Pt 1

How I did not have a hangover was beyond me.  Perhaps it was the two bottles of water. Perhaps it was the handsome and attentive company. Perhaps it was the deep, full, comfortable night’s sleep. Perhaps it was a combination of everything, but I woke up feeling great. Well rested, positively wonderful and full of energy.  I made use of the hotel’s workout center, took a brief swim, and then headed back to my room for a shower and to dress for lunch.

The weather was impressive for October. I had put away all of my warm weather dresses and skirts, but it was still warm in California, at least during the day, and in comparison to Atlanta. Dressed in a light, thin, flowy dress that hit just above the knee and comfortable sandals, I perched on the edge of the bed, digging through my travel jewelry box. The phone buzzed on the table next to me. Expecting JC, I picked it up.

“Hel-loooo,” I said, in a sing song voice and smiling.

“Well someone is a good mood. How is LA?” The voice wasn’t JC; it was Jen, back in Atlanta, calling to check on me.

“Hey there!” I answered brightly. ”LA is wonderful! I slept well, I just worked out and had a swim, I’m getting ready to go to lunch—I may never come home.”

“Don’t even tease. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It is. I can see how it could get old, but not today.”

“So, what did you end up doing last night?”

Okay. I love my friends. I do. However. They have the biggest mouths this side of the Rockies, so there wasn’t any way that I was sharing anything with anyone over the phone about the night before. It would be around the country by dinner, and besides, this was a story that had to be told face to face—if it would even be told at all. I was feeling more like saying anything would make the situation even stranger than it was, and I was trying to avoid thinking about how strange it was. He was nice to me and I didn’t know why, but he didn’t have to be, and I didn’t want to disrespect that. I planned to tread lightly and not get on his bad side.

“Oh,” I said, trying to make something believable come out of my mouth. “I ended up having Chinese, uhm, down the street and then I went to this lounge and had drinks. It was fun. I had a good time.” I hoped that was enough to satisfy her curiosity, because that’s all that I was sharing. “So, I hate to cut this short but I’m trying to catch brunch, can I call you back later?” 

I could hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “Okay, fine, jetsetter. I hope we’ll talk later, but in case we don’t, kick ass on Monday, okay? And have fun out there!”

I told her that I would and ended the call. Yes. I sure would.

No sooner had I hung up the phone than it rang again and this time it was JC.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” came that smooth voice. “How do you feel today?”

I smiled into the phone, feeling like a teenager. “Very, very good,” I answered. “I’m really surprised I don’t have a hangover. I think I was on the verge of being in trouble, last night. Thanks for your help.”

“See, that’s why I didn’t want you out under your own power. You could have ended up anywhere. Are you ready? I’m outside.”

I hung up and hurried down to the lobby. He was out of the car and standing near the passenger door waiting, one hand in his pocket, the other flipping through his cell phone. I felt like I was walking in slow motion, through the revolving front door, staring at him in a crisp white t-shirt with a red and black screen print design on it, the same faded black jeans he seemed to always wear, with the same red and black sneakers he seemed to always wear. He turned at the sound of the door swinging around, and flashed that megawatt smile when he saw it was me. His blue eyes were hidden behind stylish aviator sunglasses and his hair was perfect, not short but not long, and a little messy. Somewhere inside myself I sighed, and threatened myself that, if I was indeed dreaming, and I somehow pinched myself and woke up, that I would severely hurt myself.  I was going to enjoy this day.

“Hi,” I said, sure that my grin was annoyingly wide, but didn’t care. I was very happy to see his face.

“Hi, there,” he answered back, pulling up on the door latch. “You look nice.” He watched me get into the car and my dress rode up on my thighs. He gazed a second too long at my legs, then closed the door.

We had lunch at a lovely beachside restaurant, a gentle breeze blowing off of the ocean, the umbrella shading our table flapflapflapping in the wind.

“So, you look pretty good, for being up so late,” I said, after I handed the waitress my menu.

He sat forward, leaned his arms on the table, and sipped a glass of iced tea through a straw. “That wasn’t late, for me, really. 2 am, I’m just getting going, sometimes.”

“Yeah, but… add in a flight, and it can take a lot out of you, probably.”

He shrugged and bobbed his head to the side. “Maybe. I feel good, though. You look really good for how bad you were doing last night.” 

His expression made me rewind the evening before, try to remember if I was really bad. Was that why he was holding my hand? I was feeling pretty sober, by then. Just tired. My mind raced—what was he talking about? Even the slightest thought that I might have looked foolish in front of him turned my stomach. 

