you so upset? I can tell something has triggered your anxiety.”
“In a nutshell, I blew off a twelve-book deal and terminated future deals with my agent because she’s not looking out for my best interests and I’m pretty sure she hates me in general. I told my semi-consistent lover that we were finished sexing, went to the Dominican Republic with Ava, who helped me enroll in Columbia for just one class, because on a whim I decided it might be neat to take a break from writing and figure out what I wanted to do next. Add to all that crazy the fact that my sister is hounding me to call or visit my mom—which I can’t do, and you know that—and Meg herself is a mess. She’s having these mini-meltdowns. Every time I visit, she cries. Every time I call, she cries. I sent the entire family to Disney and that seemed to help for a short while, but I can hear it in her voice. She’s gonna freak out again at any minute. The tension is there. It’s audible. And there’s this guy—”
“What guy? You’ve moved on from your former occasional lover and have a new one?” He didn’t judge, just reflected. Doc removed the pencil and jotted some notes on how chaotic and completely jacked my life was.
“No. It’s... Ava and I went to a party on campus—her idea, not mine—but when we were leaving this guy grabbed me and started accusing me of being some girl named Trinity and he was so angry. Angry guy? Turns out he’s the instructor of my class and he is absolutely infuriating. I hate him and half of me wants to just drop the class, but the other half wants to beat him at his own game.”
“What game, Alexandria?”
“To prove to him that there is no such thing as love.”
“Who is this man?”
“Some dot com asshole who thinks he has the answer to finding a partner for anyone with enough money. His name isn’t important.” Doc rubbed the bridge between his nose. I was stressing Doc out. This was not good.
“Talk to me about your mom. Why not take an afternoon and visit her?”
Because something in me knows she’s fake and I can’t look at her face. “Because I’m not ready.”
“Do you recall something? About your mother? Something negative?” He steepled his fingers and leaned into the desk.
“You could call her.”
“Negatory, Doc. Move on.”
He nodded, pursing his lips into a tight line. “Very well. What do you want?”
“With what?”
“With life. With your writing. Forget about your agent and what she thinks is best. Forget about Meg and your mom. What does Alexandria want?”
That was the million-dollar question. “I don’t know.”
“Write what you want to write,” he offered, straightening the papers in my file.
“What?”
He shrugged. “Write what you want to write. You didn’t like the twelve book plot suggestion. What plot is calling to you? Aliens, werewolves, biography? Self-help?” He winked.
“Ha-ha.” I had a paranormal in mind, but it was weird and so out in left field that people might hate it.
“Forget about what other people think, Alexandria. Just write. It’s what you do. Just follow your characters. Let them lead you.”
I took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t advise jumping into a new relationship with the instructor, either. I’m sure there are non-fraternization policies that prohibit such activity, but it’s bad form and you don’t need to add poor public image to the list you just rattled off to me.”
I didn’t rattle. Did I? I guess I did.
“I wouldn’t fraternize with him if he were the last man on earth, Doc.”
He smiled. “Love often disguises itself as hate. It sounds as though he might have issues with someone from his past, someone whom you may remind him of. That’s not a good sign.”
“I know. I’ll steer clear.”
“That would be wise.” Doc stood up and offered his hand. I accepted and gathered my things. “I think we should schedule another appointment for next month, Alexandria.”
“Maybe. I’ll call if I need one.”
“Alexan—”
“I know. I’ll call.” I probably won’t call.
His pursed lips meant he knew that already. “I’m surprised you called me for this appointment, but I think you need to talk, especially with all of the tumultuous things happening in your life. Please call if you need me. I know things are chaotic and you may need some help getting through this rough patch.” I smiled and nodded, and then pushed the door open. The hallway was lined with inkblots. Some looked like animals. I craned my head. I’d seen them dozens of times, but they were still interesting. The one to the right was the bone of the pelvis. The next looked like a mushroom with hairs growing on top of its dome. The next looked like a big penis. Not gonna lie. Awkward. I looked back toward Doc’s office. He was smart. He had to know it was phallic. Right?
The receptionist told me to have a good day, never looking up from her computer screen. The waiting room was empty. It was never full. I’d seen one other person before, ever. Though I knew Doc was busy, he always left time in between appointments in case a person needed extra moments with him.
I pushed against the front door, meeting resistance. Looking up through the gilded letters and etched pane of glass, I saw the bane of my existence: Arsen Daniel. My mouth fell open. He knew I was crazy now. But he was here, so maybe he was just as insane.
He stared at me for a long moment, eyes wide. He obviously didn’t expect to see me either. Not a stalker. Good. But what the hell was he doing here? I let go of the door and he opened it, holding it for me. “Thanks,” I mumbled as I brushed past him.
“You’re welcome,” he answered, still as shocked as I was.
He was too intense, too consuming. Too everything. I rushed to the elevator and hit the button. Luckily, it opened immediately and I ducked inside, pushing the button to hurry the doors closed thirty times before it finally groaned and squeezed the image of him away. However, the masculine scent of his cologne was trapped inside the metal box with me, taunting me.
