Back to my office then. I take a deep breath before leaving the staff lounge, and nearly run into Starla, who is walking smack toward me down the hallway.
Bollocks.
How is it that I run into her now after managing to avoid seeing Starla for over a month? I’d been carefully remaining in my office during the times she might be coming or going because she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me and would mark it as an unfortunate event if she did. Bang-up job so far, Doctor Campbell, and two separate hang-ups. Must be I was so occupied with my concern about Tony that I forgot this is around the time she comes in every week. I’d been trying to be respectful, and one moment of absent-mindedness has hurt a person I care about very much.
Indeed, her mouth drops open and she flinches. Aside from the vague distress though, she looks marvelous. Slim-fitting jeans hug her thighs, and they peek out from between brown leather knee-high boots and a dark green angular coat that’s belted around her waist. Her hair’s down but pushed behind her ears and it’s all I can do not to smile. But I won’t. I will interact with her in the mildest, most neutral way possible. Not rude, but not anything that demands any response from her either.
So, as we’re passing by, I dip my head in her direction, offer brief eye contact, state a low “good morning,” and keep walking, closing my eyes with regret, goddamn craving crowding my chest and making it hard to breathe.
* * *
Starla
Lowry goes into his office and closes the door behind him, and I’m left standing in the hallway like some sort of nerf-herder. I never see him here. I’ve half-hoped and half-dreaded that I would, played over what I would do a million times in my head, which has ranged anywhere from taking one of the paintings off the wall and smashing it over his ginger head to giving the ice-queen cold shoulder, to maybe being a little flirty to see if I could tell if he had asked me on a date—he didn’t, I know—to, in my dreams, accosting him to grab his tie and stroke my hand down his button-down-clad chest all the way to the placket of his pants where he’d be hard for me. Imagining the groan that would result from me palming him through his pants, well, that’s making me tug at my collar.
The way he looked at me… His jaw had flexed momentarily and his expression had been the one I’d seen a million times as his patient. The one that said he was threading a needle. That regardless of how calm he seemed, he was working so very hard. Of course, I hadn’t noticed that at first. Had been too mired in my depression to notice much of anything that wasn’t smacking me in the face.
It was only after my suicide attempt and my first course of ECT that I could see it. That I could see so many things. It was like I’d been living life behind a windshield caked with dirt and muck and insect carcasses and someone had finally started to wipe it clean.
Don’t get me wrong; ECT isn’t perfect. It’s not some magic elixir that made me 100 percent better. And I know I’m lucky my side effects are mild—not everyone is so fortunate. But for me? Totally worth it to lose a few days every six weeks to fuzzy memory and perhaps some nausea or a headache in exchange for functioning at a high level for the rest of the time. I still struggle, my windshield gets dirtier the further out I am from having had a treatment—hence my being here—but it’s so much better.
And lets me obsess over the clenching of my ex-psychiatrist’s jaw. Perfect.
What was he trying so hard for? Was it difficult for him to see me? And why? Lowry’s never struck me as the kind of man to get worked up over a rejection. Pretty sure he’s handsome enough to have a fairly easy time getting laid whenever he feels like it. I know he’s kind and considerate enough to have a partner if he’d like one. He wasn’t asking me on a date anyhow so that doesn’t even apply.
Maybe he… Did I hurt his feelings? By not wanting to spend time with him? And if so, what the hell did I do that for? Yeah, I’m still pretty fucking mad at him, but wouldn’t it be fulfilling a lot of my fantasies to see him outside of a clinical setting? Isn’t that something I’ve wanted for years? Am I so stubborn to prevent myself from having that so he knows I’m angry? I mean, yes, clearly, but more to the point, should I be? Who am I punishing with my refusal?
Having a meal with him might be a disaster, but it also might be enjoyable. Perhaps we could be friends. I don’t have many of those. Being a trust fund baby certainly has its perks, but it also makes a person somewhat paranoid about why people want to be friends with you. Do they actually like you or do they like your money? The number of people who started acting weird after they found out who my father was and what that meant… Let’s just say it was close to 100 percent awkward sauce.