Timid, I asked, “Was I looking bad? Maybe I was drunker than I thought.”

He dipped his head and let a chuckle escape. “I’m messing with you, Serena,” he said, laughing, then took a sip of tea. “You’re too easy.”

“I’m not easy,” I shot back, arching an eyebrow. He arched a brow back at me. “Can I ask what we’re doing today?”

“Nope. Just enjoy the ride.” I bowed my head, laughing to myself. I now could not imagine how this trip might have ended up, had I not met him on the plane.

“So,” he said, setting down his glass of tea. “Uhm. If you don’t mind me asking, you know, we talked last night and you said you were single. Why is that?”

“Well,” I said, picking up my napkin, unfolding it, and spreading it on my lap. “Why are you single?”

“Me?” He shrugged. “Well, I asked you, but okay. I just don’t want to deal with it right now. The whole exclusive, commitment… thing. I don’t know, not for me. Not right now. Are you saying it’s the same for you?”

I nodded. “Pretty much. I work a lot. And I travel a lot. I don’t see tying myself to someone I rarely see. I guess, if you meet someone awesome, it could be worth it.” I stared out into the day, onto the beach, watching the waves roll in, feeling the breeze. “I just haven’t met him, I guess,” I added quietly. I glanced back at JC, and found him studying me, his arms folded on the table.

“And who is ‘him’? Do you like, have an idea of what you’re looking for?”

I snickered. “Does anyone? It’s not exact, down to the letter, but I have an idea. I’m not all about a shopping list of perfection. To be flawed is to have character. I just haven’t met him.”

“Do you think this guy is in Atlanta?”

I was starting to wonder what was up with the interrogation. I felt like he was digging for something. I didn’t know if he was finding what he was looking for, but if he didn’t ask the question, I wasn’t giving the answer.  “Hell if I know. I don’t know that I’ll meet him at all. I have a few very wonderful friends who are, you know—older. Late thirties, early forties, still single, still looking, hanging on.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. Dating is complicated. I don’t want to feel desperate. I’d rather just enjoy myself. And if I find him, I find him.”

“And if you don’t?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Then, I don’t. I just can’t stress out about it.” 

I picked up my glass and sipped my tea, my eyes downcast, hoping this ‘interview’ was over. I was thirty two, still young, and yet people acted like I was an old maid. I probably answered that same question, on average, once a week from friends of my parents, along with offers to play matchmaker and business cards from their ‘dateable, loveable, but just-a-little- quirky’ sons and nephews and grandsons. I’d had my fill of quirky. It wasn’t that I didn’t want someone. It was that the some ones I found just weren’t right for me.

Lunch arrived, offering a reprieve from the not-so-aggressive grilling. We enjoyed cold sandwiches and hot fries and iced tea, having an easy conversation until our plates were clean and the check was paid.  He tucked me back into the car and we were on our way to the next destination—the location of which he delighted in keeping a secret.

“I don’t get why everything has to be a surprise. Why can’t I know?”

“Because I’m a control freak,” he said, watching for a break in traffic so he could turn. Finding one, the car pushed forward into traffic. “No, really, I just want to surprise you. It’s the little things. Just relax, shit.”

I didn’t like not knowing where I was going but no amount of whining was going to get him to spill, so I sat back against the seat and enjoyed the ride. He pulled in front of a stark white building, which turned out to be a museum—not my idea of a fun Saturday afternoon, but he must have had something planned because he offered me a grin as I got out and came around to the front of the car.

Once we were inside, I felt a strong desire to whisper. There were few people milling about, and it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He took my hand and headed down a hall, toward a room. I was just about to ask where we were going when I got my answer, and a giant smile crossed my face—an entire exhibit, not just a wall, of collectible photos and relics of cities around the world circa 1900 and forward. It was like stepping into a time machine, and I was instantly mesmerized by display after display.

“I can’t believe you even know this is here,” I marveled, staring at a photo from 1906.

“I came in here once, by accident,” he said, tucking his sunglasses into the front of his t-shirt, standing next to me. “Are you happy I didn’t tell you where I was taking you, now?”

“Yes,” I gushed. “Yes I am.” I moved slowly down one aisle and up another, keeping an eye on him. One sign of boredom and I would happily leave, but as long as he seemed to be enjoying it, I would soak it in. 

