Sand In My Boots: The Sequel

Chapter 7

The day had flown by without any warning and before I knew it I was sitting in the familiar burnt orange leather chair in Dr. Finley's office. The security company had pounded on our door at the ass-crack of dawn, pulling both us and the kids out of our much needed slumber. Morgan had been grumpy about it most of the day, but I had to admit that having the cameras installed had taken some weight off of my shoulders.

The wedding planner had showed up twenty minutes late, irritating my already crabby soon to be husband who had spent half of the meeting giving her a hard time. I tried to reason with him after she had left and he had said something about her not respecting our time and how a celebrity wedding planner should know better. Okay, princess.

We did, however, set a date for the wedding -two months from now, which I thought was a bit fast-paced. But, Morgan had insisted upon it saying he couldn't wait any longer for me to be his wife and running his hand up my inner thigh and then higher, chasing away any reasonable thoughts that had inhabited my brain. We gave the wedding planner -Molly, her name was- all the information regarding the guest list, the food requirements, our color pallet preferences and she promised to make a whole pinterest board reflecting our ideas and to send us the link. I could tell Morgan was already getting bored with the details, but he did his best not to let it transpire and for that I was grateful.

I moved in the chair, its rough leather scraping my shirt.

"You seem uncomfortable," Dr. Finley noted.

"Do I?" I asked, realizing I had been sitting there in silence, staring aimlessly at the abstract painting behind him for the last several minutes. He nodded, reinforcing his previous statement. "I guess I'm just... contemplative," I admitted, choosing each word carefully, not wanting to spit out the bone lodged at the bottom of my throat just yet.

"And what are you contemplating?" He asked. I sighed. Here we go.

"Just something the security guy mentioned this morning- It's nothing," I assured him, letting out a dry chuckle.

"Then, humor me," he insisted. I groaned, letting my head fall back in despair. I let out a sigh and sat up straight, facing him again. He cocked an eyebrow, his face expressionless.

"Fine," I mumbled, finally giving in. He gave me a faint smile. One you would give to a spoiled child who finally agrees to go to bed. Yet, much like the child, the choice was never mine. I knew full well he would've pressed me until I gave in, so I might as well spit it out now.

"We told him that someone had been stalking us, right?" I began. He nodded, encouraging me to continue. "Obviously we didn't tell him about the pictures, but when Morgan went to the bathroom, he started asking me questions and I told him about the note," I paused.

"And?" Dr. Finley continued to inquire. I sighed again, continuing.

"And, he asked me if it could have been an ex-boyfriend."

"Well, could it be?" He asked, running his hand through his thick, dark hair.

"Maybe," I admitted, feeling the guilt of having this conversation with my therapist instead of my fiancé starting to install itself in my nerves.

He crossed his legs, his gray plaid pants rising slowly above his ankles, and sat back in his chair. He bit his cheek, trying to suppress a smile.

"What?" I asked, confused by his reaction. He remained silent, still staring at me through his browline glasses. "What?!" I asked again, raising my voice slightly.

"You're feeling guilty right now, aren't you?" He said with some sort of amused twinkle in his eye.

"Why is that funny?" I asked, somewhat offended by his reaction.