Sex Therapy

“I’m worried, and with you so far away, I have no way to help you. Promise me that you will be okay in the morning. You can’t go throwing your life away because of Mike.”

“I’m not,” I say, fighting off sleep and so close to some peace and quiet. “I will call you when I wake up.”

“You’re coming home, Chloe. Pack your shit tomorrow, and get your ass back here. I miss you. At a time like this, you need your mother.”

If I could keep them open, I would roll my eyes. “Okay, Mom. Goodnight.”

“Night, baby.”

I click the End button on my phone and roll onto my side, curling up into a ball in the middle of the king size bed. Thoughts of Mike invade my head once again. Pushing them away, I close my eyes tighter, focusing on happier times. And that’s when my college fling comes to mind. Jackson, the man I left behind. The man I walked away from when I vowed to give everything I had to Mike.

Finding comfort in Jackson and the good times we shared, I allow the pills to take me away, hopefully to a better place.

Chapter Three

Chloe

It has been almost five years since I last stepped foot in Philadelphia. Driving through the city and back to my mother’s house is not one of my finest moments. In fact, I balled my eyes out most of the ride over here, only to break down again once I pulled up in front of the rowhouse where I grew up. I have hit a new low.

I tried to cling onto what I had left behind—a beautiful house in a picturesque neighborhood, an Amex black card with no limit, and of course, the cheating, lying, sack of shit I was about to marry. I have no qualms about leaving him behind. Though I will miss some of the perks of being engaged to a hotshot attorney. After having a three-car garage for the past few years, I was spoiled. That’s a luxury I never had.

And I sure as hell did not miss parallel parking in the city. Trying to wedge my SUV into such a cramped space has me so anxious I can barely function. My brain shuts down as I try to remember how to park, none of the movements coming back to me as I throw the gear in reverse. Turning the wheel, I keep my fingers crossed that I don’t hit the cars in front or behind me.

Combined with my already existing nerves that creep up the back of my throat, choking me, I have trouble catching my breath. After I had discovered Mike with his secretary, I had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t about to continue to live in the house we had bought together. It was no longer my home or the place where I’d thought we would start a family. All that I left behind are painful memories I desperately want to forget.

Wiping the tears from my face, I try to compose myself before my mom freaks out again and starts shit talking about Mike. She has been doing the same thing for the past few days, and I’m getting tired of having the same conversations. Mike wins every time I allow my emotions to get the best of me.

I glance in the rearview mirror and smooth out my makeup, the mascara already beginning to streak my cheeks. I hate Mike for doing this to me. I hate men in general. But I have to woman-up and get my sorry ass back to living. I have been a zombie since the night I realized my engagement was a sham.

Before I exit my car, I hear my mother screaming my name to my right. I pretend she’s not there for a few seconds before she’s at it again. She has a super nasally South Philly accent you can’t miss that reminds me of nails running down a chalkboard. I dropped most of my accent while living in Connecticut. Sometimes it comes back when I’m talking to people on the phone, but for the most part, it’s untraceable.

I look out the passenger side door as she waves to me from the sidewalk in front of her house in the most obnoxious fashion.

Fear mixed with panic hits me all at once, registering on my face, which earns a frown from my mother. The woman never misses a beat. She can see right through the façade when I try to hide my feeling

s. While she may know me the best, I have a hard time opening up to her.

My mother has not let me live down what she suspects was my attempt at suicide. It wasn’t. Now, she’s terrified I will try to kill myself with pills and alcohol. Maybe I was. I wasn’t thinking at the time. I wanted the pain to go away, and I made it happen. Even if the fix was only temporary.

Getting out of the car, my legs are shaking. I never thought I would end up back in Philly and in this house, of all places. The memories I left behind after college had stayed at bay for so many years, only for them to come flooding back right now. Overwhelmed with emotion, I hold onto the hood to steady myself. It’s as if I have gone backwards instead of moving on with my life, the way I had intended.

“Chloe,” Mom yells into my ear as she lunges herself at me.

I wrap my arms around her, taking in the scent of her laundry detergent mixed with a hint of cigarettes. Mom plants a kiss on my cheek and then coughs up a lung for a second before she clamps down on my shoulders, holding me at an arm’s-length.

“You look awful, honey. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.” I feign a smile for her benefit. “Once I unpack and settle into my old room, we can make some tea and watch your programs.”

The concept of sitting through one of her rerun marathons of I Love Lucy, even though it’s a good show, makes me want to jump in front of the car whipping down the one-way street. I’m not suicidal, despite the incident with the wine and sleeping pills, but lasting one week with my mother, after all these years on my own gives me crazy thoughts.

“Come inside,” she says, dropping her arms down at her side, staring into my eyes.

Checking out the trunk that I piled to the roof, I roll my eyes. I have no room left in my brain for this shit. And, since I haven’t slept much since that night, the one my brain will not allow me to forget, my body is so tired and heavy, as if weighed down by sand. Dragging my feet toward the front door, I sling my handbag over my shoulder and stare up at the row of brick rowhouses.

Home sweet home. Kill me now.

After listening to my mother ramble on about my father—who I don’t even remember anymore—followed by Mike, I ended up falling asleep on the couch. She jabbered on for hours, all while chain smoking and knocking back beers as if she had turned into Snoop Dog, pounding forties. Drinking only enhances her word vomit. I hate when she drinks. It’s part of the reason my father had left in the first place, yet she continues the same behavior.