Things get even worse when you add mental illness to the picture. I didn’t have any friends when I was at my lowest. It didn’t get much better when I was recovering because ECT scares the living shit out of people. They’ve watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest one too many times. God, I fucking hate that movie. Besides them being freaked out by the very thing that saved me, depression can be rough. I bowed out of plans because I couldn’t imagine getting off the couch, never mind being personable. Sometimes I’d be optimistic about going to a game or a movie and I’d genuinely want to go, but I couldn’t actually get out the door. The idea of socializing was too tiring, forget actual socializing. Lowry’s not going to be surprised by any of that. And he’s not going to be surprised by my money; he knows all about it.
Maybe I could have a drink with him. And if it goes badly—I almost hope it will so this nearly two-decades-long infatuation can die the ignoble death it deserves—then it does, and I can move on. We’ll have nothing to talk about and that’s fine. He won’t be rude. Or a creeper. And after that, we can exchange pleasantries in the hallways here and that will be it. How is it I haven’t seen him before? Maybe he usually has a patient during this block.
Or maybe he’s been hiding from me? No, he gave me a heads-up that I might see him here, I can’t imagine he’d go out of his way to avoid me like I have the plague after that. Another possibility occurs to me, which is that he knows when I’ll be here and he’s done his best to not be in public areas when I’d be coming or going because I told him I didn’t want to see him ever again. Something about that rings true, like that perfect last note of a tuning orchestra. Yes, that is precisely something he’d do.
My urge to see his somewhat unruly ginger hair emerge from the ripped canvas of a painting I’d brought down upon his head is all but extinguished. The desire to talk with him across a dinner table and have a conversation because he knows my history and isn’t afraid of or disgusted with me because of it is ignited instead. Perhaps I’d like that. Very much.
I could certainly use more pleasure in my life given how much of it is taken up by corporate bullshit I never wanted but that I’ve been saddled with, and I had—have—a very complicated relationship with my father which makes it impossible for me to simply slough off like most of the other things I find unpleasant.
“Starla? What are you doing out here? I tried calling because you’re never late.”
That’s embarrassing. Having Doctor Gendron catch me in the hallway mulling this over. But now that I’ve arrived at this conclusion, I should follow through before I talk myself out of it. Which will be in approximately twelve parsecs. Even though that famous line doesn’t make any sense because parsecs are a unit of distance not time, but it’s the best I’ve got. I’d count myself lucky to have Chewbacca at my back, too, but no Wookiees in sight. It’s all up to me.
“I will, uh, be right there. Give me a minute?”
Doctor Gendron regards me as though I’m a specimen she thought she was intimately familiar with, but instead of what she was expecting, she got something entirely different, perhaps a whole new species.
“Sure,” she metes out, and then walks deliberately back to her office and over the threshold. I’m not fortunate enough to have her close the door, but this will have to do.
It’s only a few steps for me to get to L
owry’s door. I know it’s his because I’ve seen the nameplate every time I’ve come and gone from Doctor Gendron’s office. This is the closest I’ve gotten, though, and my heart beats harder, faster, knowing he’s on the other side. Also that he’s alone—he wouldn’t have grabbed a coffee if he had a patient scheduled for now.
I hold up a fist to knock and my stomach twists. It feels as though my face twists in a similar fashion and I take a deep breath while I try to smooth it out. No bigs, whatevs, I can totes do this. No problem. At all. Plus, the longer it takes, the more curious Doctor Gendron is going to be, and I don’t need that in my life.
So I do it. Rap my knuckles against the wood and don’t breathe until the door swings open. Shit. I thought he’d say “come in” from behind his desk. Not be standing like a foot away. So much for that whole friends thing because at the first whiff of him—he still smells the same—I want to climb him like a squirrel up an acorn-laden tree. Fuck my life.
