The Play (Briar U Book 3)

I’m tempted to cancel my session with Hunter the following Monday. We haven’t spoken since Boston last week, our only contact being when he texted to ask if we were still on for tonight. I feel like he was hoping I’d cancel. But this class is important to me, and I want to do well on our project. That means sucking it up and continuing to see him every week.

Maybe Hunter truly was looking out for me when he threw Nico under the bus, but for the past week everyone I’ve spoken to has assured me whatever happened with Nico and that girl was completely innocent. When we were at one of the campus bars a few nights ago, Darius had pulled me aside and said, “Listen, I wasn’t even there that night and I can still tell you it’s bullshit.”

I appreciated hearing it from Darius. Nico’s work friends all backed him up too, but I don’t know them as well as I know D. Also…I’d never say this out loud, but I find Steve and Roddy and those guys seriously douchey. I suspect they’d have Nico’s back regardless of his guilt or innocence, because they’re all about the bro code. Darius, however, is a good friend to both of us, so I know he wouldn’t lie to me.

Meanwhile, Nico has been extra attentive since I confronted him. Coming dangerously close to what I’d consider sucking up. I’m trying hard not to hold a cynical view about it, and even harder to put this behind us. He told me nothing happened and I said I believed him. That means letting go of any negativity, and not mistrusting him or questioning his motives.

I’m on edge as I wait for Hunter to arrive, stress-eating a bag of potato chips.

HUNTER: Josie let me in. I’m coming up.

He knocks on the door a moment later. I call out, “Come in,” between my loud crunching.

Hunter appears, his thumbs loosely hooked in the pockets of his ripped jeans. They’re not skinny jeans, but they’re fitted to his long legs, while his black Under Armour shirt is tight to his sculpted chest. His dark hair is tousled, and his cheeks are red.

“It’s windy out there,” he mutters, dragging one hand through his hair.

“It’s supposed to thunderstorm tonight.”

“Good. It’s mid-October—how is it still so hot out there?”

“Global warming,” I supply.

“Yeah, it’s a real problem.”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. We’re discussing the climate. And he’s not looking at me, but at his Timberland boots. The ease and humor that normally flows between us is nowhere to be found.

When Hunter takes his designated seat on the loveseat, he doesn’t lie down like he usually does. His big, muscular body remains seated—and tense. “Whatever, let’s do this.”

I grit my teeth. “You could sound a little more enthused.”

“So could you,” he shoots back.

I shove the chip bag on my nightstand. Fine. I guess this is how it is. I flip open the binder I’m using for the project and turn to the latest blank log.

After having done this a handful of times, I think I’m solidly in the Narcissistic Personality Disorder camp. “Dick Smith” fits all the diagnostic criteria from the DSM-5. But the problem with an NPD diagnosis is that narcissists customarily don’t know they’re narcissists, meaning that any analysis is only as useful as the info coming in. And the fact that narcissists have a tendency to rewrite events in their minds makes the whole process even more challenging.

This means the therapist needs to ask the right questions. Weed out important tidbits and search for any emerging patterns, such as the patient describing an interaction that doesn’t match their reaction to it. And don’t get me started on treatment. I mean, if a narcissist can’t recognize he’s a narcissist, how on earth do you treat his narcissism?

Ugh. I’m not super thrilled with this one. I would prefer something more straightforward, like an anxiety disorder. At least those suffering from anxiety tend to be aware they have a problem.

“So why do you think you’re in therapy?” I ask my fake patient.

“I told you, my wife wanted me to go.”

“So you don’t think you need therapy.”

“Nope.” Hunter crosses his ankles and gazes up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There doesn’t need to be something wrong with you, or anybody, for you to benefit from therapy.”

“People who see shrinks are weak. Only reason I’m doing this is to keep my marriage together.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

He scoffs. “Because no one in my family gets divorced. Divorce is another sign of weakness. An indication of your inability to work hard enough to achieve a goal.”

“The goal here being, saving your marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Because if you get divorced, you’ll look bad in front of your family and colleagues?”

“No, because I love my wife. I want to keep everything together for her and my son.”

“Your son?”

Oh my God. Plot twist! I’ve been waiting weeks for a curveball like this.

Instantly, my pen is poised over my paper, ready to take copious notes. “This is the first time you mentioned a son.”

“I had no reason to. The problems in my marriage have nothing to do with him.”

“Yes, but it would still be fruitful for me to get a better sense of your family unit,” I point out. “I need to know all the facts.”

