“My mom is in rehab as we speak—only it’s not really rehab, it’s more like a spa, and it’s costing us more money than we have. My oldest friend, Cross, got into a motorcycle accident after a party where he and I had a fight, and he needed help paying for his care. I knew—well, knew of—Marchant Radcliffe, and I got the idea to sell my virginity.”
I think that’s a pretty tidy summation of what’s the what. The first half, about my family, I’ve given many times before.
Dr. Bernard arches her delicate brows. “That’s quite a story. Frankly I don’t know which part is the most dramatic.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I wouldn’t call it dramatic as much as just...screwed up. Seriously screwed up. At least the part about my family. The part with my friend” —whose very distinctive name I should not have mentioned— “was just an accident, and the part where I sell my virginity is obviously an attempt to get money.” I purse my lips, looking for some levity. “At least it’s not a kidney.”
“Did you consider that?”
I nod. “It’s less profitable, crazy though that is.”
“That is crazy.” She looks down at her lap and makes a note on a pad. “Before we continue I want to make sure you are aware that I know your real name.”
I blanch. “You do?”
She nods. “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary. However, in my notes I’m referring to you as Scarlett.”
I frown. “Do you know who I am? Like, my identity?”
“Do you mean who your family is? Yes,” she says. “For most of my career I ran a center that specialized in the dynamics of financially privileged families. You’re the DeVille heiress.”
“Not much left to inherit.”
“You’ve been through a lot, with your mother. And your father.”
“I guess so.”
“I think the answer is a resounding ‘yes.’”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You know it’s not uncommon for the children of addicts to harbor some resentment toward the therapists who treat their parents.”
If I was a cartoon I’d be whistling a casual tune. “Oh?”
The good doctor shrugs. “You’ve watched therapists fail your entire life.”
That’s true.
“Hope can turn ugly when it’s dashed over and over.”
Her words ring so true that I have to bite my lip to keep from tearing up. Feeling desperate, I change the subject. “Are you from the New Orleans area, by any chance?”
She smiles. “How did you know?”
“Accent. How’d you end up here?”
“I’m a child of privilege myself. I married a privileged man, a lawyer and later a politician. His surname isn’t Bernard,” she tells me, winking. “By the time I divorced, I knew Marchant and his adopted New Orleans social circle well. He’s been a client of mine since his college years. In fact, it’s thanks to him that I relocated. When he decided to bring a psychologist on board at Love Inc., he wanted it to be his own.”
“Really.” That surprises me. Marchant doesn’t seem like the type of guy to see a shrink.
But Dr. Bernard nods. “He came to me after he lost his parents. In fact, we still talk. Maintenance therapy. I’m not sharing anything with you that he would mind. He’s very open about it.”
I nod, because I’m not sure what to say.
“I’ve got a question for you, Scarlett.”
My stomach flips. “Okay.”
“Why are you still a virgin?” She smiles a little. “Let me rephrase. There’s no reason not to be a virgin, if that’s what you want to be, but judging by your plans, you seem to have no religious or ethical qualms about experiencing intercourse.”
I swallow hard, wanting to die. Does she actually expect me to answer this?
“I was curious, that’s all. If you don’t want to discuss it, you don’t have to.”
Well, dammit. Now I feel like I should discuss it. I play with my fingernail, then realize I’m doing it and force myself to look into her eyes.
“The question makes you uncomfortable?” she asks.
“Well, yeah.”
“Does sex make you uncomfortable?”
I sigh. “That’s not why. I guess it’s just a little further than I like to go.”
“With therapists.”
“With anyone,” I say. But, hey, I’m here. Why not? I chew my lip and then just jump in head-first. “I used to be kind of fat,” I tell her. “And I have trust issues.”
“What kind?”
“The because of my mom kind. The kind you get when you grow up in an unstable home. You know the story.”
“I don’t know your story. How does that go?”
I shrug. “I know my parents didn’t have much sex. I over-heard them talking about it a few times. Well, it was mostly my dad complaining. But that’s just…I don’t know, indicative of their whole relationship, which is to say there wasn’t one. Everything was pretend with them. Like, our whole family was pretend. Probably because, with a mentally ill, always-unstable, almost-always addict, it’s impossible to get any deeper than that. So we were all...I don’t know…we were like roommates. I met Suri and Cross, my two best friends, when I was young, so I grew to trust them without meaning to. But everybody else...” I bite my lip as the truth finally dawns on me with brutal clarity. I spit it out in a froggy voice. “I guess I just never considered that it was possible to have a good relationship with a man.”