Page 29 of The Therapist

I find myself staring at the page before me. I’m unraveling a question that’s been haunting me.

Do his walls come down when he thinks of me?

I still remember the first time we met, how I felt like I could breathe when I was around him. How everything seemed to fall into place when he was near. I wanted to believe that he felt the same way, that we were on the same page. But now, months later, I wonder if he ever really let me in.

Does remembering me take him back like it does for me? Back to moments when we were happy, when we were together in a way that felt real, or at least like it could be.

And when he remembers—do his eyes grow dim? Does he shut me out, bury me in his vault like a secret? Or does it make him pause, even just for a moment, and wonder what we could have been?

I remember something from that time. A piece of paper in my pocket, worn with use, faded ink—“I love watching you.”

He’d tucked it in my coat pocket. Let me find it later. It had brought a thrill and a smile.

Does he hide me in the attic of his mind, tucked away like some forgotten talisman, locked in a trunk with all the other things he can’t bear to relive?

Do his walls crumble, even a little, when my name crosses his mind? Or has he built such a fortress around himself that there’s no room for anyone else?

I can’t change the past. I can’t rewrite what’s been written, but I do wonder if, somewhere deep down, he lets me in, just enough to remember me.

A tear drips from my chin onto the page.

My cell vibrates on the desk, startling me. I glance at the screen and catch my former patient—now friend—Nora’s name before it turns off.

Reaching out, I switch the ringer to silent, put the letter in my bag and turn off the desk light.

Like most people, I have a secret, and I’ve become good at hiding it, but he had secrets too.

We all had scars hiding beneath our skin.

Fourteen

Past

The speaking engagement went well. I’m tired from being ‘on’ all afternoon and I can’t wait to settle in for the night. Flower baskets hang in profusion from the porch. Adirondack chairs are arranged to allow an unrestricted view of the ocean. Dentil molding and window trims make the building eye-catching. It’s beautiful here.

The moment I step into the dimly lit lobby of the Ocean Voyeur Bed and Breakfast, something cold and insidious slithers down my spine. The air is warm, laced with the scent of polished wood and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe. It should be comforting. It isn’t.

I set my bag down and exhale, forcing my shoulders to relax, already missing the comfort of home and Flash. This is fine. A simple mix-up, that’s all. I’d told Nora I wanted to stay one night—and she, in all her well-meaning enthusiasm, booked me two nights instead of one, a so-called ‘weekend getaway.’

“Dr. Richardson.”

My stomach drops. Heat pools low in my belly. I turn slowly, as if any sudden movement might startle him into action.Run, some primal part of me screams, but I don’t.

Cooper leans against the doorway that leads to a sitting area, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. Always watching. Even now, his gaze is a touch too knowing, too hungry.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat.

“Cooper?” I ask evenly, keeping my expression neutral.

His brows lift, amusement flickering in his eyes at the forced formality. “What an unexpected surprise,” he murmurs. His voice is smooth.

I shouldn’t have agreed to start seeing him again for therapy.

That thought strikes hot and fast, as damning as the memory of our last session.

“Desires can be dark, shameful, and wrong,” I had told him, my voice steady despite the weight of his gaze.

“But that’s what makes them right,” he had countered, his words low, reverent.

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