Page 56

I woke up the next morning with the worst ache in my stomach.

My mouth was dry, and it felt hard to swallow with how scratchy my throat felt from throwing up so much.

I tried going back to sleep to avoid my current reality, but after tossing and turning for an hour or so, I decided to grab my phone for a distraction.

There weren't any new texts from an unknown number, or Monroe's number, that I still had blocked.

I expected it, but somehow it still made my nausea grow worse.

I knew I should get on TikTok or maybe Instagram to distract myself.

Maybe YouTube.

But I looked her up instead, typing Monroe Leclair into my Google search bar, so I could look at pictures of her.

We didn't have any together.

I guess that shows our true dynamic.

I was delusional to think it could be more.

I'm even more delusional for scrolling through polished Google images of her.

You could tell her image was curated.

There wasn't a single bad article about her, and trust me, I went through them all.

I read all of the different interviews—I struck a gold mine when I found a few interviews to watch.

Hearing her voice still soothed me, whether I liked it or not.

I listened to one of the podcasts she was featured on as I fell back asleep, somehow feeling tired at the mere sound of her voice.

She clouded my head as I drifted off to sleep, thinking only of her as her voice echoed around me from my phone.

When I awoke again, it was deafeningly silent.

It made me feel sick.

The podcast I had playing earlier was finished, and there wasn't anything new I could read or watch about her.

I got bored and looked up Maricel instead.

I'm not sure why, but she popped into my head, and I remembered Monroe did something to keep her distanced.

I'm not sure what, but Maricel never texted me after that night.

I wondered if she knew anything about me and Monroe, or probably not, considering the NDA I signed.

She might be able to give me tips on how to move past something like this, but I wouldn't be able to give any real details.

Not just because of the NDA, but I think it would be really awkward for her, and it might make her spiral.

She didn't seem to be in the best mental state at that event, and it's been months since Monroe ended their arrangement.

What does that mean for me?

Surely this feeling won't last months.

Right?

I can understand why Maricel is going insane—I'm already going insane, and it hasn't even been a week.

It doesn't feel like there's a light at the end of this tunnel.

Maybe I could vaguely ask Maricel for advice, like how to get over someone.

I'm sure she's tried deeper practices to rid her brain of Monroe, even if it didn't work.

I looked up Maricel's first name and put LA, but that was impossible.

So I tried her name and art consultant, combined with Seattle instead, and almost immediately, she came up.

Whoever did her SEO and scrubbed her digital footprint did an incredible fucking job.

I began looking at the official website with her family's last name front and center.

Alarcon.

The website was timeless and polished, but it wasn't detailed enough for me.

I logged into a burner account on Instagram instead, deciding to do a little social media stalking.

I didn't want to accidentally like her post or view her story, and she finds out it was me, so this was the best option.

Maricel Alarcon was what I typed in, finding her social media page immediately.

Her recent photos were either from events where she flashed a smile for photos, outfit-focused mirror pictures, or daily photos consisting of her daily life.

From what I looked at, she was really into running, showing her outfits, and traveling.

She had a lot of photos of herself in different spots around the world.

She's concerningly photogenic.

I paused at one photo specifically.

It was taken over a year ago, but I recognized her hands immediately.

It was a picture of some type of latte art, but there was another cup across from Maricel's.

Monroe's familiar hand rested on the table with a few silver rings, the other wrapped firmly around the mug.

I stared at the picture for a moment, wondering what it was like between them.

Did they go for coffee often?

Surely Monroe took her on out-of-town trips.

I remember her telling me honestly that she took the others out of town.

I unconsciously zoomed in on the photo, on her hands, trying not to obsess over something so small.

But at least Maricel had some kind of proof that Monroe existed with her.

I had nothing.

As far as the world knew, this was all from my imagination.

Monroe never existed with me—only as my therapist.

To make it worse, we only lasted close to two months.

Her other arrangements were at least a year.

I was the odd one out.

Monroe didn't need a year with me to decide she could do without.

I clicked Maricel's story, deciding to watch it behind my burner account.

It was a repost from her family's business page, which is where I navigated next, viewing the Alarcon official page.

It revolved purely around art and family—some of the pictures Maricel was in.

I noticed a difference immediately.

