In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Erica: Reagan, I've been messaging about your missed sessions, and you haven't been answering. If this persists, I'll be left with no other option but to contact your parents. Please don't let it get to that point.
Erica: I expect to see you at today's session.
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PARIS AND I EFFORTLESSLY fall into a routine like we've been doing so for years, and the two weeks that pass by feel like a dream. If he's not cooking, we go out for lunch dates, and he's not ashamed to show me affection in public, kissing me, doting on me, holding my hand. I haven't seen my own bed in almost fourteen days because I've been falling asleep in his every night since we got back from Club Sanctum. Even when he's late at the clinic and isn't there to join me, but never fails to wake me up with toe-curling kisses when he gets back. He's a juxtaposition of dominance and care tied seamlessly together, telling me to crawl for him one second and then reminding me to take my vitamins in the next. And when I get lost in my paintings and forget to eat, punishing me in a way that doesn't feel like punishment at all.
He's dominant in small inconsequential ways that make me feel important to him. Valued. Or, at the very least, that I take up space in his head. From choosing what I to wear to bed.....if I wear anything at all, and picking out what underwear I put on for the day. He seems to particularly enjoy doing that one. He even has a preference for how I style my hair; he loves when I wear it down, and when I complained about knots and tangles he started sitting me down between his legs at night, and unknotting the tangles with a gentleness that makes me warm all over. It's all so easy with him, like air, like breathing. I only need to focus on Paris. Did I make him happy today? Do I please him? Do I make him proud? And as long as the answer is yes, I don't need to worry about anyone else. He makes me feel so alive, untethered to anything solid and utterly careless, and It feels good. I feel good. I feel like a girl whose parents isn't forcing her to attend therapy..... Something I've been avoiding because it's nice to forget just how fucked up my brain really is.
But it's Wednesday today and judging by the tone of Erica's text messages, if She doesn't see my ass in her office today, there'll be hell to pay. Hell in the form of Julius Sinclair and Elaine Griffin I'm sure. I'm leaving my bedroom with my car keys in my hands when I stop in my tracks. Paris is leaning against the kitchen counter frowning down at his phone, and at the sound of my aproching footsteps he lifts his head. Our eyes lock in a moment of silent communication and the breath stalls in my lungs when I take in the questioning lift of his eyebrows. Earlier this morning, I told him that I had no classes and was still in bed when he left for work. I'm sure the sight of me must be just as shocking to him, as the sight of him is to me.....If my repeating thoughts of 'Oh and Shit' are anything to go by.
“What are you doing back home?” I ask after an extended moment of silence. He sets his phone down on the counter and crosses his arms, and the look on his face tells me I shouldn't be the one asking questions. So I've been skipping my therapy sessions because I'm not exactly thrilled about him knowing that I go to therapy. And I may have told a little white lie this morning about not having anywhere to go today, but in my own defense, it was only a teeny tiny lie.
