Fat Girl (4 page)
But Dr. Patrice Roland was different. She didn’t spend our weekly sessions picking at the scabs of childhood. As a behaviorist, Dr. Roland focused on teaching me how to recognize my triggers and alter my reactions. Breathing exercises was one effective technique I learned to push through my anxiety and save myself from self-destructive habits.
It took twenty-one long months to get to this point of quasi control. Twenty-one months to start tracking in a healthy direction. In that time, I quit my job and sold my condo. Bought a cottage-style bungalow in Brockville with a view of the lake and started the child advocacy practice I’d always wanted. It’s not nearly as lucrative, but I have the autonomy and freedom to do the work I love.
So why—my palm thumps the wheel hard—when I’m in the midst of finally getting my shit together does Mick have to show up, unearthing old ghosts and awakening dormant passions?
Why, why, why
follows me all the way to Jordyn’s without any respite from thinking about the man who turned my new life on its axis in less than ten minutes.
By the time I park behind Lexie’s pearl-white Mercedes, my thoughts are dark and turbulent again. I stand on the sidewalk, letting the brisk October breeze blow over me, begging it to cool my mood.
Concentrating again on slow, even breaths, I climb the stairs of the brownstone and press the intercom. Last summer, Jordyn purchased the nineteenth-century house, which she then remodeled into a stunning triplex. She occupies the bottom floor and rents out the two levels above her.
At the sound of the buzzer, I push open the beveled-glass door and walk down the long, narrow hall to find Jordyn waiting at the door.
“Whoa,” she remarks and stands back to let me in, her moss-green eyes executing a quick once-over. “You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” I hang my jacket on the coat rack and toe off my shoes.
“You know what I mean.”
I do, mostly. But it’s the type of comment that preys on my insecurities.
With an apologetic smile, Jordyn loops a commiserating arm through mine and leads us to the living room. Lexie greets me with a wave from behind the bar. Ultrastylish in vintage Chanel, she looks as if she’s just stepped off the cover of
Vogue
rather than just come from the offices of her PR firm. Whereas Jord, at five feet two inches is petite and compact, athletic from years of field hockey, Lexie’s tall like me but willowy thin. I might resent my friends for their slim, perfect bodies if they weren’t the most special people in my life.
“From your message, I thought you could use this,” Lexie says, approaching with a glass of wine extended. “Problem at work?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what’s got you all hot and bothered?” Jordyn probes, sweeping architectural blueprints off the sofa to make room.
Reflecting back on what—or more aptly who—has gotten me hot and bothered, I tip the stemless goblet to my lips and down half the cabernet in unladylike gulps. Drinking isn’t a good idea. But I’m entitled to at least one vice tonight.
“You are never going to believe who was just in my office.” I rest the glass on the coffee table and collapse against the cream and tan pillows.
My friends sit like angled bookends beside me, their expressions brimming with curiosity and apprehension. Sharing still isn’t easy for me, but I do it, clasping their hands, in need of an anchor just to say his name. “Micah Peters.”
“Ho-ly shit!” Jordyn utters her favorite expression while Lexie, a gentler soul, squeezes my fingers.
“Oh, Dee, that must have been awful.”
“My worst nightmare.”
“What the hell did he want?” Jordyn glowers after rebounding from the shock.
“For me to represent Victor’s foster son.”
“What!” they exclaim in unison.
“I know, right? I didn’t ask for details, but the gist of it is that this boy’s biological grandparents are fighting Victor and his wife for custody. And get this,” I say and sputter out a hysterical laugh. “Mick handed over $4,000—in cash—to pay my retainer. I mean, who does that?”
“Evidently, gazillionaire ex–basketball players,” Jordyn supplies.
“It could be that Mick didn’t want the transaction to be traced back to him,” Lexie reasons. “He’s a celebrity and paying for a child custody lawyer might get him unwanted press attention.”
I hadn’t thought of that. But it fits, given what little I know about what happened at the community center.
