For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  When I finally manage to open my eyes, a lazy grin stretching my mouth because I’m too wrecked to do anything else, it’s to Starla’s lovely, flushed face, yes, but she’s wide-eyed with overwhelm and her chin trembles.

  “Starla, darling? Are you—”

  And then she starts to cry.

  I’ve heard the expression “bursting into tears” many times, but I don’t know I’ve seen it myself until now. It’s a violent spilling of tears that must have been welling for minutes judging by the sheer volume of them. Christ, what have I done?

  “Oh, sweetheart, hush.”

  Her sobs are convulsive and I want to make them stop. It’s an impulse I’ve had to fight against for as long as I can remember. The urge to fix things. Patch them up, make them better. Which is why I went to medical school, yes, but it’s all the more satisfying and frustrating to dig around in people’s heads and help them sort themselves out than it is to patch up a bullet wound. Not everyone feels that way, I know.

  There’s a rush my colleagues in the ER get that never did much for me. Too quick, over too soon. Not enough buildup. It’s perhaps a bit sick of me, but there’s not enough intimacy. Not enough time to get entwined with another person and their fate. Yes, losing a patient is difficult no matter what, but there’s a difference between having dedicated yourself to a stranger for a few hours and having coaxed someone to trust you with their innermost thoughts and secrets, the very clockwork of their minds, familiarized yourself with their emotions and basest and most generous impulses for a period of years. I’m enough of a masochist to have a strong preference for the latter even though it takes a toll.

  The point is I shouldn’t be shushing Starla. I should be holding her. I can rock her, tell her I’m here, that she’s safe, but stop her? No. I want her tears to stop because the way my brain receives that message is that she’s in pain, but what if she’s not? I need to give her the space to do what she needs to do. Have emotions without making her feel as though I’m allergic to them, as though they scare me and she needs to keep them hidden because I can’t handle them or they disturb me. I only want her to stop hurting, and I need to let her tell me what hurts before I make another move.

  In the meantime, I will disentangle us as quickly as possible so I can cradle her, wrap my limbs around her and lend her the warmth and shelter of my body, and try to be a port in the storm, something solid to cling to as her emotions swirl around her.

  It’s maybe unfair of me, and definitely not something I would say to her, but it’s a relief in some ways to feel her quaking in my arms, the maelstrom of feelings overwhelming her. The scariest times with Starla, the times I was most terrified I was going to lose her, were when she would come sit in my office, her beautiful face blank, staring off into nothing because it was as worthwhile to look at as anything else. She’s most certainly not numb now, and even as most of me is fretting over her and fighting the urge to ask how I can fix this, I allow myself a small drip of pleasure that she feels. Deeply.

  Eventually her tears and her breathing slow, and while she’s still clinging to me, her nails aren’t digging into my skin. Her keening’s died down to an occasional hiccup and humming whines. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that she’ll fall asleep and we’ll talk about this when she wakes. I’ll hold her until morning if I have to, but I’m human and, though I’ve learned well to hide it, impatient.

  When she pulls away, there’s a beat of panic until she offers me a tear-streaked smile. “Need tissues. I’m so gross. Like the definition of ugly cry.”

  I suppose it’s true her eyes are swollen and red, and her skin is splotchy, but… “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”

  It takes her a few minutes to wipe her eyes, her cheeks, her chin. Blow her nose and push the hair that’s gotten stuck to her forehead out of the way. And then she looks sheepish. Like she wants to hide. She’s not going to hide from me.

  “Starla.”

  “Mmm?”

  She blinks at me, and I want to laugh. Is she really going to pretend she didn’t bawl her eyes out for the past twenty minutes? Not on my watch, absolutely not.

  “Can you talk to me? Tell me what that was about?”

  I’m not trying to play shrink, but there are some things that can’t be helped.

  She studies the tissue crumpled between her fingers and I let her have the silence, hopefully give her the space to say what she wants to say.

  “That…that was incredible. Really. And I’m not upset with you, at all.”

  A good start. Maybe?

  “But it was really…” Her brows crunch together and she frowns at the tissue as though it’s offended her. “It was really intense. Like, I’ve done daddy stuff before with partners. Being little isn’t…it’s not new to me. I didn’t get thrown into the deep end of the pool without water wings, you know?”

  I nod to acknowledge her but not interrupt.

  “But I kind of felt like I was drowning anyway.”

  Oof, punch to the gut, and it must show on my face because she backpedals. “No, no. Not in a bad way. I think it was terrifying because it was so good and it felt so right and it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever done in my life and…it was with you. It’s edgy to be with you like that, more than it is with other people.”

  Drowning, terrifying, edgy. Those aren’t words a man usually likes to hear associated with his sexual performance. Although I’m sure there are people out there for whom that would be a point of pride. But those aren’t the only words she said. Incredible, intense, so good, so right, sexiest thing she’s ever done in her life. That helps to balance the scales a bit, and if this is what’s going on in her head, no wonder she cried. That’s a damn lot.

  “It’s… Can I tell you something and you won’t regret this?”

