I won’t say that, because you don’t recite poetry right off to your client’s father, even if he has a wall of poetry books behind his desk, but I do want him to understand how much I care. I pause. “Each minute matters. I hope all of the time I spend with Michael will add up into a faster glide into recovery. I’m just one part of his overall recovery. You’re huge. He’s the biggest part himself. But I want to do everything I can to contribute.”
He sucks in a breath and his eyes darken, like a storm on the sea. We stare at each other. I can see his chest moving as he breathes, and the feeling of utter eroticism is back. Not that talking about Michael is sexy; it’s not. But the intimacy of being in this room, across from this man, talking about the thing that matters most in the world to him, and what matters more to me each day—that is the erotic part. The way we’re connected on a level so much deeper than your ordinary conversations; the way our words have such impact, such meaning. This is the opposite of trivial. And yes, I’m mesmerized by his eyes, his lips, his arms. But it’s more than that. I’m connecting with his mind.
“So?” He looks at me, his green eyes direct. “What’s wrong, then, that made you come in here to talk to me especially?”
“He needs you to need him.” I put the words out there, between us. They sit, hard, and we both observe them.
“What do you mean?” He puts down the pen. His tone is cooler.
“He needs to feel necessary. He needs to know that you’d—die, without him.” The words are raw, and he flinches.
“I do need him. How the hell would I not need him? He’s my son. He’s everything.” His voice doesn’t rise, but the tone chills with each word.
“But he needs to feel it, viscerally.”
“Are you saying I need to hug him more often?” His voice is arctic now. He stands up, paces to the window. “Shai, I hired you to help my son assimilate back into everyday life and to get over his morbid preoccupations. I didn’t ask for feel-good New Age Dr. Phil.”
I swallow. “More hugs, yes, Gabriel. Even if he does that thing where he nudges you with his shoulder and makes that annoyed noise. Like a mature dog nudging away an aggressively affectionate puppy.”
Gabriel snorts out a laugh. “That’s it, Shai. That’s exactly what he does!” He sounds excited that I recognize it, and he comes toward me, warmth again in his eyes. “You nailed it.”
I smile back. “I’ve seen him do that to you a lot. But I think he likes it anyway. He needs it. I’ve noticed that when you give him more affection, yeah, he’s irritated. But then he sort of—softens, you know? It’s like the hugs unlock something and allow him to express more emotions. I’m not saying, like, ten million hugs every hour, on the hour. But once a day. Although it’s not even hugs I wanted to talk about.” I clear my throat.
The happiness drains from his face. “What, then.” He crosses his arms.
“I’m talking more about emotional openness. Mental meeting, not physical.”
“Such as.”
“First of all, ease his fears. He said he overheard Arielle asking someone about boarding schools for kids. He wonders.” I feel a sick sense of pleasure for tattling on Arielle, even though I’m only bringing it up because it’s essential for Michael’s progress. “He wonders if you’re going to marry her and send him away. It would be a good idea to ease his mind, let him know that you’d never send him anywhere.” I hesitate. “You’re not planning that… right?”
His whole body clenches. “Fuck, I’m not sending him away. Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m sure she was not talking about him. We’re not even at the stage—no. There’s nothing like that planned, and I’d never.”
“He needs to know that for sure. I’d suggest bringing it up and telling him you’d never send him anywhere. I think it’s on his mind.”
“If you think I need to, then I will.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t know what to say, sometimes.” He looks directly at me. “What else should I say?”
“Tell him what he means to you, in words. For example, something like…” I nod. “Michael, I like that little smirk smile you do because it reminds me of your mother and how we liked to laugh together. I love laughing with you, too. That smile lets me know that you think something is genuinely funny. That’s something I loved about your mother, and I love it about you, too, that you have that great laugh.”
“You don’t know anything about my wife,” he says, his voice tense. “Or her smiles.” His eyes dart to a picture of their family on the wall. I can tell it’s a few years old, because Michael is smaller there, with a full head of hair. Smiles all around, wind-tossed smiles, on the beach. His wife is pretty, with olive skin and black hair.
