By: Leddy Harper

What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?

My head was spinning as I came to the forgone conclusion.

She had made the whole thing up. There was no real Ben. No real party. No real flip of a coin.

I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into by agreeing to take her on as a client, but the more my thoughts wandered, the more intrigued I became. She lied for a reason. And it wasn’t just a lie. She told me about people, friends of hers that only existed in a fictional book. It wasn’t as if she made up these people. No. Someone else had. Someone else created these characters and wrote their lives out in a book. And Ivy adopted it.

What would make someone do that? Had she done this before?

I wondered if maybe she had a mental illness. That was the only thing I could come up with. But in any regards, I would have to wait until seven o’clock the next day to figure it out. I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything alone.

I should have called Alyssa. I needed a good fuck, but I couldn’t with Ivy on my mind. I wanted to drink more, if only to lessen the obsessive thoughts that ran rampant through my head. But that would only do more harm than good—I knew that from personal experience. So instead of letting myself go by immersing in whiskey or pussy, I carried my iPad to bed with me and finished reading the book. I figured that way, if she tried spinning any more tales of Ben, I would know if they came from the book or not. I also thought about going through her list of reviews and checking those books out as well. If she used this one, I wouldn’t doubt that she’d use others, too. But I didn’t have the time to read all of the books she had reviewed. There were a shitload of them.


The next day went by slowly. It dragged. All I wanted was for it to be seven so I could talk with Ivy. I needed to know why she had lied. I had to find out why she came to me in the first place. If she had a mental illness, I wouldn’t be able to help her. And that was something I needed to know before we continued with our sessions the way I planned.

Luckily, I didn’t have too many patients on the calendar. Most of my day was filled with personal things. I had lunch with my cousin, which happened once a month. It wasn’t something I looked forward to, but she insisted on it. She said I needed it. Except, I didn’t. She just refused to acknowledge that part.

I was thirty-four years old. I didn’t need my cousin to sit down with me for an hour every month and watch me eat. Because that’s pretty much what she did. She’d ask me questions about my life and I gave her the least amount of information that I could between hurried bites of food. It annoyed her, I know. But it didn’t stop her from scheduling lunch once again for the following month.

After lunch, I had an appointment with my own psychologist. It wasn’t that I necessarily needed to go, but I started years ago and never stopped going. Most of the time, we talked about work. I found it easy to talk to someone that knew kind of what it was that I did for a living. He never openly admitted that he disagreed with my line of work, but I could read between the lines. He believed anyone could work through any problem by sitting on a couch and discussing it. I didn’t see it that way. I believed that sometimes people physically had to work out their issues. It was a sink or swim mentality. If you can’t swim, jump in a pool once without water wings; survival will kick in and you’ll learn to swim.

And if those issues that needed to be overcome were sex related, then sitting on an old couch wouldn’t solve shit. But we silently agreed to disagree on the topic. However, it didn’t stop me from talking about my work with him. Most of the time, it was strictly shooting-the-shit kind of talk, but that time, it was about Ivy.

I had asked him what would cause someone to lie about their life. He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Self-esteem issues. Hiding from one’s past. Lack of self-worth. The list went on. Since I didn’t really know much about Ivy, any of those reasons could suit her. It made me want the clock to read seven o’clock that much more so I could know more about her. It had quickly become a dying need to know. I had never experienced that kind of irrational need before.

At five thirty, I had a basketball game. I wasn’t friends with any of the guys from the court, but I still showed up every Tuesday at five thirty to play. They didn’t mind because I was rather good at the sport. I had played it most of my life. It was another form of therapy for me, not to mention, exercise.

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