Page 59 of Kismet

“The one and only,” I reply with a humorless laugh.

“Is this the real reason you skipped our last couple of sessions?”

“No… I don’t know. Yes?”

“Alright. Why don’t you tell me how him being in Texas makes you feel?”

My gaze is fixated on a piece of lint next to the coffee table in front of me. It’s green and only about the size of a piece of rice. I’m fixated on it because I can’t bring myself to look at my therapist as I tell her how it makes me fucking feel.

“It makes me feel like all the skeletons in my closet that I’ve tucked away have emerged, coming back to haunt me. It felt like a slap to the face and a knife to my chest all at once seeing his face on his first day. Hearing his casual, gravelly voice took me back five years to nights spent under the stars, dreams of the future, and then absolute devastation.”

“Do you remember how long it took for you to tell me about Cash when you first started visiting me?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks?”

“It was six weeks, Stone. Six weeks. Twelve appointments before you divulged this huge part of yourself to me.”

“Okay? Why does that matter?”

“It matters because he was a huge part of the guilt you carried when you arrived. You hated yourself for leaving him without a word. You hated knowing that you hurt him. And I think a subconscious part of yourself kept this from me for as long as you did because you couldn’t fathom talking about it—and healing—because you felt you didn’t deserve to move on from it. Now he’s here, and it’s like you’re having to reopen that old wound all over again and face it all.”

“What do I do, then?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. Does he know about Aida and why you left?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Maybe you should start there.”

The thought of talking to him about allthatmakes me want to puke. Plus— “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

She smiles softly, and if it were anyone other than her, I’d think it was a patronizing one. “Can you really blame him, Stone? He’s completely in the dark about what’s happened to you. For all he knows, you left because you decided to stay with your wife.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to work with him. Be his boss after everything.”

“Just take it one step at a time. If he doesn’t want to talk, you must respect that. If that changes, and he’s willing to sit down and talk with you, I think it would be helpful to both of you to fill him in. But it’s also important to keep in mind boundaries. You’re his boss, Stone.”

By the time I leave her office, I can’t decide if I feel better about things, or worse. It’s a warm evening, but the wind whipping my face while I ride home feels good, though. I walk through my front door a quarter after five, kicking off my boots, and setting my helmet down on the table.

I toss a pizza in the oven because I don’t feel like cooking. Once I grab a cold beer from the fridge, I plop down on the couch, pulling my phone out. The entire ride home, I tried to talk myself out of this. It’s fucking stupid, and I need to knock it off, but I can’t help it. Watching his life through social media makes me feel closer to him somehow—albeit it’s creepy as hell; it still helps the ache in my chest.

We didn’t run into each other yesterday or today, which makes sense. I’m sure he’s busy getting acclimated to his new class, with this week being his first actual teaching week. Thinking back to when he first became my aide. He was so nervous, which is completely unlike his normal personality. He wanted so badly to do well, to impress me, and to learn as much as he could. Cash is a sponge. He will pick up whatever knowledge you throw down and do it better than you ever could’ve imagined. He’s incredibly intelligent, and I always enjoyed working with him, even before all the feelings came into play.

When he told me his goal of becoming a professor, there was no doubt in my mind that he would achieve it. He’s driven, talented, and a great teacher. After all these years, I just never expected his goal to be achieved here.

Pulling up his Instagram, he has one new picture on his feed. It’s a picture of one of those hairless cats he talked about wanting on top of moving boxes. The caption says:“Houston and I are finally getting all settled in Texas!”

Houston?!

Like… Whitney?

No. No, that can’t be it.Could it?

My heart is suddenly pounding so hard in my chest, I can hear it in my ears. That has to be a weird coincidence. There’s no fucking way he named his cat after an artist he used to tease me about for listening to.

I use my fake Instagram account to scroll mindlessly through his stories that he’s posted today—his usual, daily before work swim picture, a sunset picture from somewhere I don’t recognize, and a picture of his cat lying beside his MacBook on his bed—while my mind keeps spinning and obsessing over the name of his damn cat.I need to fucking know.

The oven timer goes off, startling me out of my thoughts. Probably for the best. I eat dinner, then spend the rest of the evening in my gym, working out and trying—but failing—to keep my mind off Cash. By the time I shower and fall into bed, I’m not less frustrated—sexually and otherwise—than I was before.

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