TWELVE
Doctor/Patient Privilege
Arsen
Doc’s receptionist was gathering her things when I walked in. She asked me to flip the sign on the door to read ‘Closed for lunch’. “Going to microwave my lunch and pretend I’m in Maui for an hour. Doc’s in his office.”
“Thanks, Gail.”
“You’re welcome.”
The fabric of her polyester pants swished down the hallway. I ran a hand through my hair. Alexandria was here. She knew Doc. Was she a patient? I couldn’t ask him that. Shit.
So swept up in my own thoughts, I didn’t know that Doc hovered by the doorway. “Don’t even ask about her,” he said intuitively. “Now, are we going to grab some lunch in the park?” he recovered with a smile.
“Yeah, but you’d better take this before I forget why I came over.” I held the check out and he accepted it. How did he know I was going to ask about Alexandria?
He shook his head. “I can understand, son.”
What could he possibly understand? That Alexandria Ray was tying me up in knots, or that I was losing my mind and chasing a ghost?
“Lunch.”
He nodded. “Lunch.”
***
During class the following Monday, Alexandria arrived early and sat in the corner seat in the very back row. If I took my glasses off, she was a blur. But her presence was hard to ignore even with the visual impairment. She didn’t speak when I asked questions, and I didn’t call on her again.
As a class, we discussed the term paper in detail. Form a hypothesis: Love exists on multiple levels, for example. Or, Love does not exist at all. The majority of students would take the easiest path. They would find a few books and articles, interview peers and tell me that love was an uncomplicated, glorious, magical feeling that existed in many ways. That much was apparent during the first fifteen minutes of our first class.
Alexandria was different today. Behind her steel facade she was plotting; calculating the many ways she could prove her hypothesis. And based on her answer from the first day of class, she wasn’t taking the easy path. This woman didn’t take paths at all. Paths meant following the footsteps of others and Alexandria wasn’t a follower. She blazed her own trail. But instead of a machete and thick-soled boots, she would use paper and ink and maybe a piece of the darkest part of her.
If she saw Doc, she had skeletons. I wasn’t judging; I had them in spades. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to expose hers. It made no sense, but I could swear that Alexandria Ray was Trinity and there might be one way to prove it.
“I’d like to offer you each a free basic personality assessment from InstantGratification.com. This would be the first time we’ve offered it to anyone for free. You can certainly choose not to use the data in your report, or you can use the assessment as one of the required sources. If you want to sign up, see me after class. I’ll have a sheet on the desk for those who would like to take advantage.”
I just hoped she took the bait. We were young when she first tried the assessment, which was extremely new in development—hell, Cody and I were in college—but Trinity took it. Based on Alexandria’s answers it would prove one of two things: Trin was playing me, or she wasn’t really Trin.
Of course, the whole damn thing could backfire. The test Trin took was the first version we developed. She was young, and life experiences could change people. It might be inconclusive, and I’d be in the same position I was in now. But if her responses were identical, it could change everything. How, I wasn’t sure.
In the end, if I could compare the results, it might put my mind at ease. If this girl wasn’t Trinity, I needed to forget her; put both of them behind me and move on. Easing my glasses on, I scanned the students. Some brought up going to the library together while others chirped happily about their ideas for their paper. “See you next Monday. The sign-up sheet is here if you’re interested in the free evaluati
on from InstantGratification.”
I slapped a blank piece of paper onto the corner of the desk. Cody was going to be pissed. We didn’t discuss this beforehand. But desperation made a man crazy.
Most of the guys scattered, running out of the room as fast as they could. They were young and single and wanted nothing to do with a dating system. The girls? They were all about it. “Will this pair us?” one young woman asked.
“What exactly will the assessment give us?” Candy questioned, holding the sign-up sheet in her hand.
“It’ll give you a personality profile for yourself and identify the things you need in another person in order for your needs to be fulfilled. It sounds complicated, but it’s really very simple. And this is just one of the tools we use in pairing people. You won’t be paired, but it could be fun and you can use it as a source.” I shrugged.
At the end of the day, I had twenty-two names on the list. Alexandria was the last to pack up. I gathered my things. Maybe she wasn’t interested and I was about to really piss Cody off. But when she made her way to the end of the aisle, instead of walking out the door, she walked down the steps and over to my desk. With my pen, she scrawled her name and the information I would need to contact her with on the paper. Maybe she was taking the easy road, after all.
I smiled and tucked the sign-up sheet in my bag.
“Look, about Doctor—”
I held up a hand. “No. Let’s not go there, Alexandria.”
“I was just trying to explain why I was there.”
“It’s fine. I don’t need an explanation.” I didn’t need it. I wanted it, but it wasn’t fair to ask her for it or even let her continue.
Another girl poked her head back in the door. “Are you okay, Lexie?”
Alexandria replied, “Yeah. I need a sec.”
“Then coffee!”
“And sugar,” Alexandria muttered, waving at her friend, who closed the door.