CHAPTER EIGHT
One week later.
I enter Bex’s office at our regularly scheduled time on Thursday morning, completely lost on where to start. So much has happened, and the clock feels like it’s ticking faster and faster. With only two weeks left, I’m beginning to lose all hope that I’ll find the elusive Prince Charming.
That’s because Prince Charming doesn’t exist and you’re a dreamer, like your mom. I just hope Eugenia Hughes’s lawyer, Frank, is as good as everyone says. If I fail at finding a husband, then the entire estate’s control goes to my grandparents. All of it. No oversight. No trust executors this time.
Sure, I might get it back. Sure, I can threaten my grandparents with criminal charges, too, but it means that things will get louder and uglier and messier. My mother’s sanity will come into play, the shameful details of my life will be put out there for the entire world to judge, and I’m sure my name will get dragged through the mud. For the record, I’m already struggling with some of the negative noise filtering into the media—spoiled, rotten, temperamental. No doubt, all things my grandparents are saying. If we get into a full-blown war, it’s going to be a thousand times worse.
The point is, if I don’t find Mr. Right, I have to be ready for a fight, and I’m not. I don’t want more conflict in my life. I just want to be happy and forget about my past. I want my mother’s legacy and stories to be safe from…whatever my grandparents might do with them. Turn them into pornos or bad B movies. I don’t know. Nothing is beneath them when it comes to money.
I enter Bex’s office and find him sitting behind his desk, writing and looking like there’s something heavy on his mind—blue eyes sharply focused and tight lips.
I stand there watching for a moment, mesmerized. He truly is a stunningly beautiful man—made even hotter since I’ve gotten a glimpse of the insides. I just wonder why he feels the need to always be strong and never show his emotions. His very extroverted father certainly didn’t seem that way.
“Are you going to stand there staring at me, or do you want to take a seat?” he says, not looking up from his task.
“Oh. Sorry.” I snap myself out of it. “I didn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m finishing up this insurance paperwork for a patient.” He signs the page. “All done.” When he looks up, his expression completely changes from stern to that emotionless brick wall. I wonder what he’s trying to hide this time. Happiness to see me? Worry because he knows I’m going to tell him about my dates? I don’t have a clue, but I’m starting to develop a love-hate relationship with our sessions. Part of me can’t stop thinking about seeing him. I ache for our conversations. The other part hates that he’s hiding something. Or somethings? I wish he’d be honest and say what’s really on his mind.
“Okay. Let’s just get this over with.” I take a seat on the white couch and receive a poke in the butt cheek. Ouch. “Jesus, why don’t you get a new couch? This one is terrible.”
He watches me rub my ass, which I stop doing the moment I notice.
“Oh, sorry.” I blush.
“No apology needed.” He puts on his mask. “To answer your question, this office and everything in it was my father’s.”
I let his comment settle. “So you’re not ready to get rid of it.”
“I guess not.”
It’s kind of sweet actually. Bex never struck me as the sentimental type, but now the couch makes sense.
“So how do you feel being surrounded by your dad’s stuff?” Bex didn’t hide his anger the day he told me about Murdoc’s deathbed confession. Makes me wonder if keeping this stuff around is Bex’s way of coping. Maybe Murdoc’s things are a reminder that he was more than just a cheating husband? He was a therapist and a father, too.
Bex stares for a long moment, giving me the distinct impression he wants to say something, but once again, he shuts me out. “Let’s focus on you. What’s new in the world of Rose Marie Hale?”
I know this is not how therapy is supposed to work, but more than ever I’m wanting him to open up. “What if I just ask you questions this session?”
He gives me a disapproving look. “Not going to happen.”
I offer my own stare of disapproval, but he doesn’t budge. “Okay. Fine. I went on nine dates, and they were mostly disasters.”
“Nine. So many?” He grabs his notepad and takes his throne.
“No time to waste. Of course, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing on the dates.”
“I’m sure they weren’t that bad,” he says.
Is it my imagination, or did he move his chair closer to the couch? He’s only two feet away versus the usual four or five. Either way, I like it. Makes being here feel more intimate.
“Sadly, I’m being serious. They were all terrible.”
“Define terrible.”
I rush through a summary of each of the men and the dates, mostly because I don’t want to waste my session talking about some of the disgusting creeps I’ve met over the last seven days. I never knew men were so horny. Okay. Yes, I did. I’ve read my mother’s books.
