Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(40)
Author: J.R. Ward

“It’s going to be impossible not to see him. At least for the next round.”

“Round?”

“Week.” Depending on how long it took her to win. “Or so.”

The therapist leaned forward, her pudgy fingers tightening their hold on her brown-and-gold reading glasses. “Devina, it’s important for you to realize that there is no one person for any of us. Relationships come and go out of our lives all the time. Some partings are more painful than others, but that’s where the learning comes—learning about ourselves, the world around us, other people.”

“Why does it have to hurt like this,” she said, letting her head fall to the side. “Why?”

The therapist’s face changed subtly, an odd light coming into the woman’s eyes. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, I honestly am. I just don’t think there’s any other way for us to learn the lessons we’re here to learn.” The therapist folded and unfolded those glasses. “You know, people really do ask me that all the time, and that’s the only answer I have. I wish it could be different, but the more I see, the more I’m convinced that just as children have growing pains as their bodies work to attain maturity, as people’s souls deepen and gain resonance it’s the same thing. To be challenged, to stretch, to get stronger comes only with the hard stuff—loss, heartache, disappointment. You’re doing the work you need to do, Devina. And I’m very proud of you.”

Devina stared at the woman for a long time. Funny, at the moment, the therapist didn’t seem so doughy as she sat on that puffy couch. She looked … regal … in her wisdom.

And she was honestly empathizing. Even though Devina was just one of eight, hundred-and-seventy-five-an-hour sessions in the day, the therapist seemed to truly care.

“How do you do it?” Devina asked.

“Do what?”

“Care this much? Doesn’t it eat you alive.”

Sadness suffused that barely contoured face. “It is my burden to carry. It is my growth and my maturation—my work.”

“Glad I don’t have your job.”

The therapist smiled. “No, Devina, this is not for you.”

Devina checked her watch and patted around for her bag. “Time’s up. I’ll write you a—damn it. Where’s my purse?”

“I don’t remember seeing you with one when you came in.”

“Oh. Can I give you a check for two at the next session? Or do you want to bill me?”

“Actually, I’m putting everything through to your insurance company now. They’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, great.” Devina got to her feet. Hesitated. “I’m not sure where to go with all this.”

“Believe it or not, that’s part of finding your way. Trust me. And maybe we should keep your regularly scheduled appointment for later this week. What do you think?”

“Yeah, good idea.” She’d make sure to do her face for that little tête-à-tête. “See you then.”

“Be good to yourself, Devina.”

Yeah. Sure.

Over at the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. The therapist hadn’t moved, didn’t move, from her perch on the couch. And yet, between one blink and the next … something changed. Something …

Okay, she was losing her mind.

No wonder she needed to come here three to four times a week.

“Thank you,” Devina murmured. “You know, for…”

“I know.” The therapist smiled again. “And I want you to keep something in mind. It doesn’t sound as if this man truly loves and respects you. I recognize that you believe you love him, but I challenge whether or not you have a good compass on what is right for you in a relationship. I know it’s hard to move on when feelings are strong, but sometimes, that is the only way we can nurture ourselves. I’m also willing to bet, if you do the work you’re supposed to do, that when the right man does come along, not only will you know it, but you will be able to have a productive, healthy relationship with him.”

Devina laughed sharply. “I can’t imagine that, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“It’s a date.”

Devina walked out and let the door to the inner office close itself. As she strode through the waiting room, the next client was keeping his head in one of the well-thumbed magazines, like he didn’t want anyone to know he needed a shrink.

Just as well he didn’t glance up at her. She wasn’t looking or feeling her best.

Although at least she did have some direction. The therapist was right. She could bellyache and bitch about all the things that had happened with Jim, and the ways she’d been let down by him, but that was just wasting time with shit she couldn’t change. She needed to focus on what to do now in regard to the war, and that was, compared to trying to get over that motherfucker, so very simple.

Besides, considering how lovebird-ish Sissy and Jim were getting? She knew just how she was going to win this.

A little fuck-you to the both of them.

There was just one thing she had to do first: She had to deal with what she’d done to her collections. She had to clean that mess up—scattered house, scattered mind and that crap was definitely true for her. Once that was back in order? She was good to go.

Fuck you very much, Jim Heron.

As she strode out into the lobby of the professional services building, she still felt like death, but at least she was moving.

It was out in the spring sunshine that she paused for a moment and glanced up at the five-story glass-and-steel facade with a frown.

Funny, she didn’t have an insurance company.

Up in Heaven, Nigel sat at a table set for four with only two of his fellow archangels. Still, Bertie and Byron were delighted in spite of the critical absence. Then again, for them, at least, a kind of normalcy had returned—and this was good news even in the midst of the war.

As Nigel poured some Earl Grey into his porcelain cup and took a sip, he did not feel similarly, although this repast was a vast improvement over Purgatory’s relentless dust.

Was this what humans felt when they survived illness or accident? He was at once totally present amongst his colleagues, feeling the chair beneath him, the weight of his clothes upon his back, the curving handle of the cup in his grasp—and yet he was utterly absent, his mind trying to knit together some kind of link between where he had been and where he sat now.