“Your chariot,” Jack said, with a grin.

The first night he’d done this she’d said, “You didn’t have to. I would have been fine with a cab,” because she was used to taking care of herself. Now she was used to the service from him. She liked all the services he provided, come to think of it.

“By the way, do you like the symphony?”

“I haven’t been in ages.”

“Would you like to rectify that on Saturday night?”

The symphony sounded less like thirty nights of sex and more like a path to romance. Even so, she said yes.

8

Surface Scratching

Kana crossed her legs, waiting for him to answer the question of why he was annoyed today.

Because the regret was suffocating. He was tired of regret. Because he was tired of thinking he deserved to not feel regret. Absolution wasn’t coming through therapy. How could it? Jack’s world was eminently logical, and he believed in one plus one equaling two. How could he see anything but the mathematical relationship between the events?

One, he told Aubrey he didn’t want to marry her, and two, twenty minutes later, she died.

Aubrey didn’t crash into trees. Aubrey flew down the slopes, but she did it with control.

Except for that time.

He was the trigger. His lack of love the loaded gun. An impossible choice. He’d picked wrong. Hadn’t he?

“This woman I’m seeing asked me about impossible choices,” he offered as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“And how did that make you feel?” Kana asked during their third session; this one had been moved to late morning because he had a lunch meeting. Jack wasn’t sure if they were making progress. He didn’t know what progress would look or feel like. Or how he was supposed to feel.

“Like shit,” he said, spitting out the words.

“Why? Did it touch a nerve?”

He nodded. She paused, tilted her head, waited. Shrinks were good at waiting. Waiting for you to cough up answers. He didn’t have any to serve.

“Are you going to tell me about these impossible choices that have brought you here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t know why the hell he needed to open up to anyone. Casey knew. Why did anyone else need to know?

“How do you feel keeping it all to yourself?” she asked.

The same way he’d felt for a year. The same way he’d felt since the Ski Patrol carted Aubrey’s body down the mountain. Like hell. Like he was cloaked in the guilt that clawed away at him. The only thing that made it go away was Michelle. Being with her, being close with her, fucking her into the fantastic bliss that only sex could bring. Yeah, that was the kind of therapy he needed.

“Fine,” he muttered, his mind on Michelle; the nights with her were doing a far better job blanking out this mangled stew of emotions in his gut.

Hell, it wasn’t only the sex. It was the before, during and after. It was all of it. It was her. She was sexy and she was guileless. She was naughty and she was direct.