For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  “You wouldn’t be worried if I was late?”

  “I would, because you’re never late and I’d assume something was wrong. But that’s what cell phones are for, aye?”

  The cocktail menu in front of me has become very, very interesting all of a sudden.

  “I meant that you always look faintly relieved when I show up. That could be more overactive imagination than reality, though.”

  I glance up and the bottom half of her face is covered with her own menu, but her eyes say she’s smiling behind there. What a wretched little tease. Noticed that, has she? The only response I can come up with is a very eloquent grunt. Scotsmen are legend for our ability to speak an entire sentence with a single grunt.

  “Whatever the case, I don’t want you making yourself sick being out in bad weather. I’ll live if you’re a bit late.”

  “Okay,” she says, a lilt of mockery in her voice. “Next time I’ll go back for my umbrella.”

  Next time. This seems to be an indefinite standing date. Though when she’s not sassing me, she sometimes seems like she’s off-balance. I could ask her about it, but perhaps I’ve been paternalistic enough for one evening already. Perhaps she thinks so as well because she sets her menu down and starts to fiddle with a ring she wears on her left middle finger.

  We don’t speak for a minute and as I always do when something interrupts our patter, I fear the easiness between us is over, that we’ve both come to the conclusion that this is far too bizarre to continue, and make excuses about next time for long enough we forget we ever had a standing date. I’m about to dredge up something to say, ask her an inane question about her day, anything but sit in awkward silence, when Starla reaches into the enormous sack she calls a bag. “This is for you.”

  The thing she shoves at me from across the table is a water bottle. “Thank you?”

  I don’t mean for it to come out as a question, but I’m a bit perplexed as to why she’s given me a water bottle. I’m not a billionaire like her, certainly, but I’ve got a reusable water bottle or two knocking around my apartment.

  She rolls her eyes and slumps before giving me the eye of the devil. “It’s not just a water bottle, laser brain. It’s special.”

  I mean, it is, because she gave it to me—I’d treasure a worm carcass she picked off the ground and put in my hand—but I don’t think that’s what she meant. I look at the thing to puzzle out what’s special about it. It’s green; that’s nice. It’s tall, so I won’t run out quickly, also good since I don’t always have time to go to the kitchen between patients. It has lines on the sides, which, fine, most of them do, but… Ah. That’s it. It doesn’t just have the amount of water written next to the lines, it’s printed with times.

  “I give these to my clients all the time. Most people are dehydrated but they don’t realize it, and it’s a pain to keep track. With some of my clients, we can set alarms, but since you’re with patients all the time, that’s not a good strategy for you. This way, when you’re in between clients, you can look at your bottle and see how much you should’ve had to drink by that point in the day.”

  “That’s very clever, thank you.” I smile, not giving in to the grin that’s tugging at the corners of my mouth. If I make too big a deal out of it, she’ll be embarrassed and won’t do anything like it again. But the smile on her own face doesn’t escape my notice. She always did like to be praised and it seems that hasn’t changed.

  “You’re welcome,” she sniffs, trying to cover up her pleasure at my words, but that smile doesn’t lie, nor does the pink blooming on her cheeks. “Hopefully that will help with your headaches.”

  “Headaches?” I mean, yes, I do regularly get headaches, but…

  “You rub your temples, pinch the bridge of your nose frequently. You keep asking me to dinner, so I’m assuming it’s not because you find my company tedious.”

  Sassy britches.

  “I don’t find you tedious at all. This is the best part of my week.”

  The pink on her cheeks gets darker, and she gulps down some water without looking at me. “Well, you know you should drink more than that if you’re working out or if you’ve been having a lot of caffeine. I can’t do anything about that.”

  “I’ll do my best to remember, but I can’t promise anything. I’m a bit of a wreck, can barely dress myself as you can see.”

