Page 31

Ava

Outside my quote-unquote therapy room, a gardener tends the beds. Fuchsia blooms sway in the ocean breeze. A vacuum runs in a distant room. And one of the armed security men strolls by.

Those men don’t really need to walk the perimeter.

There are cameras in a back room which allow someone to watch the grounds at all times.

I’ve seen them in there, watching the monitors.

However, that room has no view, and I suspect they take turns walking to preserve their sanity.

Or maybe it’s a strategy to ward off anyone considering anything nefarious.

Upstairs, Sophia is meeting with the designer Jack hired. The woman is gorgeous. Tall, blonde, and immaculate. I’d guess she’s in her mid-thirties. Jack wasn’t here to greet her, but she clearly knows him, given the first thing out of her mouth was, “Where’s Jack?”

She wore a tight pencil skirt, five-inch heels, and a silk tank top that practically draped over her perfect D-cup breasts and tucked into her skirt, highlighting a narrow waist and toned stomach.

Maybe Jack paid her too. Hell, maybe she’s on his payroll and arrived expecting to fulfill some additional duties.

Sophia asked me to stay to meet with her, but I ducked out, saying I had work to do.

And, I do have work to do. We have a team status meeting starting in forty-five minutes.

But I left because this is something Sophia should do on her own.

With her father’s unlimited funds, she’s redesigning her bedroom and most of the living areas upstairs.

She’s going to explore updating the kitchen too.

On one hand, it’s obnoxious to give a fifteen-year-old girl carte blanche over the house design.

But on the other hand, the place is stuffy, and her dad should have redesigned it when he moved in.

And she’s still refusing to meet with friends.

Maybe this will be the extra diversion and ultimate confidence boost she needs to transition back to school life.

My screen saver pops on, a sign that I’ve been staring out the window for too long rather than doing the work I should be doing. The second my fingers touch the mouse, my phone vibrates.

Patrick’s name shows, and I pick up the phone and move to step outside. There are many sitting areas in the back yard, and I plan to find one and sit in the salt-tinged air.

“Morning,” I say to him as I step through the automatic sliding door.

“There she is,” Patrick says. He’s one of those people who carries a smile in his tone.

“Are you in San Diego?”

“I am. Arrived yesterday.”

“So, are we going to lunch?”

“No. I need to spend the day here.” His tone drops, and my stomach falls.

“Uh oh. What’s going on?”

“Your one and only is what’s going on. He’s breaking the rules, Ava. I told you, he’s bad news.”

I roll my eyes. There are people who would say every single addict is bad news. Many would say I’m bad news and so is Patrick. Once an addict, always an addict, and all that.

“What rule did he break?” I locate an Adirondack chair below the overhang of the deck. The grasses along the beach perimeter break, allowing a view of the ocean, and I claim the spot.

“Hitting on a newcomer. Not even here for a week.”

My grip on the edge of the armrest intensifies.

Reid knows better. He knows the rules and understands my views on men preying on women when they are in a vulnerable state.

At one point in time, I explored a women-only center, but Patrick was my partner, and so that didn’t totally make sense.

And as he pointed out to me, women-only doesn’t mean sex-free.

Rehabilitation centers are notorious for housing sex-craved men and women. Sex is a natural drug that lifts the spirits. But, if the activity brings on feelings of shame or self-hatred, it can be as slippery a slope as alcohol or pot.

Our compromise is that the apartments at Nueva Vida are not co-ed. Of course, this doesn’t prevent same sex interaction, but it helps protect women who might be preyed upon by sexually-starved men.

“Someone saw him practically fucking her against the side of a building. We can’t have that.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re going to talk to him?” His deep elongated words mock me. “His ex is going to call him and tell him to stop messing around with other women, and you think somehow that’s going to work? It’s too complicated.”

“Things ended between us years ago.” He relapsed. The third time since we’d been together, and I finally ended our relationship.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not your place to warn him off other women. He’ll misunderstand the warning. Think it’s jealousy.”

“He’s smarter than that.”

“Is he? Or is he doing this to get your attention?”

“He’s just horny. That’s all.” Still, I can’t believe Reid would do this. I stuck my neck out for him by moving him up on our waiting list. I paid his debt.

“I’ll handle him. He’s not at his apartment right now. But when he returns, I’ll give him the warning.”

I hate it, but Patrick is right. There’s too much history between Reid and me. Anger goads me, and I probably couldn’t suppress it. And Reid could misconstrue a warning from me.

Patrick suspects I’m not over Reid. But he’s wrong. I bend for Reid because I so much want him to recover, but bending is a bad thing, and I am smart enough to know that.

“How’re things otherwise?”

“Fine.” I lean my head back against the chair, and my gaze falls upon spiderwebs in the corner. Even in a house with a full staff, the spiders find a way. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come back?”

“So you can see Reid? Hell no. You stay where you are. You making any headway with Mark’s niece?”

“Some. You know what it’s like when you’re not ready to talk.”

“Yeah, I do. We both do. How’s the sex?”

Humor has returned to his tone, and I roll my eyes again and grin. “Can’t complain.”

“So, it’s not all about him then?”

“No. He’s got talents.” I smile and wish I could see Patrick’s eyes. I’m sure he’s lighting up at the prospect of hearing about good sex.

“I like to hear that.” He chuckles, and a door closes in the background. “Just remember, my friend, Pretty Woman is fiction.”

His comment hits like a gut punch. Jesus . He’s the one who encouraged me to do this.

“Thanks for that, Patrick.”

“Hey, don’t take it the wrong way. You’ve got two more weeks. I just don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

And then there’s the unstated, “I don’t want you to relapse.” It’s been ten years. Ten years clean. There’s no fucking way I’ll relapse. And I’m not giving my heart to a guy who bought me, either.

“This is one fucked up world you live in, Patrick.” And yes, that’s my passive aggressive way of reminding him he’s not much different than me.

“Tell me about it, kid.”

Back in my bathroom, I check myself out in the mirror and pull out my makeup. More mascara, more eyeshadow, and more eyeliner make me look more like me. I add my jewelry, stacking all the bracelets and filling every single ear hole, then return to my desk for my Zoom call.

Hours later, when it’s time for my session with Jack, I’m mentally prepared.