An hour and a half later I had looked at every piece, every photo, every display in the small room and enjoyed every minute of it. “Thank you, for bringing me here. This was great.” I walked out of the room, sure he was more than ready to go.

“You’re welcome. Glad you enjoyed it. You seemed so ‘into’ those pictures last night, I figured I had to bring you out here.”

“I loved it so much I’m not even asking where we’re going next,” I said, glancing up at him as we walked to the car.

“Good, because I’m not telling you,” he said, opening my door, and closing it once I was inside.

He turned the ignition and the car purred to life, then navigated toward the open road. Our second stop of the day took us to Pasadena and The Gamble House. I didn’t understand why were there until JC explained that it was a home built in 1908 for David and Mary Gamble of Proctor and Gamble—a perfect fit for my obvious penchant for all things historical.

“We could have done the big fancy tour,” he said quietly, standing in the entrance line, “but it started at 10:30, and I thought you’d have probably shot me if I suggested it. This is just as good.” 

I nodded, impressed that he was even paying attention to anything I liked.

We walked through the tour that didn’t seem to take the hour that it was supposed to take. He was immersed in the structure and design of the building; I was lost in the history, noting everything from the materials and the fabric used around the house, to the pieces of art and the photos of reconstruction. It was not anything close to what I had planned to do with my Saturday in Los Angeles, but I had the best time I could remember having in a long time. I decided I was done asking where we were going and would just let him take me somewhere wonderful.

“So, is this the kind of stuff you’re doing when no one sees you outside of your house for six months?”

He shot an annoyed look at me over his sunglasses, now back in the car. “No one needs to know what I’m doing when you don’t see me out of my house. You know what the weird thing is? I’m out, all the time. Everywhere. It’s really just a matter of where the cameras are. Sometimes I go places where there are cameras. Sometimes I don’t. And sometimes I really don’t leave the house for awhile. I go through those homebody times like anyone does.” He shook his head, his eyes watching traffic in the glare of the setting sun. “People don’t really think I just sit in my house for months at a time, do they?”

“Well you know,” I said, “if we don’t see you, you must not be out there.” He gave me a look I can’t really describe. Somewhere between ‘you’re crazy’ and ‘oh, please’. I shrugged and smiled. 

“I bet no pictures from today get printed, and yet I’ve been out, all day. So people are going to assume I just didn’t leave my house. That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course not. I didn’t say it made sense. It’s just the mentality, I guess.”

He leaned an elbow on the ledge of the window and bit at his thumbnail as he drove. I recognized Santa Monica on the street signs and, as I’d hoped, he’d taken me to the Pier. He parked, then reached behind him and grabbed a long sleeved pullover from the backseat.  “You might need this, will probably get cold after sunset.”

We walked the pier, taking in the amusements and the sights. I declined a ride on the Ferris wheel, but enjoyed watching it go around and around, the occupants screaming and laughing, having a great time. We dropped in and out of various shops along the way. I picked up a few trinkets for Jen and Melissa and a few other friends at the gift shop, tried on a straw hat, decided by the squint and wrinkled nose that JC gave me that it wasn’t cute, and put it back.

As expected, as soon as the sun set, the wind coming off the water chilled to the bone, so he handed me the pullover and I put it on over my dress. It helped to cut the cold a little but the wind was wicked and I worried about him in his short sleeved shirt. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking toward the edge of the Pier and we stood there, watching the last bands of sunlight disappear over the edge of the ocean.

“So, tell me more about the uhm…the ‘fan’ mentality,” he said, with a sarcastic shake of his head. “Do you think the same, then, that I’m some sort of recluse, sitting in my house, watching life pass me by?”

My short temper surprised me. I didn’t know I had an outburst until it came, and when it did, I stopped and faced him. “You say ‘fan’ like it’s an insult, like it’s weird to like you, like your music, want to know what’s up with you. Fans only know what you let them see. If you don’t like how fans think, or what they seem to think of you, or the mentality or the perception, then change what you show them. You can’t expect us to understand what we don’t know.”

Surprised, he stared, expressionless, and said nothing for a few seconds. His gaze turned back toward the water, and I wondered how long it would be before he led me back to the car and dumped me at my hotel. He didn’t though. Instead, he stole a glance or two over at me and quietly said, “I don’t mean it that way. I meant to really just ask your perspective. I deserved that, I guess.”

Relieved, I backed down. “You know what? You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I have no idea what it’s like to be you. It’s very easy to sit on this side of it and say what you should do, have to do-- like it’s my life to dictate. I’ll shut up.” I crossed my arms inside the huge jacket and resolved to keep that promise.

