Page 16 of The Therapist

I let out a silent sigh of relief and nod. “Of course, we all do. That’s natural.”

“Yes, it is, but I like to see those little things people keep sectioned off. We’re not that different are we? You get to hear all about them, and I watch them.”

The clock on the wall is five minutes fast, but I’ve never been so happy to have it read four pm.

“We’ve got to stop for today. Next week at the same time?” I ask, nodding to the clock.

Cooper stands and stretches, exposing a sliver of skin between his jeans and shirt and I have to force myself to look away.

Following suit, I stand and give him my best professional smile.

Seven

Present

“Ok, time to come clean.”

I startle and turn to face Nora.

“What?”

“You’ve been so…off lately,” she says, watching me carefully.

I slash my hand through the air dismissively. “Nonsense.”

Her eyes narrow as she brushes her red locks over her shoulder. “Dr. R, come on. What’s up?”

A deep sigh rushes from my mouth. “Honestly, Nora, nothing.”

Nora sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, mulling over my response. “Was it the date?”

I blow out a breath, then grin at her. “The date was a bust. I’m too chicken to tell Aubry, though.”

Nora giggles. Liam blows in through the center doors, and, blissfully, Nora is distracted. Liam, in all his intense brooding, stalks right up to us and wraps Nora in a possessive hug. She melts into him.

“Liam,” I say. He raises his chin at me in greeting before looking back down at her, all admiration and barely hidden affection.

“Secret’s safe with me,” Nora says, “I won’t tell Aubry anything.”

I grab my bag from the floor. “Thank you. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try again,” I say, hoping my tone is playful.

“You deserve love,” Nora calls to me as I head out. My stomach clenches. A pang of grief sweeps through me.

I stop and glance at her over my shoulder. “Thank you,” I say.

At home, after situating Flash with food and ample outdoor time, I pull another page from the stack and read it.

I don’t have long.

I have a standing appointment in an hour.

I find with so much time on my hands that I miss things. I have entirely too much time to remember, to think, to look back and wonder—or regret. I miss the sound of your pen scratching paper. Of your wise and watchful eyes.

The pink tint to your cheeks when you tried to hide your arousal. At night, in the solitude of sleep, I picture you that very first time I had you.

In our session that day, you tried to get me to acknowledge right and wrong. I watched you trying so hard to show me the boundaries and to willingly step inside them, and I toyed with you. Pushing your buttons on purpose. Playing the game. Cut and dry, black and white—is there even such a thing?

I did it just to get a rise out of you. To watch your cheeks redden with frustration. To see the blood pound in your veins. For the elite feeling that I, alone, got your blood rushing. In the moment it felt good. I brimmed with pride. But as you ushered me out of your office, I was hit by a wave of… beingunderwhelmed. Getting a rise out of you simply wasn’t going to satisfy the itch and I made a rash decision.

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