“No, I don’t.” I keep my patience. “And I don’t think Michael does, either. But you do. That was just an example. I made that up. Of course, you’d say something real, Gabriel. Okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry I snapped.” His voice is formal. I look at that picture again, wondering if he feels sadness when he looks at it because he’s lost his wife, or the boy Michael used to be. Both, probably.
“So here’s another possibility. Another made-up one. Michael. When I come home from work and see you here, working on your math, I get happy just to be together. Seeing you is the best part of my day.”
“That’s sappy and overdone. He’d hate it.” Gabriel turns his back and talks to the window. “I don’t speak like that, and he knows it.”
Frustration bubbles up in me. “So talk like you talk, then, but say something meaningful to him. It’s the verbal equivalent of buying flowers for a girl you like. It’s his… love language.”
“His love language?” Gabriel scoffs and turns to face me. “He’s too young for that kind of love.”
“Nobody’s too young for love.” I touch my scar. “Not romantic love. Just—love. Affection. He’s starved for it, and he’s the one who starved himself. He was so upset and scared about the cancer that he turned off that part of his heart. I think you turned off, too. Now I know this is hard to hear, and harder to do, but you need to turn your heart back on, and that will be the key to reawakening his.”
I shudder a little bit, because even though I believe my words, I can hear the unfortunate similarity to Dr. Phil. I wait for it, tense, fisting my fingers beside my thighs, but he surprises me.
“Oh, Shai,” he says, and I hear something in his voice that I’ve never heard. When I look at him, to my surprise and shock, he’s crying. He suddenly comes and tugs me into his arms for a fierce hug, and I tense up, then wrap my arms around him, too.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s going to be all right.”
I’ve never been this close to him before, and it’s exhilarating, even though I came to comfort. His arms are hard with muscle, and his back is flat and taut. He smells like cologne, faint, and his own male essence, and his breath is coffee. Being in his arms is better than I’ve dreamed.
He’s bent his head down to mine and his arms are around me, too, holding tightly. I feel his fingers splay out across my back, and a weird part of my brain is relieved and excited that I wore my best bra, the lacey one, because—well, because. I suck in a breath. His mouth is right by my neck and I can feel the warmth of his lips, and when he speaks, the reverberations tickle my skin in a good way.
“Shai, I’m scared,” he tells me. “Every single fucking time I look at him, I feel this incredible rush of love that’s so powerful, it terrifies me. Because I can’t lose him. If I lose him, I’m going to fucking fall apart, and I’ll never come back together, and I can’t let him see that.”
“I know,” I tell him, and I feel my eyes well. “But he already knows it, Gabriel. Just because you never said it? He still knows you’re scared. And he’s scared, too. It’s okay to tell him. It will make it better. Just—talk to him. Tell him you’re insane with worry because you love him so much, but that you’ll always love him no matter what. You don’t care if he goes back to school o
r fails his essays. Even if he dies, you’ll still love him, forever. That it’s okay to be… him. To be Michael. Just tell him all of it.”
“How can I say all that without looking like a weak idiot?” His voice catches.
“Oh, Gabriel.” I touch his cheek, and press, looking into his eyes. “Saying all of that won’t make you weak. It will make you strong. This is a kid who’s had honest talks about radiation burns and poisonous chemicals. He’s seen things in the hospital that would send most adults running for their whiskey and Xanax, you know? He can handle it. Talking about this will build the bond between you. Sometimes, when you bring the ugly monsters out into the open? They pop and go away, like soap bubbles. Gone.”
He nods, meeting my gaze. “Okay. Okay, Shai. Okay.”
I smile, a tremulous movement of my lips. “Okay, then.”
The moment stretches out, infinite, and he uses his thumb to stroke away a tear from my cheek. His touch is gentle and warm, and he lets his finger linger, drawing it down my cheek. “Don’t cry, Shai,” he whispers, a rough, ragged sound. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I laugh. “Gabriel.” But my breath hitches when he puts his hand on my neck, not tightly, just resting there, and then runs the back of his other hand down my cheek, picking up more tears, and then winds his fingers through my hair at the back of my head.
“Shai?” His expression isn’t sad anymore. I recognize desire when I see it—it’s something I’ve gazed at often enough in the mirror. “Yes?” He raises one eyebrow.
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Perfect Match Page 29