Maricel's teeth weren't showing, and her smile was tight compared to the pictures on her own page.

I clicked the recent post, reading over the details of a gallery showing.

The last few posts were about advertising this upcoming event, which had Seattle listed as the location.

So, of course, I did what any sane person would do and checked the details of it.

I may or may not have gone to the provided link, paid for access to the event, and checked out.

I had plenty of chances to back out, but I didn't.

I decided to go to the first showing they were having, which was tomorrow night.

There was another one on Friday and Saturday, but I wanted to go as soon as possible, or I might change my mind.

I'm not even sure what I'll say to Maricel if I do get to see her, but my main objective is to get some tips for healing.

I just have to be really indirect about it.

I thought about numerous scenarios throughout the day—I also slept more and purposely kept my blinds closed.

I didn't have any schoolwork to do, so TikTok and YouTube distracted me somewhat.

Showering was my only motivation to get out of bed that night, and then I laid right back down, going to sleep early.

I wasn't hungry enough to eat anything—not even dinner, and I paid for that in the morning.

My hollow stomach woke me out of my sleep, and I was forced to eat something.

It was barely eight o'clock, and I was rummaging through my kitchen for stuff to eat.

I grabbed the Fruity Pebbles again, eating the cereal dry as I opened my freezer and reached for the frozen waffles.

I stuffed two blueberry waffles in my toaster and pushed the handle down to cook them.

I pulled open my fridge next, grabbing the pre-cut mango slices to eat between bites of Fruity Pebbles.

I didn't even care about putting syrup on the waffles once they were done—I began taking huge bites, forcefully swallowing the food.

I was chasing the feeling I discovered last night, except it didn't feel the same.

It wasn't as intense or distracting, and making myself nauseous was hard when my body was genuinely hungry.

This was my first source of food in the last twenty-four hours.

I sighed deeply, dropping what was left of my waffle in my trash can before letting it close shut.

I put the box of cereal and the mango bowl away, walking past my bedroom to the bathroom.

The first thing I grabbed was the toothbrush on the bathroom sink and trailed over to the toilet, I kneeled down by.

I hunched over, shoving the end of the toothbrush into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat until I gagged.

My eyes watered and my stomach lurched, and there was the familiar feeling.

My throat burned and my stomach ached, but the pain felt relieving somehow.

It's like all my internal emotions were finally coming alive, and I could feel them physically.

It felt better than keeping them in my head.

My head was pounding by the time I finished, my vision slightly spotty as I stumbled up from the cold ground.

I tossed the toothbrush in the trash, leaning over the bathroom sink to steady myself.

After a few minutes, I ventured out of the bathroom to get some water.

Monroe would've had water on my nightstand.

I shook my head to myself, drawing in a series of deep breaths to keep the thoughts of her away.

I really fucking hope Maricel has some type of advice.

Until then, I have my therapy session with Dr. Kincaid before class.

I got the appointment alert yesterday, so I guess we're sticking to the same schedule as I did with Monroe.

I tried not to think about the possibility of seeing Monroe today, even if it might be brief and in passing.

But I swear it was all I could think about as I did my skincare and opened a new toothbrush to brush my teeth.

I didn't put that much effort into my outfit as a way of making myself face reality.

I probably won't see her today.

She was clear about space.

I pulled on a vintage baby tee with sweatpants and a matching jacket over it since it's cold and rainy outside.

My curly hair was pulled up into a bun with stray hairs pulled out.

I tried not to think about Monroe doing my hair.

It always looked so good when she did it.

Fuck.

I still felt somewhat confident in my hair and overall appearance, even if it felt like I looked drained.

I look paler, or maybe that's because my body hates me for feeding it food and taking it away.

I couldn't even force a fake smile for Sienna, who already expected me for my appointment with Dr. Kincaid.

I know she was nice during my breakdown, but I just know she's happy now that I've switched therapists.

Or maybe I'm in my head about it.

Dr. Kincaid greeted me with an effortless smile, something completely opposite to Monroe's nature.

I followed her toward her office, unconsciously eyeing the closed door further down the hallway.

I knew Monroe was in there if the door was closed, and I'm almost positive she knows I'm here.

It's her way of instilling the boundaries put up between us.

"How are you, Liberty?" Dr. Kincaid asked as we got seated in her dim office, focusing her attention on me.