“No, don’t shut up,” he said, looking back at me. “I want to know. I want to know your thoughts and your perspective. Really.”

For a minute, I just watched him. There was a reason I felt so drawn to him, that I became a fan, and was still a fan after all this time, after the music stopped coming and the random nonsensical projects waned on, and the promises of something new went unfulfilled-- and would stay a fan until something devastating happened, like he killed someone, or something. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to, or if I was even ready to share it with him—I had barely shared it with the people who were closest to me.

“I sort of always felt like I had—I don’t want this to sound crazy, or anything, so just bear with me—like I had a connection with you. There’s something we have in common, that I found out about you a long time ago. And I guess whenever I hear this about someone, celebrity or not, I feel like I have some kind of unspoken bond with them because I share something that not everyone else can.”

He angled an arm up, leaning his chin on a hand, a childish grin on his lips. “Really. Intense fear of needles? Hate of tattoos? What?”

I laughed, and saw that he was trying to lighten the mood and put me at ease. “Well--big announcement—I am also adopted,” I said, softly. His eyes shut quickly, behind his shades, then fluttered open. He straightened and leaned his hip against the railing.

“I found that out, awhile back. A long while back actually, and I really connected with you, over it, but it wasn’t something you talked about, publicly. Then about a year ago you started talking about it, and how it happened, and… your situation and my situation have some parallels. It’s something I personally rarely talk about and… well, it just made me really like you more, as a person and feel, like—okay, not in a crazy fan way-- but closer to you. Does that make sense?”

“Mmhhmm.” He nodded, but offered no further comment. He just stared at me, as if he was trying to determine if I was serious, or playing with him, lying so that I could appear to be closer to him than I was.

“I have no reason to lie about something like this. It would be sick if I did, just to say I had something in common with you, but you don’t have to believe me. You asked, and that’s my perspective. I love your voice, I love your music, I like how you think, and we have something in common. Period, end of story.”

He scratched at his temple and then behind his ear, leaning onto the peeling wood, clasping his hands in front of him, staring out at the water. “So, do you know them? Your birth family?” His voice was quiet, really the most serious he’d been since I met him.

“I know her. My mom. I don’t know who my dad is.”

“When did you find out? Or did you always know?” 

“I always knew. The situation was… complicated. We’ll say that. There was no way to hide it, even if they tried.” Though I had the sweatshirt on, I was feeling the breeze through the thick cotton and my legs were cold as ice, but I didn’t want to move from that spot. I felt a very important conversation coming on. I leaned up against the railing alongside him and put the cold out of my mind.

“Mine too, kind of. What was complicated?”

“I was eight, when I was adopted. But I’d been with my parents since I was born. It was… it just took that long to get everything straightened out with Regina—my birth mom—to get her to give up her rights to me and let me be adopted by the Willis family. She was, well is an addict. Drugs, alcohol. Whatever she can get her hands on, but she seemed to clean up just long enough to keep the state at bay.”

“Wow. That’s gotta be hard on a kid. I mean, I know. It was hard on a kid. I guess I feel your pain.”

“And I feel yours,” I said, nudging him. “Though, I suspect your situation was a bit more amicable than mine.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” he said with a short chuckle. “What happened?”

“Oh, she’d disappear, and be gone for months and everything would be great. I had brothers by then. Out of the blue, she’d reappear and my life would be a living hell. Every few months, she needed something, and everyone had to drop everything to get it to her, or she’d raise hell and talk about getting clean and taking her ‘damn daughter’ home. Even after I was adopted, after she finally signed the forms, she didn’t go away. She was a mess, always has been. My parents took care of her, as best they could, you know, for my sake. Now I take care of her.”

“That’s a weird turn of roles, isn’t it? Taking care of your mom?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, emitting a sarcastic chuckle. “Yep, it’s weird, seeing as how she’s only fourteen years older than I am. And she feels it, so she doesn’t let me take care of her that often. It’s just, you know, the same thing, every few months. She needs a hundred dollars, she’s in jail, she’s in the hospital, she wants to go to rehab, she needs to go to a clean house, she needs a ride to some clinic. I’m just tired. And I have a lot of residual issues over how my parents actually got me, so… I hold a pretty big grudge against her.”

He looked at me, the wind whipping pieces of his hair up so they stood on end. “What do you mean?”  How did your parents get you? She just signed the paperwork, right?”