  I don’t like making promises, but there are very few things—I can think of less than a handful—that could ever make me regret what we’ve done.

  “You can tell me anything you like. I hope you will.”

  She closes her eyes and punctuates her discomfort with a breath blown hard out of her nose before looking up at me.

  “This is so embarrassing. And I don’t want to gross you out.”

  I shrug because there’s not much that can shock or appall me. “I doubt very much that it will bother me at all. And as for you being embarrassed, I hope I’ve never made you feel that way. I’ve certainly never meant to.”

  It has been my mission since the day I met her to always leave her feeling better when she’s left me than when she arrived. Or at the very least, no worse. It wasn’t always easy because she was dealing with some heavy stuff and sometimes therapy means feeling worse before you can feel better, but whether I succeeded or not, I did always try. No matter what her confession is, I won’t make her feel abandoned. If nothing else, I will always show up.

  * * *

  Starla

  Will there ever be a time when I don’t feel like I am one step away from losing everything? Probably not. I’m wired to feel insecure. To feel as though whatever I have, I don’t deserve, so it wouldn’t be surprising if someone yanked it all away. I wouldn’t even be able to argue. Except when I do the math, it makes sense why I can feel this as more of a real possibility. I’m a little over a week away from my next ECT and this is when the depression starts creeping up for real, the whispers grow louder in my ears. It never gets nearly as bad as it was at its worst, but I can feel it. It’s not real. My brain likes to lie, isn’t that great?

  What is truly great, though, is that I am snuggled against Lowry and he’s holding me as close as I ever dreamed he would. He never did embarrass me. Which is not to say that I was never embarrassed in front of him, because I was—frequently, wildly—but it wasn’t because of anything he’d done. I can at least try to explain why I had a major fucking meltdown just now.

  “I, um…”

  I can’t look at him while I say this. Instead, I tuck myself under his chi
n and curl my fingers against his chest. And heaven love the man, he holds me tighter.

  “When I was your patient…” Oh, so much vomit, so much. “I…I had the biggest crush on you.”

  He kisses the top of my head and cradles the back of my neck in his hand, stroking my hair.

  “That’s not unusual, Star. It happens to a lot of people. Adults too. It’s almost hard not to when there’s someone you feel is so invested in your well-being, who genuinely cares for you.”

  “Yeah, well, I never felt that way about Doctor Gendron. Still don’t.”

  He snorts and it makes me feel a little better, makes it a bit easier to continue.

  “It felt different to me, though. Like, I had minor crushes on boys I went to school with, even dated some of them.” His frame goes rigid, probably remembering Milo, but this isn’t about him. I don’t even know where he is now. I could probably find out but I don’t think I want to know. “But you were the one consistent thing. It didn’t feel shallow to me, it wasn’t passing. I knew it wasn’t okay and I didn’t want you or anyone else to know, partly because I was afraid Doctor Gendron or my father would’ve taken you away from me if they did. But I…”

  When I think back on those years—the ones where I was walking closest to the edge, the ones where I wasn’t certain if I was going to make it to college and wasn’t sure I wanted to because what did it matter anyway and why did I deserve to take up any space at all, especially so goddamn much of it—there are very few things I remember fondly, and Lowry is one of them.

  “I think even then I loved you. I don’t say that lightly. Whether you knew it or not, I thought about you all the time. Thinking about disappointing you was one of the things that kept me from, well…”

  I thought about killing myself far more frequently than I actually tried, which he knows, but I don’t think he realizes exactly how powerful he was as a motivation for me to not. “It sounds over the top, I know, and maybe I’m being melodramatic, but you of all people know emotion isn’t always logical and—”

  “Starla. Can you look at me? Or is it not safe yet?”

  It doesn’t feel safe, not at all, because I’ve basically vomited my soul all over him and I’m not sure how he feels about that, but at the same time it seems like such a small, simple thing in exchange for everything I’ve forced him to bear.

  I peel myself far enough away from him that I can look at him as he asked. Kinda feels like I’m peeling my own skin off to do it, but it’s also kinda nice because he’s so goddamn handsome and he looks at me so kindly.

  “It’s not gross and I don’t think you should be embarrassed. I knew you had feelings for me, before. It didn’t offend me, and you never behaved inappropriately, never made me uncomfortable. It’s nothing you need to feel badly about, for any reason. You did absolutely nothing wrong and you needn’t worry on my account.”

  It’s a relief to hear him say that. And while it would be wrong and it would be inappropriate, a part of me aches for him to confess that he’d felt the same for me. Such a selfish wish, and one that I don’t dare voice because I’ve asked him for far too much already. I remember the last time I asked for too much—he left. I won’t let that happen again. I’ll take what I’ve been given and be grateful for it, because it’s 98 percent of everything I’ve ever wanted.

  “Okay.”

  “And hearing that makes me understand why—”

  “Why I’d have a complete and utter meltdown?”

  “That’s not what I was going to say and I don’t want you to think of it that way either. What I was going to say is that I could understand how this could be overwhelming and you’d need an outlet. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I wish you would believe me when I say I’m not afraid of any of your feelings and you don’t need to hide them from me. Course you don’t have to share everything with me either, you have a right to privacy, but I hope that’s why you’d not share something, because that’s your prerogative and not because you’re afraid of how I might feel about it.”