  She scoffs, and I watch as her gaze skims over my tie, my blazer, my shirt. I don’t want to say that I spent a lot of time selecting them with her in mind, but I absolutely did. She likes blue, so I’m wearing a blue and white checkered shirt with a blue and silver paisley tie, and then my one grey houndstooth blazer. Not bad, I don’t think. And it’s possible I texted Maeve a picture to make sure mixing those prints wouldn’t make me look like an arse. Either she was lying, or I really do look okay.

  “Well, I can’t help you with that either, but it seems to me you’re doing fine.”

  She looks down in her lap again and fiddles with her napkin. I need a new topic before she gets skittish or starts to wonder what the hell she’s doing here with me. Again. After she’d said no—emphatically, repeatedly—not all that long ago.

  “Ah, I meant to tell you my new schedule starts Monday next.”

  She blinks but then it must occur to her what I mean.

  “Oh yeah? You found someone to work late?”

  “No. One of our admins volunteered to work a split shift with me so she can pick her son up from school and drive him to his gran’s house. His after-school program’s closing and she wasn’t sure how she was going to make this work, but having those two hours free will be perfect with time left over to run an errand or two.”

  “Hey, that’s so great. I look forward to your report about how it’s going once you’re in the habit. The start might be a little rough because change, but I bet it’ll be a good fit for you.”

  “I think so. A very smart woman suggested it, so I’ve great confidence.”

  I offer my glass for a clink and she obliges, the flush growing in her cheeks. She’s so lovely. Always, but especially when she blushes. Must stop thinking about her and her blush. Must stop wondering if her bottom would become the same shade if I took her over my knee. Have got to stop picturing that, otherwise I’m going to get hard in my trousers and I won’t be able to carry on a conversation at all. Which is why I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “And how are you doing? Work is okay?”

  * * *

  Starla

  “Yes, work is fine.”

  Work is fine, in fact. Well, mostly. I have a client who’s becoming agitated that my services haven’t completely changed his life. Which is never what I promise in the first place. Nor does it help that he doesn’t actually do most of what I suggest.

  I’m on the verge of dismissing him as a client, because I don’t need the irritation and I have other people who could benefit more from my help. Though Kirk isn’t my real problem. That distinction goes to Tad as per usual.

  Fucker will not leave me alone about making a call on my shares of Patrick Enterprises and I continue to try to swim in this ocean I didn’t want to jump in in the first place. It’s taxing and enervating and I hate it, plus though I’d like to think I’m doing a serviceable free style, it more likely seems that I’m doing a third-rate doggy paddle. My father had faith I wouldn’t drown, though, and I can’t stand the idea of disappointing him so I will do my best to at least keep treading water no matter what it costs me.

  And while I’m sure Lowry would listen to my fretting and offer any counsel he was able to, I don’t want to talk to him about it.

  First, he seems to think me quite competent and I don’t want to disabuse him of that notion. Second, I don’t want to talk about this any more than I absolutely have to and I already spend far more time than I’d like to talking with board members, Patrick Enterprises’ C-suite, my father’s former advisors, my attorneys, all the goddamn people about it.

  It’s te
dious and a gnawing worry, and I don’t want to think about it when I’m with Lowry. I want to think about nicer things, like how he always looks happy to see me, and how I can fool myself into thinking he might have a bit of a thing for me. Of course he’d never admit it because it would be wildly inappropriate but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him to. Doesn’t prevent me from dreaming up what it might be like if he did in fact want me and acted on it.

  What would it be like to sit on Lowry’s lap while I told him about my day? Have him stroke my hair and kiss below my ear? Hear him threaten Tad’s life in that soft burr of his?—even though I know he’d do no such thing because it would cost him his license and besides, Lowry’s not a fundamentally violent man. Would he like that? Would he like it if I called him daddy as I snuggled against his chest and told him my troubles?

