“How many people struggling with the very same decision can’t be their true self because they’re watching the backlash from how I handled things? I bet it’s a greater number than the ones it motivated to speak up. Fuck, I’m just over it all.”
Archer stands, scooping up Princess as he starts to walk away.
“Wait,” I tell him, springing to my feet and gathering all the things I brought with me today.
He doesn’t wait, but it doesn’t take long for me to catch up with him.
“Let me drive you home,” I say, not opening my mouth to call out the redness in his eyes.
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue about me getting him home safely, and before long, I’m pulling up to his gate.
“You didn’t tell me everything is going to be okay,” he says, his eyes locked on his front door.
“I can’t make guarantees like that,” I tell him truthfully. “There are too many moving pieces, and as much as BBS would like to, we can’t wave a magic wand for our clients.”
He nods, his lips a flat line.
“BBS, right.” Without glancing in my direction, he shifts Princess in his arm and opens the door. “Have a good night.”
I reach for his arm, my fingers catching him right at the crook of his elbow. Princess must still be in a snack haze because she doesn’t even try to bite my fingers off.
“Do you need me to come in with you?”
He doesn’t even meet my eyes or hesitate to shake his head.
A day that should’ve ended on a positive note has somehow turned to shit, and I’m worried for the guy.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m just going to head to bed. I promise I don’t need any more rescuing today.”
And with that, he’s out of the SUV and heading up the front steps.
I wait for him to go inside, and I feel my gut clench when he never looks back.
I head right back to the office, but find it completely abandoned, forcing me to go home. As I flip through channels on the television, I’m left wondering if Archer is feeling just as lonely as I am right now.
Chapter 12
Archer
“Are there any plans in the works for a new album?” Dr. Kent asks after I settle on the couch in her office.
This is my sixth visit with the woman, and I can say I don’t jump for joy and run out of my house with eagerness when therapy day rolls around, but I also don’t grumble and complain anymore either.
“We have nothing planned.”
Hell, at this point, I don’t even know if we’re a band any longer.
The first four visits to the office were spent with me just lying on her couch. She didn’t poke and prod. I don’t know how you can feel closer to someone just sitting in silence for an hour, but something changed last week, and I opened my mouth to speak.
Being the professional that she is, she picked up the end of the conversation, and that’s what it felt like, a simple conversation. I didn’t feel like she was digging into my mind, trying to analyze the jumbled mess of fucked-up thoughts.
“Have you ever gotten involved with a client?”
“I haven’t,” she says, answering the question without skipping a beat. “I got married in college.”
“What does your husband do?”
She clears her throat, pausing for a brief second before answering. “He was also a psychiatrist.”
Was, not is.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
We don’t speak for several long moments, but I don’t ask her if she has any regrets in life. The woman is very candid when I ask questions, but that feels just too personal.
“I think I self-sabotaged Lucid Unrest.”
Like expected, she doesn’t say a word.
“I realized the other day, I don’t even miss it. I think I’m over being in the limelight.”
I press my fingers into my eyes, somehow full-body exhausted but also not tired. It’s such an anomaly not having the energy to do hardly anything but also being unable to sleep when I lie down.
“But I’m also a walking contradiction.”
“How so?”
“I don’t want to be chased by the paparazzi, but I also get a little irritated watching the crowd grow smaller each week.”
“Does this have anything to do with the person you like?”
I sit up on the couch and stare at her. To her credit, she doesn’t smile or wink. She doesn’t give any further acknowledgment that she may know who I’m talking about, but it still feels like she’s in my head.
I don’t have to say that I worry with the decrease in attention that Brooks will start to disappear from my life.
“He’s different,” I say, sighing and lying back on the couch.
I find myself wanting advice, wanting to ask her what to do with my life, because spending the last five weeks around the man is driving me insane.
We haven’t touched except when we’re out in public, and even then, it’s brief and just for show. I haven’t walked around the house naked or strategically let him catch me jacking off. I haven’t been suggestive. I haven’t accidentally brushed against him.