I glared at him. “She wouldn’t go away, now why would she just sign some paperwork?  Please, JC, I wish it were that easy. I wish my mom would have just shown up at some kind folks’ doorstep with me and said ‘I can’t take care of her, will you raise her’ and then let them raise me.”

He held up a finger and shook it at me. “Fan rule number one. There’s the story that’s told to the public and there’s what’s really happened. I… don’t want to get into that, but...” He waved past the topic. 

I felt a swell of emotion rise, emotion that I did not want to show. I wasn’t going to stand here on the Pier and cry my eyes out. I kept my eyes on the water, the moon rising and reflecting off of the surface. “My dad found her and asked her, you know, ‘what do you want? You give us Serena, we give you want you want’.  She named a price. A ridiculous one. And they told her she’d get it after she signed the papers.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn to me, angled so he could see my face. I stared straight ahead. “So she showed up—late and lit—and signed them. And later, I’m sure she had a grand old crack smoking party with her proceeds. Truthfully, I really felt like—“ I paused. Could I really say this, out loud, to him?

“You felt like what?”

I shook my head, blinking the tears back. “I felt like she sold me,” I spit out.  “She sold me. Not exactly to the highest bidder, and it was what I wanted but she sold me. When I found that out I never felt so cheap and worthless, like a piece of property to be exchanged back and forth, you know?” I hunched my shoulders and bowed my head, laying my head on my folded arms.

“That’s…” he huffed, not knowing what to say. What do you say, to something like that? “That’s not… that’s ridiculous, Serena. I mean, she put you in the middle, but she didn’t sell you. She just… eventually did what was best for you when she was motivated by something else.”

I lifted my head, wiped my eyes and sniffled. “Well. You say potato, I say she sold me. I’ll say it till the end of time.  It’s how I feel.”

He straightened, then, and I felt arms pulling me up and turning me toward him. My face was buried in his chest and his arms were wrapped around my shoulders and his cheek was laying on my head. “Don’t believe that,” he whispered. “Just don’t. That’ll destroy you. You’re a beautiful person, and I would hate to see that happen.”

I shook with effort not to cry and managed not to. He rubbed my back with one hand and kept one arm tight around my shoulder. “You make sure to mention on your little message board how nice I’m being right now, okay? I mean really lay it on thick, with the hug and stuff.” 

I burst into laughter and unfolded my arms, wrapping them loosely around him. “There’s no message board. At least not one by that name that I’m a member of.” I noticed, then that he was trembling. “Are you cold?” I pulled back and looked up at him. 

He shivered, his teeth chattering. “Freezing!” he said, though clenched teeth. “This wind is killing me. Can we go?”

“Why didn’t you say something? Do you want your jacket back, it’s a short walk to car—“ I started to remove it but he took my hand and pulled me along down the Pier.

“If you take that off, I will be furious with you. Tomorrow, wear jeans and sleeves. Come on.”

Tomorrow?

In lieu of dinner out, we opted to go back to the hotel and warm up, order dinner from the restaurant there and then decide what else we wanted to do. The famed LA traffic really was crazy and it took nearly twice as long as it should have to get back. He parked in the lot in the back of the hotel and we entered through a side door, climbed the steps to the first floor and caught the elevator from there, sidestepping the lobby and any preying eyes.

“Here’s why no one ever sees you anywhere, sneaky.”

“Gotta have privacy, man.” I slid my keycard into the reader and opened the door. I had left the air on, so it was cool inside the room. I headed straight for the air system and adjusted it for heat.

“I need use your facilities,” he said, pointing toward the restroom. “You have any bras or anything hanging out in here?” I gave him a look and shook my head no. He stepped in, cautiously, and flipped on the light. Satisfied he wouldn’t be accosted by any unmentionables, he walked in and shut the door.

The menu for the hotel restaurant was available on screen. I sat on the edge of the bed, flipping through the screens to the entrees and rubbing my feet.

“Feet hurt?” He sat next to me on the bed squinting at the screen.

“Yeah, I don’t wear those sandals often. All that walking and standing, rubbed a little tender spot. I’ll be alright. What do you want to eat?”

“Don’t care, I’m not picky. Whatever’s on special,” he said, flipping through his phone. I called down to the restaurant and placed our orders and sat back on the bed. “Forty five minutes,” I said, stretching.

“Cool,” he said. “Come over here.” He pointed toward the chair and ottoman in a corner of the room. Confused, I did as he asked. He sat on the ottoman in front of me and reached for the foot I had been rubbing.