But all I could focus on was how dark her eyes were.

"Not great," I admitted, hoping to get this weight off of me, "I feel worse since I was last here. I've barely gotten out of bed in the last two days."

Dr. Kincaid pursed her lips into a frown, "I'm really sorry to hear that," she said, her tone too softened for my liking, "This is a completely realistic process. It takes time to move on from someone you liked, especially if you were attached. There's no rushing healing."

I sighed deeply, "But I can't..." I trailed off, shaking my head as I glanced down at my lap, "I can't do this anymore. It feels like she's attached to my brain. She's all I think about, and it just never goes away."

"I know Liberty, but let's remember who you were before her," Dr. Kincaid said as tears spilled from my eyes, staring down embarrassingly at my lap, "You existed before her, I promise you can exist after."

"What if I don't want to exist after?" I whispered, glancing up from my lap.

Dr. Kincaid's expression grew more serious. "Are you saying you're thinking about hurting yourself? Or that it feels difficult to picture a future without her?" she asked, and the hesitancy in her tone made me want to cry even more.

I quickly shook my head, "No-no, I just want her to come back," I quickly whispered, shutting down her assumptions.

I definitely can't tell her about the eating and purposeful throwing up that I've been doing.

I can tell by the look on her face.

She looks serious at the mere mention of hurting myself.

Dr. Kincaid nodded, her expression loosening, "Yes, of course, that's valid, Liberty," she assured me, "But you will be just as okay if she doesn't come back. You have so much ahead of you."

I only remained silent, sighing deeply as tears slid down my cheeks.

I didn't want to think of what I had ahead of me if it wasn't with her, but I also knew I had no other choice.

I need to face reality.

I can't keep dwelling.

It's just hard not to—I think it's because I only see the potential.

What everything could've been.

"I searched her online yesterday," I admitted, letting out a deep sigh. "It was nice seeing her face and watching videos of her to hear her voice," I said, choosing my words carefully.

I couldn't say interviews or podcasts because not many people are connected with that.

"Have you searched her today?" Dr. Kincaid asked me, her dark eyes holding mine.

"No," I said, shaking my head as I wiped away some of my tears.

Dr. Kincaid nodded, "Good, that's progress even if it might feel small," she determined as I leaned back against the couch, "Maybe try not to check today. Make goals for yourself until it becomes a habit."

I remained silent, finding her words really helpful.

I probably should set goals for myself, even if they're small.

"Have you thought about getting out of the city? Sometimes a change in environment can help shift how heavy things feel." Dr. Kincaid suddenly said, her dark eyes holding mine, "Maybe for a weekend. Would that feel relieving to you?"

I nodded hesitantly, finding the idea of that nice.

Maybe getting away would be good.

"That sounds relieving, honestly," I whispered, determining that anything is worth a try.

"We're hosting a small therapy retreat next weekend," Dr. Kincaid added, making everything inside of me stall as I realized what I just indirectly agreed to. "I know it's short notice, but I think it could be a really supportive space for you right now."

I blinked a few times. "Okay?" I said, the word coming out as a question, "I'm not that sure since it's so last minute," I lied, knowing that Monroe would definitely be there.

Dr. Kincaid said we, so I assumed she means she and Monroe are hosting.

I definitely shouldn't go if that's the case.

It would make this harder for me.

"I understand. Maybe check if you can move some things around and let me know by tomorrow," Dr. Kincaid offered as she sat in the cushioned chair across from me. "Sometimes putting some distance between yourself and the places that hold memories of someone can give your mind room to breathe."

I nodded in agreement, knowing it would definitely help.

If the woman, I'm currently trying to escape from, wasn't coming to this retreat.

I refuse to ask Dr. Kincaid who's attending because that's too fucking obvious.

Maybe I could just go and avoid her.

Or she won't even go at all when she finds out I'm going.

I need this trip more than her—she's clearly fine.

And it'll help me out of this dark hole that I fell into.

It's not even about the trip specifically, but the fact that it's a therapy retreat.

Dr. Kincaid is right.

It could be really good for me.

"I think I can move some stuff around," I suddenly determined, letting out a deep sigh at my sudden words.

I can't believe I'm agreeing to this right now.