Hunter watches me through slitted eyes. “I see. So knowing all the facts is important?”

I tense at the jab, which is obviously directed at me, Demi, and not the fake Dr. Davis. “When the facts are true or relevant to the discussion, then yes. When someone is stirring up trouble for no reason, then no.”

“For no reason?” The muscles in his jaw harden. “Whatever. Fine. You want to hear about my son? I’ll tell you about my son. He’s a little prick.”

I’m taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “Why do you say that?”

“The kid’s a snitch. If it weren’t for him, my wife would have no idea about that goddamn affair with my assistant. He’s the one who told her.”

“I see.”

“He showed up at my office one day over summer break. He came by to say hello and caught me banging my secretary on the desk.” Disgust twists Hunter’s features. “Did he try to get an explanation from me? Ask what his mother may have done to drive me to such extreme actions? Absolutely not. Instead he took off, ran home, and told his mother what he saw.”

There is something scarily…realistic about this story.

Hunter’s visible resentment tells me this is more than play-acting. “How old was he?”

“Fourteen. A fourteen-year-old punk who thought he was a man, the big hero who was gonna rescue his mom. Joke’s on him, though. Kathryn didn’t care. Of course she wasn’t going to leave me. Look at me—rich, attractive. She can’t do any better than me. My son thought he was doing the right thing, but as it turns out, nobody gave a shit about his opinion.”

Hunter angrily shakes his head. “And it scarred the kid, because it turns out his mom already knew about that affair, and the previous affairs before it, and she begged him to just look the other way because his father was such a good man and a good dad and a good provider. When he tried to argue, she called him a troublemaker and made him feel like he’d done something wrong by telling her the truth. And so years later, when he saw something else he knew might hurt another woman, he wanted to keep his mouth shut.” He’s glaring at me now. “And it took a fucking lot for him to say anything. He asked his friends if he should, if they would want to know, and in the back of his mind a little voice was saying don’t get involved, it’s only gonna blow up in your face again, and look what happened—it fucking did.”

Silence crashes over the bedroom. Hunter is visibly furious. I don’t know if it’s with me, or with himself, or with the world. He scrapes his fingers through his hair again, stone-faced.

“Hunter,” I start carefully. “You…told your mother that you caught your father cheating? And…so wait…all these things you’ve been describing during our sessions, they actually happened to you? Your dad is the one who…”

I trail off in confusion, as my brain cycles through our sessions in an attempt to parse out which stories were real and which ones he fabricated to suit the assignment. Obviously his father was the inspiration for the narcissist he’d been pretending to be, but how much of it was an act?

“Whatever,” Hunter mutters, rising to his feet. “I was trying to be a good friend, but you know what, screw this. We’re done for the day. See you next week.”

I’m helpless to do anything as he storms out of my room. I want to go after him, but my mind still feels muddled. Too many facts are scrambling my brain. I flip through my notes, reading over the Thanksgiving story, all the affairs, the wife’s lack of a backbone and my patient’s cruel dismissals of anyone he views as inferior. Is this Hunter’s family? How much of it was embellished?

The one thing I’m certain was real, was the agony in his voice when he recounted telling his mother what he saw, and being told he was a troublemaker for trying to protect her.

And I said the same thing to him, accusing him of stirring up trouble.

Fuck. Sighing, I scrub my palms over my face, as guilt twists my stomach into knots. Maybe Hunter’s motives were one hundred percent pure, after all.

But…he’s still wrong, dammit.

On Friday we go to Corinne’s housewarming. She’s low key so she didn’t want a party, but Pippa and I talked her into it and she agreed on the condition that we kept it small.

Nico grabs me, Darius and Pippa from campus. As his girlfriend, I’m granted permanent shotgun, which means Darius and his six-foot six-inches frame is banished to the backseat.

“C’mon, D,” he gripes. “My body deserves shotgun and you know it.”

“If you’re nice, I’ll let you have it on the way back.” I pull out my phone to text Corinne, only to discover it’s completely dead. Shit. I forgot to charge it before I left.

I twist around to address Pippa. “Can you let Corinne know we’re on the way?”

“On it.”

I slide my iPhone back into my purse. Nico drives one-handed, his free hand planted firmly on my thigh. At a couple points during the drive his thumb seductively rubs my bare knee, and at one red light he even slides his fingertips under the hem of my skirt. I give him a look that says, You’re incorrigible, and he winks in response.