“Wait…” Jordyn holds up her hand. “Why was Mick there instead of Victor?”
“I asked the same thing,” I say, picking up my wine again. “Apparently, Victor doesn’t think I’m trustworthy enough to represent his foster son.”
“Is that what Mick said?” Jordyn spits out.
“Almost verbatim. He accused me of hurting the people Victor loved.” Sorrow and shame wash over me. I never meant to hurt Victor’s parents or his little sisters—didn’t place enough value on myself then to even think I could.
Rita Torres—my foster mother, affectionately known as Mama T—wouldn’t have been consoled by the number of times I picked up the phone throughout the years, dying to hear her melodic voice. Or by knowing she was the only person I had longed to go to and cry in her arms when my world was blown apart. But I couldn’t tell her.
Victor was Mama T’s son, flesh and blood, and Mick, whom she practically raised, was as good as. Telling her and Papa T what really happened would have driven a wedge into their close-knit family. I couldn’t put them in the position of dividing their loyalties. It seemed better to just be gone.
“I hope you let the truth hit Mick right between the eyes,” Jordyn says, balling her small fist.
When I fail to respond, she blows out a frustrated breath that flutters the auburn bangs of her short pixie haircut. “I don’t get why you’re allowing Mick and Victor to cast themselves as the injured parties and you as the heartless bitch.”
It’s wrong to hold out on my dearest friends, but I still haven’t confided the worst part. Some things are just too painful…too soul-wrenching to share with anyone. “I’d rather they think I’m heartless than for Mick to know he once had the power to nearly destroy me.”
I can tell that answer doesn’t sit well with Jordyn, who has never backed away from a fight, but thankfully, she doesn’t pursue it.
“What I don’t get,” Lexie says, “is what this has to do with Mick.”
“He blames himself for some recent media incident he was involved in at a community center that supposedly drew the grandparents out of the woodwork,” I inform them.
“Must be the one involving that reporter,” Jordyn surprises me by saying as she leans over and grabs her iPad off the side table. “Remember me telling you, Lex? Mick decked the guy.”
I sit upright.
Decked?
Mick had a short fuse—he was hot-blooded in every sense of the word—but I’d never known him to instigate a fight. He had seen the damage of a fist on too many occasions. The only time he ever used his was when provoked to defend someone he cared about. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jordyn’s fingers are still for a second. Then she glances up. “We didn’t think you’d want to know, considering how you go out of your way to avoid reading anything about him.”
I can’t fault my friends for that when it’s true. I never read the sports features in the paper, and I always turn off the sports news on TV.
“Here it is,” Jordyn announces, scanning the screen. “An unnamed source leaked his whereabouts to the press, and when the media crews pounced, he asked them to allow the kids to pass.”
That much, Mick told me.
“Further on, the article says, ‘Paul O’Malley, a freelance tabloid writer and celebrity blogger, allegedly ignored Peters’ entreaty and pushed through several boys, knocking one of them down in order to reach the former Chicago Bulls star. According to witnesses, Peters punched the blogger in the face, causing him to pitch backward and fall. O’Malley was taken by ambulance to Northwestern Memorial Hospital and later released with six stitches to his lip and swelling to his chin and jaw.’”
That much he didn’t.
“‘No police charges were filed against Peters,’” Jordyn continues. “However, O’Malley was quoted as saying he would ‘sue for the brutality’ he suffered.’” She spins the tablet around.
I hesitate before permitting my eyes to skim the inset. It’s a picture of O’Malley lying on a stretcher, which is probably overkill for his injuries but effective for sensationalizing a story and pursuing litigation. The larger image calls loudly to me, and I let my eyes drift there, too. The bill of Mick’s cap shadows most of his profile, but I can’t miss the livid set of his bristly jaw. He’s shielding several young males with his tall, broad frame and an outstretched arm. The other arm is wrapped protectively around one boy with enormous eyes widened in alarm. Intuition tells me,
That’s Dwayde
.
