Page 61 of For Her Own Good

“You know, I’m really proud of you—this business you’ve built is filling a very important niche, and you’re clearly excellent at your job. I’m not sure if you hear that enough.”

Starla looks at me, noodles dangling from in between her lips, and it’s rather comical.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you or to be condescending, but you need to know that, and perhaps I’m making an arse of myself because people are constantly telling you how phenomenal you are, but on the off chance that no one else does tell you how incredible you are, well, that’s my job now.”

Her only reaction is to blink, so I urge her, “Don’t forget to eat your noodles, don’t want to drip on your shirt. Which is very cute by the way.”

She eats, looking at me the whole time she chews.

“What?”

Did I say something wrong? Have I overstepped already? Am I mistaken and she actually has numerous people falling all over themselves to tell her how brilliant she is? In which case, she ought to dump her lo mein on my head and tell me to get the fuck out, but I don’t think I’m mistaken.

“You said you didn’t know anything about how to be a daddy because you’ve never done it before, but you’re good at it already. So, um, thank you. I don’t hear that a lot.”

I don’t press, but tell her as much about my day as I’m able, given that I can’t talk much about my patients, but she understands that and presumably is glad for it, knowing I’ve always given her the same privacy.

“Can I ask you something?”

She looks at me over the takeout container, chopsticks poised to dig into the lo mein again. “Have you ever not asked me something?”

Many times. If she took a minute to think about it, she’d realize that. But that’s not something that needs to be discussed, at least not right now. I don’t respond because Starla’s sass doesn’t always require a response. Indeed, she huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Yes, what did you want to know?”

“Why do you live here? I mean, in this studio.”

I know why she lives in Boston. It’s her home and she’s not great with change. Sure, if her job had necessitated a move, I have no doubt she would’ve found the wherewithal to do it, but if there’s one thing that has been made exceedingly clear over the last several months, it’s that Starla has a talent for shaping the world around her to fit her particular strengths and needs.

Not that I didn’t know that about her before—she’s had a talent for sculpting her environment, unapologetically, since the day I met her—but her capability is sharper now, honed like a knife she wields not just on her own behalf but also to advocate and plow paths for others. In this, as in so many things, she is remarkable.

She shrugs and stuffs a clump of noodles in her mouth. If I didn’t know her so well, I might leave off there. She likes it here, what’s the big deal? Except I know some things that make this a more invasive and particular question. Since Starla seems content to nosh on her beef and onions and snap peas until I drown in my curiosity, I nudge.

“I know you didn’t sell the house in Chestnut Hill.”

Which doesn’t surprise me. Starla isn’t one to throw away something perfectly good, and I know how attached she was to her father. No, it doesn’t surprise me at all that she still owns the sprawling estate. What does surprise me, particularly given her distaste for change, is that she doesn’t still live there.

“It’s a good investment.”

Likely true given the real estate climate in greater Boston.

“Sure. But it would still be a good investment if you lived there. Better, even, perhaps?” Then she wouldn’t also be shelling out rent on this place which, while small, is in a prime location and must run her a few thousand dollars a month.

“It’s too big for one person.”

I can understand Starla not wanting to wander around an enormous house with no one to talk to. It would highlight exactly how alone she’s been since her father died. Remind her every day of how much she misses him.

“Okay, but why don’t you rent it out?”

Up until now, she’s answered my questions rather docilely, especially for her, but now she’s getting annoyed, stabbing her chopsticks so hard into the container it’s a wonder they don’t come out the bottom.

“I don’t think my father would care for having other people living in his house.”

It would be a dick move to point out her father is deceased and that, given her lack of religious convictions, it’s not as though she believes in the afterlife. It’s not as though she actually thinks Jameson Patrick is floating around the estate, measuring the grass with a ghost ruler or swiping a gloved apparitional finger over a thin layer of dust on a mantelpiece.

She must sense my continued skepticism, though, because with another huff, she drops the lo mein, chopsticks and all, onto the table, crosses her arms across her chest and leans back into the corner of the couch. I have perhaps poked too hard.

“That much space makes me nervous. And while I’m capable of keeping this neat and organized, there’s no way I’d be able to stay on top of things in that house even with a housekeeper. I’d end up living out of a single room and that would be far stranger than having this place to myself. So I can’t live there, and the guilt of letting someone else live there wouldn’t do me any favors. I know my father would want that for me, but I can’t right now. Someday. Maybe. I’d like to. But today? Not going to happen. So, yes, it’s expensive and ridiculous, and every time I go over these things with my accountant, she shakes her head, but I’ve had about enough of it. It’s well within my means to maintain both properties even if it seems wasteful. Because honestly, how much is my mental health worth to you?”

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