Dr. Kincaid nodded, a smile growing on her lips, but it wasn't as praising as Monroe's, "I think that would be really smart, Liberty. A lot of patients make immense progress on these retreats," she said, earning a few nods from me.

I can only hope that I made some type of progress away from Monroe.

If I get to go.

Either she'll shut it down from happening, or she won't attend to ensure we have this space between us.

If I don't end up going on this retreat, then maybe I should find another?

I started thinking of the idea, wondering if there were other retreats I could attend.

Maybe that in general would be a better idea instead of seeing what Monroe does.

As soon as Dr. Kincaid and I finished the session, I unlocked my phone to begin searching for retreats.

I did make an effort to subtly glance down the hallway, but as expected, her office door was still shut.

Dr. Kincaid walked me out as I scrolled on my phone, and honestly, I felt a little better.

We didn't talk about anything with too much depth.

Monroe always guided me in deeper, while Dr. Kincaid had a different approach.

She wanted me to come to her instead.

I had to bring the topic to the surface or show willingness if she brought it up.

And I wasn't doing that.

I don't know, it's just harder to warm up with her.

I don't want to get comfortable, and somehow have to switch therapists again.

I'm also aware that Dr. Kincaid tries to mirror Monroe, so it's hard not to think about that during our sessions.

She only wanted me as a patient because Monroe had me as one.

Just as Monroe said, Dr. Kincaid was shut down over the nickname, and right then and there, it was all decided.

She noticed how serious Monroe was and craved the same dynamic with me.

It's odd that she even wants her patients, too.

I shook my head, deciding to let it all roll off of me, especially since I had to go to class next.

Upon making it to my usual lecture hall, Zion was seated in the row we always sat in, smiling as I walked over.

Luckily, I only had to force a decently genuine smile with him a few different times throughout the lecture.

We did talk afterward, but I purposely shifted the focus onto him instead, asking him a bunch of questions so he wouldn't focus too much on me.

It seemed to work, up until I declined his extended dinner plans, but I quickly gave a real excuse.

I mean, technically, I have that gallery showing.

Zion was still worried, given it's been over a week since we all hung out.

He assumed I was avoiding them, and I am just a little bit.

Only because they'll notice if something is wrong.

But for the sake of Zion acting like a worried brother, I offered to do dinner tomorrow night with him and Sarai, which helped smooth over his concern.

I genuinely hope tonight goes decent with Maricel.

If so, I may not have to pretend to be fine tomorrow night with Zion and Sarai.

The first step was putting genuine effort into my appearance so I felt confident tonight, especially since I've never been to a gallery showing before.

I decided to blow out my hair, wearing it in soft waves and letting it frame my face.

I took my time ensuring I genuinely liked my hair, then I moved on to my makeup.

I didn't rush the process since I was getting ready a little earlier than usual.

I spent close to two hours on my makeup and listening to music.

I had to skip certain songs that I had previously played around Monroe because I immediately thought of her when they came on.

I knew it was likely she would hear about tonight, given that she has eyes on me.

I'll probably get another call from a No Caller ID number, knowing her, but I don't care.

This will be worth it.

I mean, realistically, Maricel will have decent tips to give me.

After finishing my thin winged liner, I focused on lining my lips and applying gloss.

Then I ventured off to my closet, which I inevitably sifted through.

There were a lot of good options, but somehow I ventured back to the stupid black dress.

It was the one Monroe sent me to wear for her post-interview event, but I never wore it.

It was the night I wore the shorter black dress and even met Maricel.

Now feels like a good time to wear it because... I'm venturing into her world, it feels like.

Monroe knows what's acceptable, especially at certain curated events.

Wearing this dress felt like a guarantee that I wouldn't be the odd one out in the room.

I don't know how she's still making choices for me within my own fucking head, but right now, I couldn't fight it.

I needed to comply for the sake of feeling confident tonight, and that all starts with my appearance.

I look good—I feel good.

So I slipped the smooth black dress on, allowing it to fall to my knees.

It exposed my back but had a higher neckline, the design of it screaming elegance.

I felt... really good in it.

Next, I slid on cute kitten heels and sprayed on some perfume.

I also couldn't forget my jewelry before I left, grabbing my phone and the purse I picked out for the night.

