Page 5 of For Her Own Good

“Yes? We’ll be taking off shortly, so unless it’s an emergency—”

“Could you switch this man to a different seat? Any seat will do. I can see there are no free seats left in first class, but seriously, even something on the wings or in the cargo bay would do. You don’t need to worry about his comfort. At all.”

The woman’s gaze flicks between me and Starla, and I give her a pleasant, innocent smile.

“I’m sorry, the flight is completely full and there are no open seats. And federal regulations prohibit—”

“Fuck my life,” Starla mutters, burying her head in her hands.

“Is he… Is this man bothering you? If he’s assaulted you or is harassing you, I can have them delay takeoff and get security onboard, but…”

Her mouth wrenches to the side, clearly unable to decide which of us to believe. I’m calm, Starla is livid, but if I’d done something truly awful to Starla—now, not fifteen years ago—I’m glad the attendant is willing to shut this whole thing down to fix it. As things are…

Starla’s head snaps up and she levels me with a calculating glare before clearing her throat and putting on a forced smile to turn on the flight attendant.

“No, he hasn’t done anything like that. Or committed any kind of crime. He deserves to have his heart cut out with a rusty spoon and fed to him, but he’s not violent, he’s not a threat to anyone. He can see if someone will switch after takeoff.”

I suppose I could, but I don’t want to. Boundaries, though. She’s allowed to have them, as are we all, and it would be unforgivably hypocritical of me to insist that she dispose of hers. She needs them more than most people, and I helped her build them.

* * *

Starla

Never has three hours seemed so long. It is absolute torture to sit this close to Lowry, burning with questions—where have you been? What have you been doing? Who have you been doing it with? Are you happy? Did you miss me? Did you think of me at all?—and determined not to say a single word. Because if I open the floodgates, I doubt I’ll be able to close them. And I cannot subject myself to that again. To feel anything but anger toward this man who abandoned me at the worst possible time.

Yet I feel the other impulses creeping in and I hate myself for them. Fifteen years didn’t do anything to dull the attraction I feel for him. It’s still as sharp as a knife that could gut me, leave my entrails spilling into my hands. If anything, he’s gotten more handsome. How is that a thing men can do? Some women too, I suppose, but it’s mostly a guy thing.

He’s always had a line bisecting his brows, one I thought of as the mark of him being a psychiatrist because it would deepen when he had his listening face on, which was most of the time. The past decade and a half has also given him brackets around his mouth—I hope from the broad smiles that always made me feel like the sun had come out—lines on his forehead, plus some crow’s feet and red fading into strawberry blond and gold at his temples for good measure. It pokes at a part of me that doesn’t need poking, especially not around Doctor Lowry goddamn Campbell anyway.

He is, after all, the one I blame for my daddy kink. Well, not so muchblame, because I suspect I would’ve had an eye for older men no matter what. Would’ve wanted to be cosseted and doted upon, instructed and corrected even as I’m cherished, regardless of whether or not I had been his patient and foisted my adolescent affections upon him. But I feel like he’s the one who confirmed those feelings for me. Distilled them into something so strong, I could no longer ignore it or think this was how everyone felt toward their puppy love crushes. No, the urges and fantasies I had—and annoyingly, still have—about this man weren’t the same as the ones I heard the girls in high school and in college repeat.

I am definitely not sneaking glances at him whenever humanly possible. Certainly not taking the opportunity to stare when his back is turned as he gets up to use the restroom. He still seems tall. Still dresses in a way that pushes my buttons real hard; shawl-collared sweater with a button-down underneath that should make him look ridiculous, but he gets away with it in his neatly tailored wool trousers and—someone must’ve gotten ahold of him because he’s upgraded his shoe game considerably. I ought to know; I spent a lot of time staring at his feet throughout my latter years of high school.

Goddammit. Goddammit all to hell. Because when he sits back down, our forearms brush and I barely keep from whimpering at the electric charge. Same fucking one that would always hit me whenever I had the—rare—opportunity to touch him. Then humiliation surges through me remembering the last time I touched him. Or rather, was touched by him. No wonder he left. Which doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure he’d tell me so himself. He always was telling me not to take on too much, and this is something I can’t—or at least shouldn’t—blame myself for.

Him leaving had nothing to do with the fact that he’d had to pry me out of a bathtub, soaking wet and naked save for a towel, only to dress me and braid my hair because he knows—knew—I hate hair in my face, and then take me to the hospital so I could do what I should’ve done over a month before. Because that’s what happened—we both knew it would, and I did it anyway. Skipped my ECT because I wanted to be a “real girl”—whatever the hell that is—and be able to live my life without being anesthetized and have electricity run through my brain every six weeks.

Haven’t skipped it again since because that disaster left me scarred. The greatest humiliation of my life. And while I often have some memory issues from the day before and the two after my treatments, that particular episode is forever seared into my brain. Because I’m lucky like that.

It’s a wonder he didn’t request to switch seats himself. He can’t have fond memories of the calamity I was, how much work he poured into me—and how did I show my gratitude? By trashing it all for a month of living with my boyfriend at the time, which resulted in the inevitable breakdown because as much as I’d like it to, my depression won’t quit, and there’s only one thing I’ve ever found that can keep it at bay. And it ain’t tepid teenage sex and other adolescent indulgences like eating cookies for breakfast. Lowry knew better, and I should’ve too.

Is there enough room beneath this seat to crawl under? No, which is unfortunate.

At least he doesn’t talk to me for the rest of the flight. The rage has faded and I doubt his lilting accent would do anything to reignite it. If anything, it would crank up my steadfast lust for him and I don’t think I could deal.

We land without incident, and as the plane makes its way to the gate, I feel him turn to me and I steel myself.Don’t. Just don’t. Get up and leave and don’t talk to me because hearing you speak hurts me too much. Reminds me of when you carried me out to your car, tucked me into the front seat, and spoke to me the whole way to Harbinson.

He must’ve known given the state I was in that I could barely hear him, but he did it nonetheless. Stayed with me until the anesthetic took effect, and I can only imagine after that as well, though my memories of him being there are solely of when I woke up.

Yes, Lowry. Please leave and don’t force me to endure your presence any further.

He clears his throat and I close my eyes.Don’t fucking do it.

And yet.

“Starla. I—”

I turn away because having him say my name is a stab to the heart. It is physically painful, an intensified version of how my body starts to ache from the depression that’s bogging it down. It’s all exhausting, it all hurts.

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