September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series by A.R. Rivera

last
weekend.”
    Doctor Williams’ eyes were
all aglow as I dove into a story all about how it was mine and a
made-up best friends’ birthday party. “Well, our actual birthdays
are only a week apart so we always celebrate together—my foster
‘mom’, Chanel ,
was working, as usual.”
    Yeah, it was the kind of blatant lie
that deserved to be called-out. I paused, waiting for her to raise
a brow, correct me or call me a liar, but all she did was click the
top of the pen she was holding.
    So, I kept going, making up more and
more as I went. I pressed my fingernails deep into the creases of
my elbows, connecting myself to the moment, willing myself to
answer her inane questions, when she raised them. They were the
type of questions that forced me to elaborate. She wasn’t going to
make me stop, not while I was on a roll. All sevens.
    The story evolved into one I had
overheard in the girls bathroom—a typically moronic teenage drama
about an ex-friend being confronted over her supposed kleptomania
at a slumber party. I concocted a list of names and descriptions—it
was good. Really detailed. And it would end with a confrontation,
just like she wanted.
    The lies poured out smooth, like warm
syrup over a pancake. “I gave her a little shove—”
    “You physically pushed her?” Doctor
Williams was practically out of her chair, gripping the
armrests.
    “No!” I argued, thinking over all I’d
said about a fabricated conflict. “Well, a little, but not because
I was angry. I was just trying to keep her from
leaving.”
    Her crinkled brow smoothed out as she
tossed her hand, clicking the pen-top again. “You were
saying?”
    I went on with the lie, paying more
attention now, trying not to betray how much fun I was having.
“Yvonne slipped, but she didn’t fall. I pretended like it was an
accident, but then I told her: ‘My foster mom doesn’t allow thieves
in her house,’ I said. She crossed her arms, sounding all snotty.
‘Don’t you mean trailer?’”
    “‘ Mobile home,’ I told her,
trying to sound just as snotty. We argued a little, back and forth,
but—”
    “In what way did you two girls
‘argue’?”
    I kept myself from smiling. “In a very
adult fashion.”
    She shook her head at the snark and
made some notes in my file which was thicker than most people my
age. But, I’d been through more than most, so there was a lot more
to write in there. Much more to force me into talking
about.
    I’ve never understood why shrinks feel
it’s necessary to hash out every little thing that happens. Therapy
might have been mandatory, but it never felt like it was for my
benefit. It seemed like it was for the doctor, to make her feel
better about her own messed up life. And her life was a freaking
soap opera. I’d heard her talking on the phone a couple times when
she didn’t know I was in the waiting room and her office door was
open. For someone whose profession required secrecy, she wasn’t
very discreet about her personal life.
    Her son was all depressed and her
husband, from what I understood of the conversation, was being an
asshole about it. I felt for her, but it wasn’t my job to distract
her from her life. I had my own shit to deal with. And I found it
tough to take advice from someone who so obviously did not have
their own life together.
    I was so over everyone telling me how
to live and I didn’t need her therapy. The ocean soundtrack she
used was way more therapeutic than her. Music, really, was all I
needed. That was the only thing that ever made me feel better. I
could lose myself in it. And Jake. He was the calm to my storm, the
warm blanket on a cold night. He was my therapy, my panacea for any
ailment—him and his music. I’d spend hours, days upon weeks,
soaking it all up. It was all about Analog Controller. All the
time. I was at almost every show, first row, center stage, right in
front of my band and my leading man.
    “So, how was this confrontation
resolved?”
    “I didn’t