was originally from Miami. She wanted to move back after graduation, so Dad went with her, working at Miami General for nearly two decades before we moved to Massachusetts.
Dad’s intense drive and unparalleled work ethic got him to where he is now, and he’s instilled in me the value of hard work since the day I was born. When I was a teenager, he insisted I do volunteer work and community outreach so I could see how many people go without the privilege I was born into. He wanted me to understand how blessed I am. And I do understand, absolutely.
But the pressure of living up to my father’s high standards can be exhausting.
And although Dad didn’t bring up the Nico subject again this weekend, that didn’t stop him from dropping several subtle comments over the weekend about how people are flawed, how human beings make mistakes. It was never specifically about Nico, but I knew exactly what Dad was trying to imply.
Well, too bad. Dad will just have to get over it. His boner for my ex-boyfriend will eventually deflate and hopefully get hard again for whoever I date next—and if that isn’t the grossest analogy I’ve ever used, then I don’t know what is. I don’t want to think about my father getting hard over anyone. I don’t want my father to have a penis, period.
As for the rebound idea I floated with Hunter via text, I’m finding myself more and more open to the idea. In fact, I’m kind of excited about it as I walk to class on Monday morning.
I’m wearing a parka with a fur-lined hood, an oversized messenger bag over one shoulder, fur-lined boots, and holding a steaming coffee cup in my hand.
You know that saying—dress for the job you want? Well, I dress for the season I want. It’s the end of November and it still hasn’t snowed, and I’m growing tired of this weird in-between period where there are no leaves on the trees but no snow on the ground. It’s eerie and I hate it.
Pax, TJ and I chat about our Thanksgivings until Professor Andrews arrives. Hunter texted early this morning that he wouldn’t be in class today. Apparently he has a physical with the team doctor.
I see him later that night, though, when he comes over for our—sob—final therapy session. My session logs are filled with notes. Hunter’s done with all his research. Now it’s just a matter of him writing the technical paper, and me writing the case study and detailed diagnosis, but those aren’t due for a few more weeks.
“Since we’re officially done, am I allowed to tell you your diagnosis?” I ask him.
“Hit me,” Hunter says with a grin. He’s sprawled on the loveseat, his hands propped behind his head, his arms bare. He runs hot, according to him, so every time he’s in my room he strips down to a wife-beater or T-shirt, showing off those sculpted arms.
“Congratulations, you suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, with a hint of antisocial PD.”
“You’re good.”
“Thank you. I figured it out after like the second session, but NPD is actually super hard to diagnose properly,” I say, which leads to a short discussion about the disorder and what Hunter learned during his research. He concurs that NPD cases are tough, especially because narcissists are so skilled at manipulating people, including psychologists.
“My father had our therapist eating out of his palm,” Hunter admits.
I try to mask my eagerness. I hadn’t wanted to bring it up myself, but I’ve been thinking a lot about our last session. Hunter’s breakdown. His revelation that we’d been discussing his own father this entire time. My breakup with Nico had dominated my thoughts after that session, but now it’s in the forefront of my mind as I cautiously study Hunter.
“I’m really sorry you had to go through all that crap with him,” I say in a quiet voice.
He shrugs. “Whatever. Other people have it worse.”
“So? My boyfriend cheated—other women might have a husband of thirty years who cheated and six kids at home. Does that diminish my own experience, because someone has it worse? There’s always someone with a shittier life than yours. That doesn’t turn the shit in your life into roses.”
He exhales sharply. “That is very true, and you’re too smart for your own good.”
I chuckle. “I know. And I mean it, I’m sorry for everything your father has put you through.”
“Thank you.” His tone ripples with…awe, maybe? I can’t tell. But it’s evident he’s