“Starla? Everything okay?”
Yes, he looks downright concerned. As well he might since I’m seeking him out when I’ve essentially told him to fuck off. Repeatedly.
“Is Lacey not there? I saw her earlier…” He pokes his head through the doorframe, looking in the direction of Doctor Gendron’s office and he’s even closer to me. I’m going to die.
Everyone thought depression would kill me, but no, it’s lust for my ex-psychiatrist that will do the trick, and I won’t even have to sleep with him to do it, just have his hands brush me and… Oh, Christ, can’t think about that without contributing to the bonfire that’s been set alight on my face.
“No, she’s there. Waiting for me. I—”
His brows go up in the middle, wrinkling his forehead, and I swear if he opens his mouth to say anything, I won’t be able to finish this sentence, so I barrel on before he has the chance.
“I’ve thought further about your invitation. And yes, we could, um, have dinner. Or something. Sometime. Whenever. I don’t care. But you’ll have to call me because I don’t have your number and I don’t want to call you at work because I know everyone here and I…”
I trail off as though I’ve lost my train of thought, but really I’ve lost my nerve and now I want to sink into the rug, never to be seen again. This was a terrible idea. I should’ve allowed my more practical self to reason with my more impulsive self because she’s fucking right. Mortifying.
Except that he’s smiling. A subtle but genuine smile that reaches into my body and squeezes my heart because it’s so very kind and approving. Makes me feel like I have been the very best girl and that he’d like to reward me for it. Thoroughly.
“I’d like that. And yes, I can call you. But you should go see Lacey.” He leans down like he did the first time I met him, and his breath ghosts over my ear as he says in a near whisper, “You know she gets grumpy when she’s kept waiting. And she’s still my boss, might sack me any day.”
Then he’s standing upright again and I’m trying not to collapse or spontaneously combust. I can barely stammer, “Okay,” and then try not to trip over my own feet as I head toward Doctor Gendron’s office.
Chapter 4
Starla
I’m working on a daily checklist for one of my clients when the phone rings. Nora is a wildly successful comic book artist, but she forgets to do things like take a shower for days at a time. Which is less of a problem than it would be if she had to go into an office every day, but she still needs to brush and floss her teeth so she doesn’t get cavities and have to make an unexpected trip to the dentist because who the hell knows how long it would take her to make that appointment. Which is another thing I need to add to her checklist.
She’s got a backlog of bills to pay, calls to make, emails to send—all that daily stuff most of us take in stride, but for Nora it’s literally easier to pull an all-nighter to bang out several pages of incredibly detailed and gorgeous work than it is to call to make a grooming appointment for her beloved Shih Tzu, Barney. So we’ll put one thing a day like that on her schedule and then put something she enjoys doing right after it. Like taking Barney for his walk.
While I’m not a fan of the phone either, I’ve learned to think of it as a tool. A tool that is sometimes more expedient than sending a zillion emails back and forth. Unfortunately for me, this call will not be quick, nor will it be easy, likely not even useful. What would be worse is not answering and then having to deal with a fracking voicemail. I hate that shit.
“What do you want, Tad?”
“Good thing your father isn’t alive to hear you talk to me like that.”
Tad is arrogant. Can be obtuse. I would go so far as to say he can be inconsiderate, but I wouldn’t have called him cruel. That statement, however, is going to force me to reconsider.
“You’re lucky my father isn’t alive. He’d fire you for being so callous.”
“Hey, Starla. Don’t be like that. I’m sorry. You’re right, that was over the line and I apologize.”
I’d still deck him if he were here, but I appreciate the apology. Tad was always good with apologies. We dated for two years, so I would know. I think my father hoped we’d get married and rule over his empire when he decided to retire, but clearly, none of that worked out: my father never had the chance to retire, Tad and I are over and have been for a couple of years now. Doesn’t stop him from being overly familiar with me. I guess what’s what happens when men stick their dick in someone; they think they own them, are entitled to them. Fuck that.
