Page 14 of For Her Own Good

Except that when he’d called the first time—okay, the second time—he said he’d always enjoyed talking to me. Which was somehow wildly unprofessional? I mean, I’d entertained feverishly inappropriate thoughts of him for sure, but I can’t imagine they were anywhere near the same. I mean, doctors must have favorite patients, right? Much as parents have favorites among their children even if they would never admit it? Perhaps despite being a hard case, I was one of Lowry’s. That’s nice. I guess.

And for this definitely-not-a-date I definitely didn’t carefully select my clothes. I work from home most of the time and while I get dressed in professional clothes every morning because it helps me get in a work mind-set and keeps me from crawling back into my bed or collapsing on the couch when I’m having a hard day, I don’t usually look quite this nice. Perhaps I don’t pay as much attention to how flattering the cut of my shirt is or whether my butt looks good in this skirt. It does, by the way. Thank the heavens or the witches or whoever blessed us with pencil skirts and peplum sweaters. They at least give the illusion of being effortlessly chic.

Are there people for whom being alive isactuallyeffortless? Given that I’ve got a pretty heavy diagnosis and it’s been made clear to me for almost as long as I can remember exactly how dire, how serious, my situation is, I suppose I’m not at a great point in the bell curve to judge. At least I can afford to hire a stylist to find me clothes and put them into outfits I have only to pluck from my closet and not put together myself. Toward the end of my ECT cycles, that might be too much to bear.

Lowry’s chosen a newish place in the Back Bay for us to eat, and I have to dodge some slush puddles in these shoes, even though it hasn’t rained or snowed for days. I like walking down the wide, straight streets of the Back Bay—it’s one of the few places in Boston where cow paths didn’t determine how the roads were laid out—they’re soothing and pretty.

When I get to the brick front of the restaurant, I take a deep breath, smooth my skirt down my thighs, and square my shoulders. Two professional people having dinner. As…friends? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter because it’s not a date.

Except that when I give the waitress Lowry’s name and she shows me to the table, it sure as hell pushes all my date buttons. Candlelight at an intimate table by a window, the way Lowry’s face lights up when he sees me, how he stands to greet me. I expect him to offer a handshake, because that’s what I’ve prepared myself for, except that he goes in for a hug and I’m only too happy to oblige. And I’m sure my face turns as red as the roses in the centerpiece when he pecks my cheek; a brief but deliberate brush of his lips, enough contact for his scruff to scrape deliciously against my skin.

I’ve also made the mistake of inhaling while he’s so close, and I’m guessing he did make it to the gym because he smells freshly showered, like sea salt soap, and some kind of piney aftershave or cologne. I can picture the forest by the sea so vividly I can hear the waves tumbling into shore and my shoulders drop a couple of inches.

Even if it is awkward to sit across a table from my high school (and apparently current) crush, Lowry’s a good man. A kind man who is intelligent, has a good sense of humor, and won’t be a self-centered dinner companion. This evening will be far more pleasurable than many I’ve spent, especially as of late, so I should enjoy myself.

It’s likely wishful thinking on my part, but our hug feels like it lasts longer than your standard greeting, and his smile is perhaps wider than he’d give a stranger. Or a patient, for that matter.

He’s still smiling when he says, “I’m glad you made it. Nice to see you.”

I duck my head and flush some more when he pulls out my chair. Men don’t do that anymore, and why not? It’s charming. It’s the kind of chivalrous gesture that makes me feel cared for but not condescended to.

My gaze perhaps grazes his butt and his thighs in the wool trousers he’s sporting. I mean, I think they’re wool. I’d have to touch them to be sure.Jesus, Starla, don’t think about getting into your ex-psychiatrist’s pants.But it’s kinda hard not to when he’s got an ass like that…

He settles into the seat across the table and regards me with those blue eyes of his. They ought to be cold, with the crisp shade of them, but they’re not. Everything about him is warm. Maybe it’s the ginger hair, streaked with a grey-blond. Or maybe it’s his hand with its veined back and thick fingers resting on the tablecloth. Dammit, goddammit.

His eyes narrow slightly as he seems to drink me up with those eyes. “You know I wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up.”

“I told you I would. I always show up.”

He smiles again, and it makes me feel fuzzy, warm, seen. Yes, he remembers. There was only one time I failed to do so, and I don’t want to talk about that, think about it now. It still mortifies me to have been that foolish. To have put myself in that much danger and to have caused the people I care about so much worry.

“Aye, you did. But that was before we’d had a few conversations where you told me to go away, leave you alone, or you’d hung up on me. Twice. So you can’t blame a man for wondering.”

His response is easy, but it reminds me that I don’t want to be easy. When I think about why I responded that way, fuck yeah, I had the right to be churlish. Still have, and he should know that. “Yes, well, I was pretty angry with you for a long time. Not all of that has gone away.”

His features darken, taking away some of the warmth. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but he deserves to know. Besides, he was the one who brought it up.

“You’ve made that clear, rightfully so. And I apologize again. If you’d like to throw a drink in my face or yell at me, I wouldn’t argue. But you’ve never seemed like the type of person who would cause a scene. You simply wouldn’t have come. It’s obvious you’re more than capable of saying no to things you don’t want to do, so I’m going to assume you’re here because even though I hurt you and you’ve been deservedly angry at me because you trusted me and I…I left, that you want to be here. You were curious, if nothing else. Or perhaps you just wanted me to pay for dinner.”

I can’t help but crack a smile and shake my head. I don’t need anyone to pay for anything. Hell, I could buy this restaurant at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t because restaurants are risky ventures, but I could and he knows it. He’s teasing me and I like it. Want him to do it more.

I also can’t help but appreciate his faith in me to say no. Not something that I’ve been particularly adept at over the past few months, though I’ve tried to hold the boundaries where I can. No, I will not fly to New York for a meeting with a potential partner. Yes, I will attend the board meeting. Of course, I will review the quarterly earnings report, but fuck no will I be playing golf with a visiting dignitary from a country where we have some of our manufacturing plants. I want to tell him about all of it so he can tell me I’m doing a good job, but I can’t bring myself to.

“Fine, your treat. And you’re right. I am curious. It’s been a long time and I could never really ask you all the things I wanted to when…” When I was your patient. When it was your job to crack my head open and sift around to make sure there wasn’t anything life-threatening in there. When I was a teenager and you were very much an adult. He’s well aware of all of that and I don’t want to remind him so I go with, “Back then.”

The waitress comes and takes our drink orders, and when she’s departed, Lowry takes a sip of his water.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“What have you been doing for the past fifteen years?”

“Ah, is that all?” He sits back, his brow furrowing. “I worked at the same clinic in Chicago the entire time I was there. Made the switch to adult psychiatry from children and adolescents. Mostly worked with patients who were dealing with severe depression and anxiety.”

“Still your specialty.”

He nods, and folds his hands across his midsection. “I was married for a time there too.”

Something inside me lurches, which is ridiculous. I had no claim on Lowry then, and I have none now. Of course he was married. I will do my best to ignore the satisfaction that accompanies the “was.”

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