  No, I doubt he would. He might say it didn’t bother him with that impenetrable therapist neutrality that sometimes makes me want to swear and throw things, but he wouldn’t mean it. He’d likely find it disturbing since he did know my father, he did know me when I was young, and technically speaking, he is in fact old enough to be my father. You can’t erase that. Even if he were into daddy kink, he probably wouldn’t want that with me because it would hit too close to home.

  I’ll have to content myself with what I can have and use these things he says offhandedly as fodder for my masturbatory fantasies—Next time you’ll get your umbrella. Jesus, I almost orgasmed right here at the damn table. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and given so nonchalantly at that. I need to not think about it anymore before I get uncomfortably wet between my legs.

  “Work is fine, but I’m a little tired. Could probably use a vacation or at least a weekend away, but that’s not really a thing I do,” I shrug.

  Especially not while I’m trying to hold down my father’s empire alongside tending my own small corner of the world. I shouldn’t have said anything because his head, which had been angled down, studying the menu, snaps up.

  “Tired? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just tired, like a normal human being. It doesn’t have anything to do with…”

  I wave my hand, indicating the severe depression that’s dogged my heels for most of my life.

  “Then you should take a vacation. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

  “Does the two extra days I spent in Chicago count?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I know why not, but I want to hear him argue with me. Coax me, convince me. Childish to want, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Two days in the freezing cold going to a few museums does not a vacation make.”

  Yep, that stern tone and that disapproving glare. Perhaps he’ll drum his fingertips on the tabletop and scold me.

  I shrug. “I don’t really vacation. It’s work to arrange things and my clients need me, and I don’t relish being a woman vacationing alone. Do you know what that’s like? It’s not restful, it’s more like an invitation for harassment and men trying to get in my pants even if I have sunglasses on, am wearing headphones, and have my nose buried in a book. Does that sound like fun to you?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Men are utter shite.”

  “Basically.”

  Then he looks like he might say something else but thinks better of it. Then opens his mouth before shutting it again. It would be funny if I weren’t so desperate to find out what he was going to say. He shakes his head, though, determined to foil me, and then the waiter is here, taking our dinner and wine orders.

  This is what we do, every time. It’s familiar but still exciting, and I can’t help but pretend in my head that we’re a married couple who does this all the time: date night, to keep things fresh. Well, no wonder things are fresh because we’re not dating, never mind married. Lowry was married, though. I bet he and Maeve took vacations together. And thinking of Lowry walking on a beach in swim trunks and aviators makes me whimper internally. That is a thing I would like to see very much.

  I am perhaps dwelling on that image when Lowry speaks.

  “Why don’t we go together?”

  “What?”

  He shrugs, looking oddly disconcerted. He’s almost always certain, confident, so it’s odd to see him…not.

  “I could use a vacation too. Not like I’ve anyone to go with either. Come on, why not? Or are you worried you can tolerate me for a couple of hours over dinner but a long weekend would be a bridge too far?”

  That is hardly my concern. More like I would tolerate him far too well and my fixation would become even more unhealthy. No way in hell I’m copping to that, though. I do have other excuses.

  “It’s too much time. I have clients, you have patients. Besides, I already lose at least four days every six weeks.”

  “Having ECT isn’t a vacation.”

  Don’t I know it.

  Lowry must see me getting stuck, because he volunteers, “Why don’t you use the days you can’t do anything else to travel?”

  I have briefly considered that. But along with having to spend the energy figuring out where I want to go, for how long, and all those other things my personal assistant can’t simply choose for me—Holden’s wonderful, but he’s not a mindreader—it’s a bit of a terrifying prospect. The idea that I wouldn’t remember most of it is a shrug. It’s not as though I don’t have the money to spend and I’d enjoy it in the moment, so why the hell not. The idea of being out in the world when I’m not at my best is a significant deterrent.

  Some people I would tell to leave it, I don’t want to discuss it, end of conversation. Because this is Lowry, though, I explain it to him.