No wonder Mick feels responsible. He allowed the temper he struggled against to get the better of him, and it was captured for the world to see…for Dwayde’s grandparents to see. Not that I’m going to feel sorry for him. There are no soft edges left inside me for that.
I turn the iPad back around to Jordyn. “Obviously, he came to me assuming my own feelings of guilt would force me to help him out.”
“
Pfft!
” Jordyn says dismissively. “Mick came to you because he’s still hooked, and this excuse was easier on his ego.”
“You got it,” Lexie agrees.
Gawking, my head ping-pongs between the elegant brunette with the bobbed hair and violet-blue eyes and the cute, feisty redhead. “Are you both nuts?” I say, knowing they have to be if they believe that. “Mick is not the type to pine over any woman, especially someone like me.” The self-deprecating slam is out before I can call it back.
“Someone like you?” Jordyn questions, as if I’m the crazy one.
“Forget I said that.” I wave the remark away, though it still sticks to me. “I’m just so mad at myself for submitting to Mick’s manhandling. When he grabbed me, I should have—”
“Holy shit! Mick grabbed you?”
“Tempers flared and it got out of hand,” I say, wishing the memory didn’t still have a searing effect on my system.
Their eyes round with worry.
“He didn’t hurt me,” I assure them.
Not physically, anyway.
“He quickly let go, as if he’d gotten too close to a nuclear contaminant.”
“Or realized he was motivated by more than anger,” Jordyn offers.
I know better. Mick’s reaction was incited by temper. His parting shot left no doubt. Besides… “Whatever his reason doesn’t matter.” I take another long drink. “It’s that I let him touch me without putting up much of a fight.”
“This wasn’t just a teenage fling,” Lexie points out. “Maybe your body was reacting to the dictates of old feelings.”
“God, no!”
My vehement denial gains me two skeptical frowns. “No,” I repeat in a milder tone. I’m struggling enough as it is to rid myself of bad habits. I don’t need to add Mick to the list.
Again
. “It was temporary insanity…a hormonal response. That’s all. I do not have feelings for him,” I insist, uncertain whether I’m trying to convince my friends or myself.
“Are you sure?” Jordyn questions. “Because you know, once a dog, always a dog, right?”
“I know that and trust me, I’m sure.”
She holds my stare another moment. “Good. Then you can take the case and show Mick you don’t give a shit about him.”
“I’m not taking the case,” I say, draining the glass and clunking it down on the table for emphasis.
“I can understand you not wanting to help Mick or Victor, but what about this boy?” Lexie inquires.
If it were any other child, I’d jump at the chance to help. Only in this instance, I’d have to face my foster parents, deal with Victor, and endure more encounters with Mick. There would be no way to avoid that.
“It’s a conflict of interest,” I say.
“Maybe if you were appointed by the court to make an impartial recommendation on custody, but not if you were hired as the kid’s lawyer,” Jordyn responds with annoying logic.
“The point’s moot. Even if I were so inclined, which I’m not, Victor doesn’t want me as legal counsel for his foster son,” I remind them, hanging on to that hopeful defense.
“Mick will convince him. From all you’ve told us, they stick together like glue,” Lexie adds.
“Whose side are you both on?”
“Yours. Always,” Jord says in a compassionate tone. “But we know you, Dee. How many times have you told us that you never turn away a kid? That’s why your caseload has doubled in a year. Helping children is what you do. If you decline, no matter the reason, it will gnaw at you.”
I slant a glance toward my perceptive friend. Jordyn’s brash, take-no-prisoners attitude often fools people into concluding she doesn’t have a soft or sensitive side, when the opposite is true. Not only is Jordyn fiercely loyal, but she’s also one of the most nurturing and caring people I know.
“Do you really want to give Mick and Victor that much power over you?” she asks.
Of course I don’t.
But what to do?
Take the case and protect Dwayde’s best interests?
Or stay away from the torturous past and protect my own?