“Fine. But my question remains the same. What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
For fuck’s sake, not this again. I do know what he wants and I also know I don’t want to give it to him.
“I do and you can’t have it. I haven’t decided what I’m doing with my shares, and you calling me every three days to chat about it isn’t going to speed up the process.”
There’s a grunt of frustration and it sounds unpleasantly like when we used to fuck. Didn’t need a reminder of that either.
“Then what will it take? You’re not fulfilling your fiduciary duty as the person who holds a controlling interest in Patrick Enterprises. You have a controlling interest and while I know topping isn’t your thing, you have to fucking do something.”
The truth is I don’t like making these decisions. They feel overwhelming and too huge and it’s easy to start catastrophizing. When you have a controlling interest in a Fortune 500 company, it’s not actually exaggeration to say that decisions you make could ruin people’s lives. Tens of thousands of people’s lives. Which makes me feel queasy. And unworthy. Whose fucking idea was it to leave me with all this? My father’s, which on the one hand was an incredible vote of confidence. After all we’d been through together, he believed I’m stable enough, strong enough, to be trusted with his life’s work.
After years of acting like I couldn’t be trusted to handle anything, he’d started to treat me as though there was a possibility of handing me the reins someday. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I didn’t want the wild stallion he was trying to get me to take on. I’d done everything he asked like attend meetings and look over reams of reports and keep up with all of the market fluctuations and what that meant for Patrick Enterprises because I wanted so desperately to win his approval. I was so proud that he saw me as potentially worthy after half a lifetime of being a disappointment.
On the other hand of what I feel was an enormous compliment, I don’t want this, and god, I feel the weight of it. It’s so heavy and makes the tide of my depression come in faster.
I find myself wishing a dozen times a day he hadn’t left this all up to me. I cannot handle it and maintain my hard-won mental health. It’s too much stress, too much pressure, too many hours, too many moving parts…too much. And I wish to fuck Tad didn’t know that so well.
Yes, I hate it. But would I also have been mortified and insulted if my father had taken the choice away from me entirely? I’d like to
think no because I’m aware of my own capabilities and capacity, but if anyone knows brains aren’t always rational, it’s me.
The point now, though, is to get Tad to back all the way up because whether I like it or not, I’m the one who’s been charged with this responsibility, not him. And while I’ve never had reason to believe he’d act against my father’s wishes, I’ve also not had much experience with him without my father’s guiding hand. I do know Tad wishes my father would’ve been more aggressive in his business decisions and that alone gives me pause. So, he wants me to make a choice?
“I will, once I figure out what is in the best interest of my father’s legacy and the people who rely on Patrick Enterprises for their livelihoods.”
“Legacy? What the fuck is that? Maybe you should care more about the living than the dead.”
“I do, and so did my father. Which is why I’m going to take my time, do my homework, and figure this out. You bullying me is not going to help your case. If you’ll excuse me, I also have a responsibility to my clients and I need to get back to my work. I’ll see you at the next board meeting.”
Hanging up on Tad is not quite as satisfying when there’s only a button on a screen to press instead of a handset to slam down onto a cradle, but it’s satisfying nonetheless, perhaps because of how little effort it takes to shut him up, at least in this medium. Except his call has riled me and it’s going to take a bit to center myself enough to silence the thoughts now stampeding through my mind instead of concentrating on what will work best for Nora.
I close my eyes to do one of my meditation exercises, since outright telling my mind to shush has never worked for me. I need something to focus on and my breath isn’t going to cut it. On my worst days, it made me think about how much oxygen I was taking up and maybe it would be better used by someone else who wasn’t such a waste of space. So, no, breathing isn’t going to work. I have a catalog full of meditations I can guide myself through, but the one I reach for most frequently is one Lowry taught me.
For Her Own Good Page 5