  God, he’s so earnest it kills me. And I try so hard not to wonder why I deserve a man like this and instead enjoy the fact that he seems to think I do.

  “Okay.”

  “I do think, though, that it’s late and you ought to get some sleep. You have clients tomorrow morning, aye?”

  “Yes, I do. But—”

  “No buts. We’ll have plenty of time to talk more later. Do you have plans for tomorrow night already? If you don’t, I’ll pick up some takeout and be over at seven thirty.”

  “I don’t.”

  Holden had texted earlier because his breakup didn’t go quite as planned with Ben, and apparently he and Ben and Anna are all meeting up tomorrow night? Kids these days, I don’t even know. But let’s be real, even if Holden hadn’t ditched me for a potential threesome, I would cancel with him because there’s pretty much nothing I’d rather do than eat some lo mein with my daddy.

  “It’s settled, then. And it’s entirely up to you, I don’t want to be a bother or disturb, but if it’s not too much, I’d like to spend the night with you. I’ll have to get up early to head back to my place, but…”

  Is he worried? Does he seriously believe there is any possibility of me being like Nah, check you later? It seems from the way he’s regarding me with a smidge of tightness around his eyes, around his full mouth that yes, he is, and yes, he does.

  “I’d like it very much if you stayed.”

  And to prove my point, I cuddle in closer and lock my arm around him. I like the gentle way he huffs a laugh, and the way he uses his arm to gather me still closer, and most of all the way he murmurs into my hair.

  “I’m glad. The night’s a better place with my Star.”

  Chapter 20

  Lowry

  It was more than difficult to climb out of Starla’s bed this morning and head home, and she was all I could think of on my way into work. All I could think of from my car to my office. I may not have an overflow of emotions like Starla did last night, but it sure does feel like a dream to me.

  Now I’m on my way up in the elevator in her building, this time with a sack full of Chinese food instead of yesterday’s props of saltines and Gatorade. My God, does that feel like forever ago.

  When I rap on her door, my heart stops because I hope I haven’t hallucinated this whole thing. Haven’t dreamed that Starla is mine now, that I’ve finally had her—and if I’m a very lucky man, will continue to have her—in all the ways I’ve always fantasized about.

  But when she opens the door, it’s with a great big gorgeous smile which renders anything else invisible except for her clothes. A bright pink tutu with a ribbon hem and bow at the waist, and a black and white T-shirt that proclaims “Don’t Mess With the Princess” below a picture of Princess Leia. Jesus Christ.

  Will she find me presumptuous if I step over her threshold, drop our food to the ground, and take her in my arms to kiss? My God, I hope not because I can’t possibly do anything else.

  My sweet girl goes on tiptoes and throws her arms round my neck, returning my kiss full force, and I could get swept up in her again, much the way I did last night. Except I’m not going to make her not eating dinner a habit. I am, after all, supposed to look after her. But I’m not going to turn her away, not now, not yet, especially given that I know how she frets. I hope she hasn’t been fretting about me.

  When we come up for air, she looks at me, suddenly shy, though she doesn’t let me go.

  “Hi.”

  Though I’d desperately like for her to say “Hi, Daddy,” I understand why she might not. Perhaps she has the same concern that yesterday was all a fantasy. Or even parts of it. Why would she risk that? But I will. For her, though my stomach still clenches as I say the words.

  “Hello, little girl. I’m awfully glad to see you.”

  And in that instant she’s transformed. Her cheeks flush, she blinks bashfully, and dips her head. Absolutely darling.

  Her “me to
o, Daddy,” is practically a whisper, but she may as well have shouted it for how my body reacts, primed all day and now raring to go for her. Christ, this is what makes me want to set upon her, forget to feed her, strip her bare, and make her come over and over and over. So I kiss her more, grab her bottom and knead her flesh, groan into her hot, wet, willing mouth when she hitches her leg around me because God almighty, this woman.

  When at last I can breathe again, I unhook her leg from around me and withstand her mighty pout.

  “You, little miss, need to eat dinner. And I’m not going to be the irresponsible daddy who keeps you from it. So we’ll behave for a bit, you’ll tell me about your day, and then I have intentions where you’re concerned.”

  “I hope you intend to fuck me into next week.”

  Such filthy words coming out of such a sweet mouth, I nearly perish.

  “What a naughty little thing,” I say, circling a hand around her wrist and leading her over to the couch where we sat and ate off the coffee table when she’d been injured. She’s better now, though I noticed last night some of the bruises linger in the form of yellowed skin. “Now sit and eat your dinner or you’ll get nothing at all.”

  I don’t mind the scowl she delivers from her seat kitty-corner to mine. I know I can’t sit next to her and control myself, so for now, I’ll be over here. From the takeout bag, I dig out our food and hand her some beef lo mein, which I happen to know is her favorite because she’s mentioned it before, and a pair of chopsticks because I’ve seen her devour immense amounts of sushi with them—the woman’s got skills.