Jennifer Irwin's Blog - Posts Tagged "excerpt-prologue-booksample"
Read and excerpt of my debut novel, A DRESS THE COLOR OF THE SKY
PROLOGUE
Dr. Sheryl O’Brien, PhD, was one of those women whose sexual orientation you couldn’t guess. No telling if she leaned bi, gay, or if she was into men. Sex consumed me—I pictured people doing it. To imagine Sheryl’s face contorting in orgasm proved impossible, and that bothered me.
No other option than to slump on the shrink sofa, wedge a throw pillow behind my back, and hunker down. The hem of my jeans hiked up. I tugged them and wished for one brand in size twenty-six, long enough for my legs while pretending too short was très chic. One more thing I was pretending.
“How are things going with Nick?” A dramatic press back in her chair. “Last time we spoke, you were considering a trial separation.”
“He moved to a swanky apartment. No idea where he’s coming up with the money.” A ringlet dangled over my eye. I studied its vibrant copper tone. “Not sure where I fall in the lineup between me and the other woman. I obsess over everything about them.” The neutral shade of my pedicure brought me momentary pleasure. I rubbed my earlobe and pondered the unfamiliar calm deep inside me since he left.
“Elaborate.”
“How she orgasms, moves, her preferred positions, the list never ends. He might be happier without me.” I yanked a tissue from the box and wound it around my fingers. “I want him back and need to get my shit together.”
“Do you think he needs to work on himself?”
“No, I deserve this.” The Kleenex hit the decorative wastebasket on the first throw. “In a strange way, he’s more communicative now.”
“Nick may appear as though he is trying to change, and he willa shade here, a shade there. The old behavior will return in times of stress. The concern is to find the source of what drives your compulsions.”
A pry into my soul like a storm about to rip through the landscape.
My shrink pulled a book from the shelf. “Read this. The similarities between a sociopath and your husband may upset you.”
“Do you think?” The eerie, hollow-eyed face on the cover creeped me out. A combination of Freddy Krueger and the Phantom of the Opera.
“He exhibits sociopathic characteristics.”
“Well, I am the one who failed at the most important commitment of my life.” The inner demon flogged. Slut. Whore. “My financial struggles and the marriage beat me down.” A plethora of self-loathing doused the velour cushions. “I don’t deserve blessings. I’m quite adept at sabotaging.”
“This goes back to your life before age eighteen.” She dropped the bomb without pause. “Consider an inpatient program.”
“The problem is, I have a son and no time or money.” The velocity of my voice increased with the level of anxiety. “Which is why I bang the architect. He pays me.” Parched, I grabbed my water and took a swig.
Quiet, easygoing Sheryl. “This will not be resolved until you face the demons, your past. It’s time to immerse yourself in recovery and stop denying these self-destructive patterns. Your current survival mechanism doesn’t serve you now.”
Most women associated intimacy with love. Why couldn’t I be like other women? Careful. Dignified. Normal.
“Talk to Nick. Something tells me he will come up with the funds.”
“Fine.”
The mere thought of that conversation scared the bejesus out of me.
Dr. Sheryl O’Brien, PhD, was one of those women whose sexual orientation you couldn’t guess. No telling if she leaned bi, gay, or if she was into men. Sex consumed me—I pictured people doing it. To imagine Sheryl’s face contorting in orgasm proved impossible, and that bothered me.
No other option than to slump on the shrink sofa, wedge a throw pillow behind my back, and hunker down. The hem of my jeans hiked up. I tugged them and wished for one brand in size twenty-six, long enough for my legs while pretending too short was très chic. One more thing I was pretending.
“How are things going with Nick?” A dramatic press back in her chair. “Last time we spoke, you were considering a trial separation.”
“He moved to a swanky apartment. No idea where he’s coming up with the money.” A ringlet dangled over my eye. I studied its vibrant copper tone. “Not sure where I fall in the lineup between me and the other woman. I obsess over everything about them.” The neutral shade of my pedicure brought me momentary pleasure. I rubbed my earlobe and pondered the unfamiliar calm deep inside me since he left.
“Elaborate.”
“How she orgasms, moves, her preferred positions, the list never ends. He might be happier without me.” I yanked a tissue from the box and wound it around my fingers. “I want him back and need to get my shit together.”
“Do you think he needs to work on himself?”
“No, I deserve this.” The Kleenex hit the decorative wastebasket on the first throw. “In a strange way, he’s more communicative now.”
“Nick may appear as though he is trying to change, and he willa shade here, a shade there. The old behavior will return in times of stress. The concern is to find the source of what drives your compulsions.”
A pry into my soul like a storm about to rip through the landscape.
My shrink pulled a book from the shelf. “Read this. The similarities between a sociopath and your husband may upset you.”
“Do you think?” The eerie, hollow-eyed face on the cover creeped me out. A combination of Freddy Krueger and the Phantom of the Opera.
“He exhibits sociopathic characteristics.”
“Well, I am the one who failed at the most important commitment of my life.” The inner demon flogged. Slut. Whore. “My financial struggles and the marriage beat me down.” A plethora of self-loathing doused the velour cushions. “I don’t deserve blessings. I’m quite adept at sabotaging.”
“This goes back to your life before age eighteen.” She dropped the bomb without pause. “Consider an inpatient program.”
“The problem is, I have a son and no time or money.” The velocity of my voice increased with the level of anxiety. “Which is why I bang the architect. He pays me.” Parched, I grabbed my water and took a swig.
Quiet, easygoing Sheryl. “This will not be resolved until you face the demons, your past. It’s time to immerse yourself in recovery and stop denying these self-destructive patterns. Your current survival mechanism doesn’t serve you now.”
Most women associated intimacy with love. Why couldn’t I be like other women? Careful. Dignified. Normal.
“Talk to Nick. Something tells me he will come up with the funds.”
“Fine.”
The mere thought of that conversation scared the bejesus out of me.
