Page 62 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Will be transferred to another therapist. Conflict of interest. Everyone wins.”

“Everyone loses, you mean.”

“Maddy—”

“Look, I get it. Daddy issues, career goals, the whole type-A perfectionist thing. But Chelsea...” She sighs. “When’s the lasttime you were happy? Really, truly, stupidly happy?”

Vegas. The answer comes immediately, unwanted. That night in Vegas when I was just Chelsea, not Dr. Clark or Chris’s daughter or anyone’s expectation.

“Happiness is overrated,” I say instead.

“Spoken like someone who’s never really had it.” She slides off the desk. “You know what you have to do. Just... try not to hate yourself too much when you do it.”

She leaves me alone with my decision and my father’s ultimatum echoing in my ears. I pull up Reed’s file, stare at his session scheduled for tomorrow. Ten AM. Our last appointment.

I draft the email seventeen times:

Mr. Hendrix, Due to a conflict of interest, I’m referring you to Dr. Patricia Morse for continued therapy...

Reed, This is hard to write, but...

I can’t do this anymore...

None of them feel right. How do you end something that never officially began? How do you break up with someone you’re not supposed to be with in the first place?

My phone buzzes. Jake.

Jake:Still on for dinner tomorrow?

I stare at the text, at this lifeline to normalcy. Safe, appropriate Jake who doesn’t make my father threaten me or my body betray me, or my career implode.

Me:Yes. Looking forward to it.

The lie tastes like ash, but I send it anyway. Tomorrow I’ll tell Reed he’s being transferred. Tomorrow I’ll have dinner with Jake and pretend he’s what I want. Tomorrow I’ll start rebuilding the walls that Reed demolished.

Tonight, though, I sit in my office and cry for what could have been. For Vegas mornings that ended too soon. For equipment sheds and washing machines and dances that felt like flying. For the possibility of being happy instead of just successful.

My father was right about one thing—I am compromised.

I just wish being uncompromised didn’t feel so much like dying.

25

When someone pounds on your door at midnight, it’s either death or desire—and Chelsea looks like both.

She’s soaked from the rain I didn’t know was falling, hair plastered to her face, makeup running. Still wearing work clothes like she came straight from the office, or maybe from drowning her decision in wine. Her eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the controlled Dr. Clark who was supposed to fix me.

“You can’t be here,” I say, but I’m already stepping aside to let her in.

“I know.” She pushes past me, dripping on my hardwood floors. “I know I can’t be here. I know this is wrong. I know everything that’s at stake.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m apparently really fucking stupid when it comes to you.”

The profanity from her perfect mouth hits like a shot. She’s pacing now, leaving wet footprints, running her hands through destroyed hair.

“Chelsea—”

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