Page 20 of For Her Own Good

Yep, that stern tone and that disapproving glare. Perhaps he’ll drum his fingertips on the tabletop and scold me.

I shrug. “I don’t really vacation. It’s work to arrange things and my clients need me, and I don’t relish being a woman vacationing alone. Do you know what that’s like? It’s not restful, it’s more like an invitation for harassment and men trying to get in my pants even if I have sunglasses on, am wearing headphones, and have my nose buried in a book. Does that sound like fun to you?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Men are utter shite.”

“Basically.”

Then he looks like he might say something else but thinks better of it. Then opens his mouth before shutting it again. It would be funny if I weren’t so desperate to find out what he was going to say. He shakes his head, though, determined to foil me, and then the waiter is here, taking our dinner and wine orders.

This is what we do, every time. It’s familiar but still exciting, and I can’t help but pretend in my head that we’re a married couple who does this all the time: date night, to keep things fresh. Well, no wonder things are fresh because we’re not dating, never mind married. Lowry was married, though. I bet he and Maeve took vacations together. And thinking of Lowry walking on a beach in swim trunks and aviators makes me whimper internally. That is a thing I would like to see very much.

I am perhaps dwelling on that image when Lowry speaks.

“Why don’t we go together?”

“What?”

He shrugs, looking oddly disconcerted. He’s almost always certain, confident, so it’s odd to see him…not.

“I could use a vacation too. Not like I’ve anyone to go with either. Come on, why not? Or are you worried you can tolerate me for a couple of hours over dinner but a long weekend would be a bridge too far?”

That is hardly my concern. More like I would tolerate him far too well and my fixation would become even more unhealthy. No way in hell I’m copping to that, though. I do have other excuses.

“It’s too much time. I have clients, you have patients. Besides, I already lose at least four days every six weeks.”

“Having ECT isn’t a vacation.”

Don’t I know it.

Lowry must see me getting stuck, because he volunteers, “Why don’t you use the days you can’t do anything else to travel?”

I have briefly considered that. But along with having to spend the energy figuring out where I want to go, for how long, and all those other things my personal assistant can’t simply choose for me—Holden’s wonderful, but he’s not a mindreader—it’s a bit of a terrifying prospect. The idea that I wouldn’t remember most of it is a shrug. It’s not as though I don’t have the money to spend and I’d enjoy it in the moment, so why the hell not. The idea of being out in the world when I’m not at my best is a significant deterrent.

Some people I would tell to leave it, I don’t want to discuss it, end of conversation. Because this is Lowry, though, I explain it to him.

“Look, I feel very comfortable at home, in my routine, with all of my things around me, with everything I need to do written out ahead of time. But out there? That’s a recipe for anxiety and completely losing my shit, which defeats the purpose of a vacation, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, that’s what I’d be there for.”

So simple, so easy, obviously that’s the solution. I want to roll my eyes because oh yes, sure, why didn’t I think of that. Easy-peasy, bring my ex-psychiatrist who I’m madly in love with along. I do allow myself to level a glare at him while downing the last of my cocktail.

“Shepherding me through an airport and around some vacation destination doesn’t sound like much of a break for you.”

“Unless things have changed drastically, you’re perfectly functional after the anesthesia wears off, not some invalid who couldn’t navigate an airport. I’d be there merely as backup.”

“And what if I get a headache? A bad one?”

“I assume you’d have your meds on hand. You can take them as well on a plane as on your couch. Or if it’s truly horrific, we’ll postpone. Come on, you could use a break. It would be good for you to relax.”

He’s leaning back in his chair, his big hands spread wide on the table, looking so very sure of everything. What must that be like? To walk through life instead of wading through it? To not feel the creep of your own brain trying to destroy itself? Unless something miraculous happens in the next fifty years or so, like science starting to give a shit about women’s mental health, I’ll probably never know.

As much as I’d like to take him up on his kind and enticing offer, I can’t. Can’t. I wouldn’t be able to survive being in such close quarters with this man and come out with my heart intact. It’s not possible.

“Lowry, I…”

Oh god.

I have been oh so careful to not say his name. Because it feels like there’s no coming back if I say his name out loud, to his face. Not doc, not Doctor Campbell. Not nerf-herder or laser brain. And this is why. All of this has become so much more real. The fact that we are adults who enjoy spending time together and have some kind of chemistry that might be sexual and what the hell would be so wrong with that? Everything.Everythingwould be wrong with that.

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