Page 14 of Counting On You

Chapter Three

Vicky

If I am being honest, I know that sneaking into Bruce’s home was wrong. But in my defense, I had a very good reason. One that comes in the form of a six-foot-tall, ice hockey player who has a crazy ex and a smile to die for.

When he didn’t reply to my messages, I seriously thought he had gone missing and that I’d be doing him a favor by tracking him down. For all I knew, his ex might have killed him and buried him in her backyard. He had told me on several occasions that she was jealous of him dating me, so much so that she even slashed his tires and set his sports equipment on fire.

The judge showed no understanding for any of my reasons.

Zero. Zip. Nada.

She went completely overboard when she called my behavior sort of stalk-ish and even had the nerve to tell me that I was addicted. The thought that my love for Bruce had turned into an obsession was so absurd, I laughed in her face, which did not amuse her.

But can you blame me?

Addicted to love?

I snort, which earns me a curious glance from the blonde sitting in front of me.

People are addicted to books. They’re addicted to caffeine. To alcohol or drugs. But to love? Sweet, tender love?

How can someone love too much?

But apparently when you violate your restraining orders three times, they have no sense of humor. It wasn’t even my fault. The first two times,hetexted me and wanted to hook up while continuing to keep our relationship a secret. The third time…I thought I was doing him a favor by protecting him from his crazy ex.

If you were to ask me why I went to such great lengths to violate my restraining order knowing that I would get in trouble, I would answer:

I love him.

He needs me.

We belong together even though “forces are standing against us.”

The last twopoints were his words, not mine, right before he broke up with me.

He even defined our love as “star-crossed” and claimed he’d be with me if “the circumstances were ideal.”

Point is: I’m not planning on letting a stupid therapy center ruin what we have.

I stare out of the window. At least it’s not cold out here, and the world hasn’t ended.

Located off the northeast coast of North Carolina, this place is still near land. About four hundred years ago, a colony got lost and settled here. Even now, no one knows what happened, but it’s all very tragic and mysterious. It’s as if Roanoke Island is some kind of undiscovered Bermuda Triangle no one knows about. Roads are not marked well, and from what I hear from the driver, the GPS is spotty, at best.

Sure, I’m going to miss my phone.

All right, I have a confession to make.

Maybe I do have a bit of stalking tendencies. Maybe thoughts about Bruce have been consuming me lately. And maybe I do think of him all the time. But I’m sure I don’t need therapy to control “those urges,” which make me wonder all kinds of things such as whether he’s thinking of me.

To me, it’s all-the-more proof that I love him.

As we near the building, the chatter around us increases in volume. At last, the bus halts and a woman holding a microphone in her hand gets up. Her hair, dyed a scarlet red, makes it hard to guess her age. I realize it’s the same woman who took my papers when I boarded the bus. She must have traveled with us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she starts, and I bite on the inside of my cheek. There are no men on the bus, so I assume it’s one of the many standardized speeches she is going to hold. “Welcome to the LAA Center.”

She pauses for effect.

It works.

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