My nerves grew as I made my way down to the parking garage, but honestly—

I preferred nervousness over the dreadful feelings I've been experiencing for the last few days.

I also felt really nice all dressed up again and hearing my heels click softly against the ground.

It made me feel a little like myself again.

I've basically been in sweats the last few days.

That, or an oversized t-shirt and shorts.

The last time I was dressed up was at that frat party, but tonight felt different.

The cold night air was a little more digestible, especially as I parked at the downtown gallery, approaching the dimly lit building.

There was a calmness to the gallery I walked into, hearing soft classical music and overlapped chatter.

A blonde woman stood at the front, checking names on a specified list.

Since I purchased my spot, I was already on there and good to pass through.

I slowly walked past each group of people, observing their faces as I searched for a certain woman.

There was champagne being passed out, but I knew right now wasn't a good time to drink.

I needed to be in my best mindset when talking to Maricel.

I nearly let out a relieved breath when I noticed her off in the corner, wearing a soft green dress that complemented her dark features.

It was sheer and elegant, the neckline coming up to her neck.

She wore her hair in a low sleek bun with gold earrings that matched the gold eyeshadow outlining her dark eyes.

She looked stunning, even if I didn't want to admit it.

All I could imagine was the idea of Monroe with her.

She and Maricel annoyingly made sense.

The way Maricel carries herself, how she smiles... she's the one who belongs by Monroe's side.

I bet Monroe never had to send her outfits or pick any of them out.

Maricel probably had that all covered.

She probably has better taste than I do.

"Liberty?" Maricel said in confusion, furrowing her brows as I approached her.

"Hey," I said, the word falling awkwardly from my lips.

Okay, so not a good start.

"I didn't know you were into art?" Maricel said, her lips suddenly spreading into a smile.

Her reaction was relieving.

She definitely seems confused, but excited that I'm here.

"Yeah-yes," I quickly said, going along with her assumption even if I had planned hundreds of scenarios in my head, "After you mentioned art at that one event, I've been checking out a few places."

"I love to hear that," Maricel murmured as she took a brief sip of her champagne, "Art can seriously change your views—it's deeper, more poetic in a way."

I nodded, "Yes, I'm beginning to realize that," I whispered, unsure of what to counter her words with, given I'm not actually into art, "I uh noticed your name when hearing about this showing, and thought I might show up to say hi."

I knew I couldn't lie about knowing she was a part of this showing.

Her name was literally plastered everywhere.

Being honest about that will make everything else more believable.

"I'm really glad you showed up," Maricel said, flashing me her white smile, "I'm also sorry I never texted you. I didn't realize you were a patient at Ro's practice. I completely crossed the line."

I remained silent for a moment, suddenly clicking the pieces together.

Monroe told her I was patient.

That's how she got Maricel to stay away, aside from whatever else she said to her.

I know there had to be more.

"You didn't cross the line at all, really," I assured her, but she only shook her head.

"Maybe not to you, but Ro is weirdly particular. She likes to keep everything clean and separate, and I messed up a lot of stuff that night," Maricel sighed, raising her champagne flute for another sip.

I don't know why I felt almost offended by her words.

Monroe isn't weirdly particular.

She just prefers organization.

She likes control.

It's not weird, and I don't like that Maricel called it that.

"I'm sorry, I'm saying too much—we definitely shouldn't talk about her," Maricel suddenly said as she lowered her flute, eyeing my face.

I quickly shook my head, "No, it's okay. I don't mind," I assured her, knowing we needed to talk about her if I wanted her advice.

"I know you are. It's just..." Maricel paused, briefly glancing around the filled gallery, "I shouldn't discuss it in general, that's all," she suddenly said, meeting my stare again with a weak smile.

I knew what her words meant.

"In general" correlated to the NDA that we both signed.

She can't legally disclose anything between her and Monroe, and at Monroe's event, she put that all in jeopardy by causing a public scene.

But I need some type of advice, otherwise, this was pointless.

"I understand... I thought it seemed like we were going through the same thing, so I was going to ask your advice," I said, blinking a few times as I tried to think carefully about my next words, "I just got out of something similar, except it was more of a situationship kind of thing," I decided to say, hoping that made it sound casual, and not like an arrangement.

