Page 9 of Broken Bayou
Goose bumps cover my arms despite the warmth of the house. I drop my duffel and flip the light switch by the stairs. A single lamp illuminates in the corner, but the ambient light does little good. Shadows still linger in the back corner, near the other set of stairs. The ones that are cramped and narrow and lead to an attic.
“But we’re not going to worry about that,” Amy says and keeps talking.
I place my foot on the first step, and it creaks so loudly I pause, like I’ll wake someone up. But there’s no one here to disturb. It’s just me, alone, in this house. I chew the side of my thumbnail, then continue up. The higher I climb, the lower the ceiling becomes thanks to the slanted roof. Hunched and struggling to maintain my balance, I pause at the top of the stairs. The air feels cooler up here. The Aunts must have added air-conditioning at some point.
When Mabry and I played here as kids, it wasn’t. The summer heat culminated up here like molten lava. Once we played hide-and-seek, and Mabry hid in the attic for so long Aunt Pearl made her drink pickle juice when she finally came down, sweaty and shaking. I’d been terrified and lectured Mabry until she cried. Then I apologized and let her crawl into bed with me that night so I could tickle her back until she fell asleep.
“I mean, how do you want to handle it?” Amy asks.
I close my hand around the knob and turn it. Nothing happens. I twist it again. Still nothing. I pull and push and rattle the door. It’s locked. I smack my hand against the wood, shut my eyes, count to three because it’s as far as I get before I start looking around the small landing for a key. Only dust hides in the corners.
“Willa?”
Of course it’s fucking locked. I rub the back of my neck. “Sorry, Amy, what did you say?”
“How do you want to handle it.”
I head back down to the landing. “Handle what exactly?”
“Willa. The press. They know about Christopher.”
I trip on the last step. “What?” I recover, move from the attic stairs to the stairs leading to the first floor. “Wait. Give me a second.”
I scamper down the steps, back to the kitchen. I refill the wineglass and sit at the table. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“An old classmate of yours posted something on her feed. A picture of him and you. Said she always thought y’all had dated during clinicals. Hashtag honest healing. Hashtag what honesty. Local reporter from theTribunesaw it, remembered you.”
I choke on the sip I’ve started to take but manage to say, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
My ex. Dr. Christopher Fulton. A licensed psychologist twenty years my senior. But it wasn’t his age that was the problem. It was his position. I worked for him the year I did my clinicals. I was twenty-seven and ready to start my career. He was close to fifty and nursing wounds from an ugly divorce. It started innocently enough but quickly turned into something not so innocent. Our relationship was secretive and highly unethical. Although students dating professors isn’t unheard of, in our field, it’s a deal-breaker. He and I could have both lost everything we’d worked toward.
We married in a private ceremony at a town hall a year later, after I passed my boards. I kept my maiden name and went into practice with two others. We divorced four years later as quietly as we wed, leavingeach other with the understanding no one would ever know about our yearlong tryst before we married.
Even after my podcast took off and the book started gaining momentum, I didn’t worry. My former husband had nothing to do with either. I kept him out of it, and no one had gone digging. Until now.
Amy says, “You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You gave the buzzards a little taste of scandal yesterday, and they liked it. They want more, and they’ll dig until they find it.” She pauses, then adds, “Willa, what do you think the fallout will be with the Christopher thing? Could you lose your license?”
“No,” I answer too quickly, and I can picture Amy rolling her eyes. “Look, what we did was unethical but not illegal. Our relationship had no bearing whatsoever on my clinical internship or my ability to pass my boards. Period. Besides, it’s so far in the past; no licensing board would touch it.”
There’s a pause, and I hear her sip something. No doubt she has her own wine in hand.
I take another sip. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. Because what I don’t say is, even though my license is safe, I still need to be very careful when it comes to the court of public opinion. My field is held to a higher standard of ethics than most. Sleeping with my adviser is not going to do me any favors in the credibility department. If this snowballs, it will not be good. For me or for Christopher.
“When are you coming home?” she asks.
“Couple of days.” Now, it’s my turn to sigh. “In time to turn around and get to theGood Morning Americaspot.”
Amy sighs.
“What?”
“They canceled.”
In my head, I see the first domino in a long line tip over. My silence says it all.