There are already several people at Corinne’s place when we arrive. It’s an interesting mix tonight: a couple of basketball players, a girl from Corinne’s yoga studio in town, and some guys from her math class. She’s an Economics major and a math geek, and so are her three classmates. One of them is actually wearing a suit and tie, which makes me grin.

“You know you’re at a party, right?” I tease after we’re introduced. His name is Kyler and he’s a senior.

“The tie’s too much?” he says wryly.

“Just a bit.”

As Kyler and I chat, Nico appears at my side and takes my hand. He does that sometimes, staking a physical claim when I’m with another guy, as if to say she’s mine. I used to think it was cute. Sometimes I still do. Other times, like tonight, when I’m trying to walk around the room and talk to people, his being glued to my hip is an encumbrance.

And, frankly, annoying.

Corinne set up a refreshment table in the small dining/living area. The party is BYOB, but she bought a variety of chasers and a couple bottles of tequila. I’m planning on drinking tonight, so I don’t waste any time organizing the first round of shots.

“Come on, guys,” I urge, waving everyone over.

Nico’s all for it. He’s more of a rum man, but he happily pours a waterfall of tequila over the row of shot glasses I lay out. I start handing them out, and then the eleven of us raise our glasses. “To Corinne, and her awesome new place!” I toast.

“To adulting!” Pippa adds.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

“To adulting!”

The tequila burns a fiery path down my throat and instantly I’m warm all over. Someone turns up the music, and Nico and I drift over to the couch.

Pippa is sitting in Darius’s lap, his long fingers toying with her hair. They’re not a couple, but they flirt shamelessly when they’re together. I tried setting them up a long time ago, but it didn’t work out for whatever reason. I think neither of them wants a serious relationship, so their flirty arrangement suits them both.

Corinne stands nearby chatting with Kyler, and the others are gathered near the drinks table. Darius snatches the remote off the glass table when he notices what’s on TV.

He swiftly turns up the volume. “Aw shit, I love this movie!”

“You realize it’s for chicks, right?” Nico informs him.

“If it’s for chicks then why is Scarlett Johansson in it?” D challenges. “Cuz I highly doubt chicks jerk off to ScarJo as often as I do.”

Laughter breaks out. Kyler the math guy blushes. He’s kind of cute. I wonder if he and Corinne are into each other. He’s standing very close to her.

“Where do I know this actor from?” Pippa asks as a handsome guy appears on the screen. “He was in that movie about a cellphone, wasn’t he?”

“That’s the vaguest shit I ever heard,” Darius says, poking her in the ribs.

“You know the movie I’m talking about, right, Demi?”

I peer at the screen. “Is that Chris Evans?”

Pippa nods. “And I swear to God, he was in that cellphone movie. It’s an older movie with…that British guy, and that lady, and…”

Darius hoots loudly. “Fuck’s sake, P, stop being so vague.”

“Wait, I think I know the movie you mean,” I tell Pippa. “Shit. I can’t remember the title, either. Babe, let me use your phone to look it up?”

Nico reaches into his pocket and hands me his iPhone. It doesn’t require a passcode to unlock, which only serves as another reason why Hunter’s cheating accusations fall flat to me. Why would Nico willingly relinquish his phone if he were hiding something?

Nico’s data plan is shit, so rather than pull up a browser, I open his settings first. “Hey, what’s your Wi-Fi network?” I ask Corinne.

“Cwiley22,” she calls back. “Password is lower-case A, upper-case F—”

“That’s weird,” I interrupt, “it connected on its own.”

An uneasy feeling tickles my tummy as I glance at Nico.

“Huh.” A frown creases his brow. “You know what, my phone must have saved your network when the boys and I were here moving you in,” he says to Corinne.

“Oh, that must be it,” she replies.

I nod slowly and open a web browser to search for—what am I searching for again? Oh, right. Chris Evans. But my fingers are trembling as I Google his filmography.

Something’s bothering me and I can’t figure out what it is. I mean, I already knew that Nico and his co-workers moved all of Corinne’s boxes from the dorm to the apartment, and transported her new furniture. He never hid that, and neither did she. And of course she would’ve given Nico her Wi-Fi password if he’d asked. And he would’ve asked, because his data plan sucks and if he was here for a couple hours and wanted to use his phone, he’d definitely—

Then it hits me, the reason why my stomach is churning and twisting itself into knots.

Corinne didn’t have Wi-Fi until nearly a week after she’d moved in. When I came over to help with her closet, it still hadn’t been set up.

There’s no way it could’ve been up and running when Nico was there days and days before.

