Beautiful Rose by Missy Johnson Page B

I couldn't handle another therapist. Opening myself up and pouring out all my secrets and problems to a total stranger made me feel more anxious than the actual problems did. That wasn’t getting help; that was setting myself up for failure.
     
    I rounded the corner, heading toward my car, trying to stem the tears that were flowing down my cheeks. I glanced down momentarily and ran into something hard. And muscular. Did I just squeeze his chest? Oh god, shoot me now .
    “Rose?”
    I looked up into Alex's warm eyes. He reached for my hand to steady me. I was shaking, and even more embarrassed that it was Alex, and not some random stranger.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, leading me off the path and over to a bench.
    Sitting down, I shook my head, and looked up at the tree that was towering over us. Tiny white flowers were beginning to blossom.
    “I can't do this, Alex. I can't talk to Doctor Jensen about my problems. I can barely understand them myself, and I feel like he's judging me.” I sniffled, accepting the tissue he handed me. He grinned as I loudly blew my nose. “What?” I shot back. He shrugged, still chuckling.
    “I feel like I get judged by him too if it helps,” he joked. I giggled. It did help, a mental image of Alex and Jensen entering my head.
    “How about you talk to me?” he asked gently. I glanced at him, not sure if he was serious.
    “You?” I repeated, as though I'd never heard anything more stupid in my life.
    “Yes. I’m a psychologist Rose. I do have some experience in this kind of thing.”
    I blushed as he chuckled.
    "Rose, I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me."
    I closed my eyes and breathed in as the smell of rain engulfed me. I loved the smell of rain. Something about the earthiness of it made me feel comforted. It was hard to explain . . . and weird. Very weird. 
    Deep down, I think I did want help. I needed somebody to understand me. I needed someone to explain why I felt the way I did.
    I toyed with the edge of the bench, using my nail to run small lines in the soft wood. "I don't need another therapist."
    "What do you need?" he asked me.
    "A friend?" I said. I blushed.
    How fucking sad was I? Did I seriously just ask a shrink to be my friend? His face softened as he waited for me to say something else. I tried again.
    "Everything is so clinical. The only people I spoken to—who I've ever really spoken to—were therapists. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I need someone to just chat with about random shit."
    "Okay," he agreed, with a nod of his head. I furrowed my brow, watching as his hair flopped over his face. He looked so much like his brother. They both had the same dark curly hair, the same deep, soul-searching eyes, the same sexy, hard bodies . . .
    Fuck. Get a grip, Rose!
    "Rose?"
    "Sorry," I muttered, my face flushing. "Okay, what?"
    Could I act any stranger? He must think I’m a complete knobhead!
    "Talk about shit." He said it so simply, as if just like that we could move from therapist/patient to friends. "Tell me about yourself. Not your problems. Tell me the good things about Rose."
    "I like to sing." I shrugged, remembering Jack catching me the other day. A small smile formed on my lips as I thought about Jack. Way too old for me, but he seemed like a nice guy; the type of person I'd enjoy having as a friend.
    "That's pretty cool. I used to play drums as a kid. My brother and I formed a band once," he said with a smirk.
    I laughed. "Really? Wow, what happened?"
    "Nothing worth telling. It didn't last long. My brother plays guitar really well. He performs at a few places around town. Have you ever sung in public?"
    "No." I shook my head. "I'm not really about all that shit. I just like to sing because it makes me feel good."
    "What kind of music do you like?" he asked.
    "Anything with decent vocals. I listen to a lot of indie music; undiscovered bands, and all that. I write my own songs too," I added shyly.
    "Wow, really? That's