Maricel lazily raised her brows with a smile, "Ay Dios mío, those are the worst," she said, shaking her head to herself.

"I know right?" I immediately agreed, a little too quickly, making me clear my throat, "It's, uh... really hard for me right now. And I guess I noticed it was hard for you at the event too. I thought maybe you could give me some tips on how to move on?"

Maricel briefly pursed her lips together, "I haven't exactly moved on. Every day something small yanks me right back to the start," she said, her voice weakening as her dark eyes broke away from mine for a moment.

She looked deep in thought.

And I realized this is probably really triggering for her.

I know it would be for me.

"Of course, you aren't going through the same thing, so it's not as intense," Maricel quickly snapped away from her thoughts with a forced smile.

I really tried my best to reciprocate her smile, but it was so fucking hard.

I'm going through the exact thing, and she's not giving me any hope right now.

"Journaling sort of worked for me, but it made me think of her more. I remembered smaller memories that stuck with me throughout the day, so it was more harm than good," Maricel spoke again when I remained silent.

"Exercising also really helps—I got into running, and it's a good distraction. It's just hard once you finish since all the feelings flood back."

I nodded stiffly, "Okay, maybe I'll try that," I whispered, even if neither of those sounded like a good resolution to my dilemma.

Running is still a really good idea, or just exercising in general.

An hour distraction is better than nothing, honestly.

"The real key here is staying busy," Maricel determined, her tone growing serious with me, "It's about keeping so busy that you don't have a chance to think about any of it—of course, nights are the fucking worse, and I somehow developed insomnia in the last few months, but at least I got my days back."

Wow.

Monroe really did a number on her—she did a number on me too, but Maricel is so much deeper in.

I don't know what I would do if we had been in an arrangement for over a year.

I would have an identity crisis or something.

"That's really helpful," I suddenly spoke, realizing I had zoned out. "Staying busy is my next go-to," I determined, realizing I had been spending my days in bed with nothing to do.

Maybe Maricel found a decent hack to all of this.

I've never had to find a hack or deal with anything close to a breakup or separation, so this is even harder for me to navigate.

Monroe was the only person I've ever gotten that intimate with.

"I would love to be friends and help more since you seem nice, but I don't want to interfere further in her life more than I already have," Maricel said as she drew in a deep breath, taking a brief sip of champagne.

"I'm not her patient anymore. I found a therapist that fits me better," I quickly said, even if it was a full-faced lie.

Monroe fits me so well, and it took going to Dr. Kincaid to realize that.

I mean, she's a good therapist, but Monroe's practices feel so much better.

And I'm not even saying that from a biased point.

Even from the very beginning, when our sessions were a little more normal, aside from me flirting with her, I still made a lot of progress with her.

The way she helped navigate me through different issues is completely different from how Dr. Kincaid operates.

I can tell that Monroe is renowned.

She's good at her job.

"I would honestly love to be your friend—you've dropped so much knowledge on me in the last two encounters we've had," I added, noticing her hesitation at my previous words.

Whatever Monroe told her must've scared the fuck out of her if she's scared to be my friend, even if I'm no longer her patient.

I genuinely think it might be good to be friends with Maricel.

Given our shared experiences, I'll take whatever help I can get, and it felt like the universe was offering it right to me.

"Okay," Maricel suddenly said, blinking a few times, "You're not her patient... so I think it's fine, and I can help you work through this little situationship."

I nodded immediately, "Yes, I would really love that," I said, flashing her a smile that came genuinely for once.

I think it was my first real smile in a few days, but it felt relieving to have support from someone with the same experience.

"How about we look at some art? Of course, I have a few deals to handle," Maricel said, briefly glancing around the gallery, "Maybe we could grab a quick bite to eat after, too."

My smile grew. "Sounds perfect," I said as we both walked forward to the nearby art piece to eye.

Suddenly, it felt like a small sliver of hope had been given to me.

A light at the end of the tunnel.

Maybe I'll make it through this after all.

I'm kind of surprised Monroe hasn't tried to call me the moment I stepped into this gallery, but I also think it symbolized how done she is.

She's officially moved on.

She doesn't care anymore.

She always did say that once she moved on, her obsession faded.

I guess the same happened with me, and I made it easy for her.

Now I just need to crawl out of the hole I dug myself into.