My entire body suddenly feels cold.

“Demi. What’s the movie we’re thinking of?” Pippa asks impatiently.

My breathing is labored as I glance at the phone screen. “It was called Cellular,” I mumble.

“Ha! Damn, you were right about it being a cellphone movie,” a laughing Darius says to Pippa.

“I told you so.”

As everyone starts chatting again, I drop the phone in Nico’s lap. His deep brown eyes study me carefully. “Babe?”

I’m having a tough time finding my voice. I truly don’t know what to say. Corinne is still talking to Kyler, but for some reason I know she’s listening to me and Nico.

I draw a shaky breath. Why did his phone instantly connect to her Wi-Fi? That would suggest he’s been back here since moving day, but why would he ever need to be? She’s my friend, not his. I can see him hanging out with Pippa without me, but not Corinne.

The tequila gurgles in my stomach. Fuck. Am I going to throw up?

“Demi, what’s wrong?” Nico urges.

I weakly meet his gaze. “Corinne only set up her Wi-Fi a week after she moved in.”

For one fast second, panic flits through his expression. But it happens so quickly that I can’t be sure.

“Okay, that is weird, then,” he says, pursing his lips. “I wonder why it just connected like that.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” I say tightly.

Our hushed conversation draws Pippa’s attention. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Nico says instantly.

But Pippa knows me well. One look at my face and she’s already sliding off Darius’s lap.

“What’s going on?” she repeats, her sharp gaze moving from me to Nico and then back to me.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Slowly, I turn my head toward Corinne. She’s looking right back, and the guilty cloud in her eyes is all it takes for me to bolt to my feet.

The room spins for a moment. With three shots of tequila swimming in my gut, now I really am in danger of vomiting.

I choke down the bile coating my throat. “You have got to be kidding me,” I spit out. “How long?”

Corinne takes a step toward me. “It’s not what you’re thinking—”

“How long have you been fucking my boyfriend, Corinne?” My head swivels toward Nico. “How long have you been fucking her?”

The entire room goes dead silent. On the TV screen, ScarJo is bickering with Chris Evans and suddenly the movie doesn’t feel so cute and funny anymore. It feels like a slap in the face, these stupid people falling in love when I’ve just been blind-sided by my boyfriend of eight years.

“Oh shit,” Darius murmurs. His voice is low, and he seems as stunned as I feel. I don’t think he knew about this. I don’t think anyone did, except for Hunter.

Hunter tried to warn me. He found the courage to tell me what he saw at the party and—

I abruptly turn to Corinne again. “Was that you at the frat party?” I demand.

She blinks. “What?”

“A couple of weekends ago, the party at the Alpha Delta house on Saturday night—were you there with Nico?”

She rapidly shakes her head. “No, I swear I wasn’t. I’m in a study group with Kyler and Ahmed and we meet Saturday night.”

She gestures to the two guys, who are quick to back up her alibi. “We were all together,” Kyler says awkwardly.

“Then how long has this been going on?” My voice is cold.

“It only happened once,” she blurts out. “Just one time, I swear.”

My stomach roils again. I don’t want to hear anymore. I’m done.

Gulping hard, I spin on my heel and stomp toward the door. Nico chases after me, his pleading voice echoing through the small apartment.

“Demi, please, stop! Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” I roar, whirling around. “You cheated on me with my friend! And then again with some other girl at the party! Who was she? How many goddamn women are you screwing?”

“I didn’t cheat on you. She’s lying—”

“Hey!” Corinne flies forward. “I am not lying!”

I flick my gaze her way and glimpse a flash of outrage. It’s directed at my boyfriend.

“I’m not lying, Demi,” Corinne says quietly. “It happened.”

And I believe her.

“Pippa,” I say in a wobbly voice. “Get me an Uber. Now.” I’m fighting tears, because my phone’s dead and I’m trapped here in this stupid apartment with my traitorous friend and my cheating boyfriend and I just want to crawl in a fucking hole and die.

“On it,” Pippa tells me.

“Demi.” Nico tries to grab my arm.

On instinct I swing my other arm and clock him in the face. His head rears back, a bitter curse ripped out of his mouth.

My fist caught him on his left cheekbone. With a wounded expression, he cups one hand over it. “You hit me.”

“You bet I fucking did, and you deserve a whole lot more, you fucking asshole.”

“Uber’s two minutes away,” Pippa announces.

I jab my index finger into the center of Nico’s chest. “Do not follow me,” I warn him, and then I run out the door.