It defied nature.
His nature.
She smiled, a crooked grin with arched eyebrows that he could not help but match. He had four sessions approved by his insurance company and he’d spent fifteen minutes of this one just staring out the window over her shoulder.
What a waste of—
Money.
His flat palm curled into a fist full of yellow cloth, the pillow becoming the size of a cantaloupe in his hand.
Dr. Harr’s smile faded, her face impassive as she looked at it. “Tell me what that hand is doing,” she said, a gentle nod added for emphasis.
He dropped his head and stared at his own fingers as if they were on another person’s body.
Jill Jill Jill. Her name whipped through his mind like a ceiling fan set to triple time, whirring and spinning around and around and around, the grief so intense he thought it would break away and carry him off on the wind.
“Grief,” he said, his voice a croak. He had to say something, right? That’s why he was here, in a therapist’s office. To talk. To mourn.
Supposedly, to heal.
“Your hand is expressing grief.” She often did this, repeating what he’d said, confirming. It was probably some psychologist’s trick. Most of the time, it worked, cracking him open just enough to see what was inside. Hiding from her was never his goal. Mike wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be, and his earlier statement that he was only there because of Dylan wasn’t really true.
Dr. Harr was right. It wasn’t important, what he’d said when he walked in. Because it wasn’t true.
His fingertips were going cold from the iron vise grip he had on the pillow.
He blinked, his face a mask, but the emotion infused his voice. “Anger. Anger, too.”
More like rage. He couldn’t bring himself to say that word, though. That word was a betrayal.
Dr. Harr nodded, the skin under her eyes tucking up a bit, compassion radiating back at him. “We’ve talked about the anger before, Mike. You know it’s perfectly normal. When you lose a life partner, all of the feelings are yours.”
“Dylan’s not angry.”
“Are you still comparing yourself to Dylan?” Three entire sessions last year had been devoted to Mike’s reactions to Dylan’s reactions, most involving jealousy that Dylan seemed to function like a normal, grief-stricken human being should. Neither of them had been open with anyone in their lives except their families about the threesome. Mike’s family had rejected him—quite violently—while Dylan’s family had chosen a path that involved pretending Dylan hadn’t said what he said. Mike was treated like a roommate, Jill like Dylan’s girlfriend, and their triad—poof!—just didn’t exist.
Like Jill now.
How convenient.
Lately, Dylan had begun looking at women again. Dated one or two. Whether he had sex with them or not was none of Mike’s business, and Dylan hadn’t brought anyone home to their apartment. Thank God.
Mike wasn’t sure his anger would handle that.
“You’re angry Jill died.”
“Yes.”
“When the word money came up earlier—”
Clench. His hand squashed the pillow. Dr. Harr’s eyes were on it, then looked at Mike.
“Money. What is it about money and your fist?” she asked, a faint look of puzzlement clouding her eyes.
Damn it. Should he tell her? Neither he nor Dylan had said a word to anyone, had only talked about the money with Jill’s family lawyer. The topic was more taboo than anything he’d ever experienced, more radioactive, even, than...
Being in a permanent threesome.
Two billion dollars. The words stuck in his throat, a mixture of excitement, horror, pressure, anger, and—rage. All wrapped up in twenty million one-hundred-dollar bills.
“I—”
“Are you having financial problems?” Dr. Harr asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion. “Many partners do after losing a loved one. We create dynamics in our financial lives where we intertwine—”
He snorted, tossing the pillow onto the small chair across from him. “Intertwined? Jill kept everything separate. A little too separate,” he said with a near growl.
A lot too separate.
Two deep lines formed in the space between the doctor’s eyes as she frowned, clearly struggling to understand. Join the club, lady, he thought. Join the fucking club.