I laughed, more embarrassed than anything. He wanted to massage my feet? “Oh, no,” I giggled. “No, no, no. You’re sweet but no. You don’t… you don’t have to do that.”

“Will you shut up and put your foot up here? I’m a master at foot massage. Seriously. Up here.” He patted his thigh and held out his hands, and against my general nature, I gingerly placed a foot in his lap. I knew from the moment he touched it that I was in trouble. Large hands that I imagined would be rough with a woman’s foot became lithe and nimble, pushing and pulling and pressuring in just the right spots. I sank into the chair, my arms limp, head back, eyes half open, watching him rub my foot. Feeling him massage the aches and pains away. Somewhere between that morning and that very minute, I realized he stopped being ‘JC Chasez’ and started being… someone different. Familiar and kind and comfortable. Someone I could like. Someone I did like, a lot.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? I told you.” I nodded, and mumbled something that probably sounded like yes.

“Want me to do the other one?” I answered by lifting my other foot and placing it next to the first one, and he rubbed and pinched and pulled and massaged them both. I watched him in awe, working his magic. His forehead wrinkled in concentration, his hands working the muscles in both feet.

“There’s this cream stuff that they make, so your shoes don’t rub against your feet, and you don’t get those tender spots. I’ll ask my friend Gina what it’s called. It works great for her though, she’s a dancer, and they have to wear uncomfortable shoes to dance in, sometimes.” He lifted his eyes from my feet to my face and smiled.

“I’d appreciate a referral, if you could. Though, I can’t wear those sandals again until spring anyway and by then I’ll forget that they rub my feet like that.”

He winked and said, “Then, you’ll just have to come back so I can give you the world’s best foot massage again.”

“Maybe I will. That felt great, thank you,” I said, lifting my feet off of his lap, crossing one leg over the other.

“Sure, no problem,” he said, but didn’t move from the ottoman. Instead he sat forward, elbows on his knees and picked at his fingernails, deep in thought. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. I’d poured my heart out to him earlier. Maybe I could return the favor.

“Just thinking about our conversation out on the Pier. Stuff.” A crease appeared in his forehead. “You uhm…. You think you’ll ever look for your dad?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t been really compelled to. He doesn’t know I exist and I don’t know that I want to totally bust into his life. Plus there’s no telling what Regina would do if she found out I knew who he was. Maybe she’d show up at his place and start demanding things.”

He nodded, continuing to pick at his nails. I stared at the top of his head, his hair combed back in a perfect coiffure, very dark, with just a hint of grey. I wanted to just reach up, and run my fingers through it, but I managed to stop myself from doing so.

“Have you ever thought to look for yours?” He shook his head.

“He must know I exist, but he chose to not stick around, or whatever, so…” He shrugged. “I need to go wash my hands.”

“Are you saying my feet are dirty?”

“Not at all. But my hands smell like shoe leather,” he teased, ducking into the bathroom. A knock came at the door, then, and I got up to answer it, noting that my feet felt 100% better as they hit the soft carpet. Dinner was delivered and set up at the small table in front of the window. 

I set two places for us, JC kitty corner from me. I tuned the TV to a music station and old school R&B thumped softly in the background. It was nice, very casual, like having dinner with an old friend. An old, really handsome friend whose poster hung on your wall. He was a witty conversationalist and since I knew he would talk about anything, whenever, I just let him talk. He cleared his plate, and talked while I ate and cleared mine.

“So, Serena.” He paused, briefly glancing out of the window at the view, and then his eyes snapped back to me. “There’s something I want to ask you. I hope it doesn’t offend you, I’m just wondering.”

“Shoot,” I said, scraping the last of the potatoes from my plate.

“Okay, you went through this whole thing with Regina. And you’re still angry about it, I guess, right? So, did anyone send you through therapy or anything? Did you see a counselor?”

I ran my tongue along my teeth, picked my napkin up from my lap and tossed it onto the table. His hope that it didn’t offend me wasn’t ill founded. I wasn’t so much offended, as tired of people assuming I needed to see a shrink. It was what it was—I had a right to be upset about it. I felt like he, of all people, should understand that.

“It was suggested,” I answered, curt. “And I went for a while. But that was before I found out how my parents got me, so… since I found out, no. I haven’t gone.”

“Well--you don’t think you should?” I recoiled, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. He held up his hands, as if he was surrendering to me and my anger.