  “Look, I feel very comfortable at home, in my routine, with all of my things around me, with everything I need to do written out ahead of time. But out there? That’s a recipe for anxiety and completely losing my shit, which defeats the purpose of a vacation, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, that’s what I’d be there for.”

  So simple, so easy, obviously that’s the solution. I want to roll my eyes because oh yes, sure, why didn’t I think of that. Easy-peasy, bring my ex-psychiatrist who I’m madly in love with along. I do allow myself to level a glare at him while downing the last of my cocktail.

  “Shepherding me through an airport and around some vacation destination doesn’t sound like much of a break for you.”

  “Unless things have changed drastically, you’re perfectly functional after the anesthesia wears off, not some invalid who couldn’t navigate an airport. I’d be there merely as backup.”

  “And what if I get a headache? A bad one?”

  “I assume you’d have your meds on hand. You can take them as well on a plane as on your couch. Or if it’s truly horrific, we’ll postpone. Come on, you could use a break. It would be good for you to relax.”

  He’s leaning back in his chair, his big hands spread wide on the table, looking so very sure of everything. What must that be like? To walk through life instead of wading through it? To not feel the creep of your own brain trying to destroy itself? Unless something miraculous happens in the next fifty years or so, like science starting to give a shit about women’s mental health, I’ll probably never know.

  As much as I’d like to take him up on his kind and enticing offer, I can’t. Can’t. I wouldn’t be able to survive being in such close quarters with this man and come out with my heart intact. It’s not possible.

  “Lowry, I…”

  Oh god.

  I have been oh so careful to not say his name. Because it feels like there’s no coming back if I say his name out loud, to his face. Not doc, not Doctor Campbell. Not nerf-herder or laser brain. And this is why. All of this has become so much more real. The fact that we are adults who enjoy spending time together and have some kind of chemistry that might be sexual and what the hell would be so wrong with that? Everything. Everything would be wrong with that.

  I don’t think it’s my imagina
tion that he feels the same. His lips have parted and there’s that fucking look again. The one I would take to mean he likes me likes me from anyone else. A look that confuses the hell out of me and I can’t deal with right now on top of everything else because it’s going to end badly and I can’t take that. No, not from him, not right now, and let’s be real, not ever. So, before he can say anything else, I spit words out. Any words.

  “That’s so nice of you to offer, really, but I couldn’t possibly take you up on it. That feels like it would be…inappropriate. And I can’t…I just can’t, okay? Please drop it.”

  Which is precisely the opposite of what I want. I want him to coax and cajole me, make me give in because he knows what’s best, and he can tell I’m exhausted. That work is taking its usual toll, which I can handle, but all this with my father’s empire is wearing me down.

  He would understand, not think I was lazy, insist I take care of myself, and if I refuse, do it for me. Which, yeah, as a modern independent woman doesn’t seem okay to want, but in my heart of hearts, I would cry with relief if he was willing to shoulder that responsibility.

  The fucked-up thing is that I think he would, but I don’t want them from Lowry my friend, or from Doctor Campbell my former psychiatrist. I want that from my daddy who would expect me to follow his rules and reward me when I did. Who would truly have my best interests at heart and I would believe him because I would have so much respect for him and he would know how to navigate the world far better than I do.

  The thing is, while I trusted Lowry that way when I was his patient, it was in an amorphous way. It was in the air I breathed, the water I drank. It was a feeling I had, but I couldn’t put a finger on it because it was so pervasive. It took a while for it to build up to that concentration in the atmosphere, but it was eventually a thing I took for granted. That no matter what else might go wrong, he would always be there.

  On the day he came to Milo’s house, something crystalized. I can’t say if it was when he lifted me out of the bathtub in his strong arms, when he toweled me off, when he got me dressed, or when he braided my hair. Perhaps it was the way he spoke to me tenderly and without judgment the entire time. I don’t know. It was the precious experience of a need being fulfilled, of someone seeing what I required and handing it to me without making me feel like I was broken, even though that was one of my lowest points.