The Thrill of It Read Free Page B

time I was a senior in high school. Kick back, grab a glass of wine, and prepare for the sordid, salacious tale of how I became Layla.
(Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Innocent? Ha. As if anyone is.)

Chapter Two
Trey
    Elevators were my downfall.
    But I can handle them better now.
    The doors open with a soft metallic moan and I step inside the mirrored elevator in the Lexington Avenue office building. The lift shoots me up six floors to my shrink’s office.
    Dr. Michele Milo.
    I head into the lobby. It’s empty and that’s good because I’d rather not see who else is fucked in the head or the heart. I walk to her office and tap on the door.
    “Good afternoon, Trey,” she says in the calm voice I’m used to. I’m pretty sure shrinks don’t have any other voices. It must be part of shrink training – how to speak in a serenely modulated tone all the time. Never waver. Never vary. I wonder if shrinks are all peaceful and even on the inside too. Unflappable, never bothered by the shit life serves up.
    I can’t even imagine what that would be like.
    Like living inside a Valium, maybe.
    “Hey.”
    I flop down on her couch. She’s been my shrink for six months, and granted, she’s totally my type – maybe a little young since I think she’s in her late twenties – but I’ve never had a single dirty thought about her. Not one. Maybe that means I’m getting better. Maybe I’m not so hooked on older women. Maybe I’m breaking my addiction.
    “So,” she begins, clasping her hands together. “How is everything going for you this week?”
    I shrug. “It’s fine. The school year is almost over.”
    “And your plans for the summer? No Regrets full time?”
    I nod.
    “How are your parents about that?”
    I roll my eyes. My parents. My perfectly plastic, perfectly put together, perfectly empty parents. They wish I were going to school to be a doctor. Yeah, like that’ll ever happen. “Guess how they are with that,” I say sarcastically. “Can we talk about something else?”
    “Whatever you want to talk about, Trey. This is your time.”
    I look away, at the plants on her windowsill, at the books on her shelves. Books with names like Real Choices , It’s Not Love–It’s Addiction , Healthier Lives . All the shit I need to be. I stare at her walls and the framed abstract art. Red squares, yellow brushstrokes, blue lines all mixed together. I’m glad she doesn’t have those stupid inspirational pictures I’m tired of seeing at SLAA.
    She waits for me to speak.
    “Harley,” I say in a low voice. I always want to talk about her.
    “You want to talk about Harley.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement.
    “Sure,” I offer in the most casual, offhand way I can muster.
    “Harley, the girl you spent one night with and have now become best friends through a love and sex addicts support group,” she states, but there’s no judgement in her voice.
    I cross my arms. “You think it’s dangerous that I’m friends with her.”
    Michele shakes her head. “No. I think it’s worth exploring how and why you’re actively focused on recovering from your addictive behavior and you spend most of your time with someone who also has that goal in mind. And yet she also happens to be a young woman with whom you’ve been intimate.”
    “You think we can’t be friends because we almost slept together?”
    She shakes her head. “No. I think you can be friends. I also think the situation is complicated and unusual, Trey. Because you’ve gone from feeling as if your life was spiraling out of control and deciding to go to SLAA, to meeting Harley, to becoming close friends and sharing both the details of your past and your recovery with her. Is that a correct assessment of the last six months?”
    “Yeah,” I say tentatively, and I have the feeling of being subtly cross-examined even though I know that’s not Michele’s style.
    “And yet, you and your parents don’t talk about what brought