“I’m not hearing disaster,” he says. “Just sounds like you didn’t enjoy yourself.”
“I’d classify five of the dates that way. Complete mismatch. Then there were the four where I completely screwed up. I think my nerves got to me because those were the men I kinda liked. Almost like I was trying to sabotage myself.”
“Hmm…” He jots something down in his notes. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, for example, I’m not clumsy or a sloppy eater, yet I decided to spill an entire bowl of portobello chowder down the front of my dress at a fancy restaurant where my date Chad took me because the owner is his best friend.” To Chad’s credit, his only concern had been for me. He called for napkins, walked me to the bathroom, and then took me straight home when I asked.
“Sounds like you were very nervous,” Bex offers.
“It’s more than that. I did almost the same thing on each of the dates where I was interested in the guy. All except for the last one. Date number nine.” Gustavo.
“If it’s any worse than date number one, the blowjob bully, I’m not sure I can stand listening.”
“Oh no. This one was different. This was like every date I ever dreamed of, times ten.”
Bex’s back straightens. “You mean it was a good date?”
Good doesn’t come close. It was something straight out of one of my mother’s most romantic books, almost too good to be true. Gustavo was one of the few guys who didn’t try to impress me or size me up as wife material. He sent a simple bouquet of wildflowers and a note: I know what you’re going through. So let’s have some fun. No strings.
I was already weary from the other dates. I mean, come on! How much dating horror can one girl take? Especially one like myself who’s never been with a man or had a relationship. I’m literally an infant, or maybe more like a space alien who’s just landed on this planet and doesn’t understand the first thing about positive, healthy, normal relationships. But something about Gustavo’s no-strings approach enticed me.
I clear my throat, not wanting to confess the embarrassing inner workings of my mind, but I need someone to tell me if I should see Gustavo again. Am I being conned? How do I know if my attraction is real? Who do I trust? I can’t shake off a lifetime of Gertie-brainwashing in a few weeks, and my brain keeps telling me that men can’t be trusted. Except Bex.
“I, uh, well…he showed up at my front door—”
“At the hotel?” Bex asks.
“No, actually,” I say with a perky voice—something new to me. “I rented an apartment. One bedroom. Small, quiet, in a secure building just down the street from here.”
“Congratulations, Rose,” he says with enthusiasm. “A place of your own.”
“Yep. And when I get done furnishing it, it’s going to be perfect.” My only problem now is getting used to the fact that I can buy furniture. I’ve lived my entire life going without because my grandparents only provided the bare minimum. If I asked for more, I got the guilt trip about my mother’s wishes or the “Look at all you have, Rose. A beautiful home. A private education. Don’t be greedy.” Every so often, when I managed to finagle little spending money out of them, I saved it. But I’ve always used my money for the things I need, not for the things I want. Now I’m scared that I might become my grandparents, so obsessed with material things. I want to be the sum of what’s in my heart, not what I own.
“And when date number nine showed up, what happened?” Bex asks.
I sigh contentedly, like I’ve just had a taste of the world’s best cheesecake. “He was…” I shake my head. “Handsome with a really nice smile. He took me to Six Flags.”
“Six Flags.”
“Yeah. I’ve never been,” I say.
“And?”
“And I think I want every date for the rest of my life to be at an amusement park.”
Bex smiles, and I suspect he doesn’t mean to. I’ve caught him off guard again.
Suddenly, his full lips flatten, and his brows furrow.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this whole thing?”
“You mean finding a husband and complying with the will?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I wonder why he keeps pushing back when he knows what’s at stake. “I’m sure. I want to find him. I want to start our lives together.”
“But the more time you take getting to know a person, the less likely you’ll make a mistake.”
I can’t tell Bex this, but there’s something deep inside my gut telling me to believe. Have faith and he’ll be there. You’ll find him. Maybe it’s all of the books I’ve read that were written by my mother. Maybe it’s because I’m desperate for proof that my suffering has a reason. I don’t know. I don’t care. But if I give up now, I’m going to lose more than my inheritance. My faith in the world is on the line, too.
“I promise,” I say. “If my birthday rolls around and I haven’t found someone I can love the rest of my life, then I’ll pursue all legal options. I’d rather do that than marry a man I don’t love. The only thing I need is for you to be my sounding board.”
He seems surprised by my request, because he just sits there staring for a moment. “I thought we went over this already; I’m your therapist, not your romance coach.”
“Bex,” I argue, “you’re a man who understands people. My only experience with relationships has been reading my mother’s books—not exactly realistic models for finding love unless you’re a billionaire with a generous heart and a haunting secret. The last one she wrote didn’t even have a romance—I’m still trying to figure that one out.” I scratch the side of my head.
“Sorry, but telling you what I think about your dates is crossing the line—a line I was quite clear about from day one.”
“I realize that, but it doesn’t change the fact you’re the only man in my life…who I can go to for advice,” I add for clarification.
He shakes his head and winces. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”
“I’m asking. So are you going to turn your back and let me marry the wrong guy, or are you going to help me?”
“I already helped you.”
Oh God. He’s right. And I’m being greedy and selfish—two things I never want to become. “I’m so sorry. Yes, you did help me, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.” I still haven’t digested my feelings about the night of the party because all I want is to throw myself at Bex’s feet and just…kiss his toes or something. I don’t know. He is the first person to stick his neck out for me like that.
“The truth is,” I say, “I’ve really struggled with how to thank you. Part of me feels like I should buy you a car or…write your name in the sky. How is one supposed to thank another person for saving their life?”
“Just like that—you say thank you.”
“And you don’t ask for more favors,” I scold myself.
“You don’t have a lot of people you can trust. It’s understandable why you’d want my input. But—”
“But it’s not your place,” I conclude.
“No. I can’t tell you who to marry.”
I bob my head. “I understand.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. We can discuss your feelings, the pressure you’re under, any of that. I just can’t make your decisions.”
The strange thing about Bex Hughes is how he comes across so firm and alpha male. He has his principles and sticks to them. But then he turns around and says, “Let’s talk about your feelings”—such a non-manly thing to do. Maybe that’s what I like about him. His dichotomy. I’m gonna care about you, but we’ll do it my way. The manly way.
“Is something funny?” he asks.
“No. I was just thinking about—never mind. So what’s next?” I ask.
“That’s up to you.”
I think it over for a moment. “I have a date tonight. With Gustavo. I also have a do-over with Chad, the chef, this weekend.”
“And?”
“I can’t keep sabotaging myself.” I make little circles over my temples. This whole dating thing is giving me a giant headache.
Bex bobs his head slowly to demonstrate his attentive listening. “I’d try not to make more out of it than it is. You were nervous. You are under enormous pressure to make everything go smoothly.”
“Ya think?”
“Me think. Which is why I’m a fan of processes. You take something big—”
“Like curing my incurable insanity?”
He smiles. “You take something large and cumbersome and break it down into smaller pieces or steps. It makes the unmanageable more manageable.”
I think about it. That is exactly what I need. A process to weed through these men instead of trying to figure out if I’ve found Mr. Right in the space of a few hours during a date.
Okay, so step one, and a requirement to get to step two, will be having a good date. Easier said than done.
Step two: I think, given the situation, I need to know right away if we’re sexually compatible. Yes, that makes me nervous. No, I don’t care how that might look or what people will say. This isn’t the Victorian age, and I’m an adult. Besides, the way I see it, what’s the point of feminism if women don’t get to own their sexuality? A woman should be able to wait until marriage if that’s what she believes is right for her, or have the freedom to enjoy as many partners as she’s comfortable with, all without ridicule or judgment from others.
Step three: Determine if we have the necessary ingredients for a long-lasting relationship. Loyalty, passion, and trust are at the top of my list. I don’t know how I’m going to figure that part out, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. At the moment, I’m barely passing go.
Step four, then, will hopefully be love and marriage.
This is good. I can handle this. Except…I’m realizing I’ve had a good date with Gustavo, so step two is next.
I look at Bex, knowing there isn’t a delicate way to put this. “Got any advice on how not to be nervous about having sex for the first time?”
Bex’s face turns into a monolith of obsidian.
He really doesn’t want to talk about this. I’m about to ask why, even if I know he won’t tell me, when he offers, “I can give you some relaxation exercises. They work well in any tense situation.”
“Excellent. Because I anticipate having lots of those.”
“Let’s do a few now so you have time to practice.”