by Amy Brent
“Not so fast,” Ava said. “Stand and talk.”
“I can’t. I’m running behind,” I said.
“Just five minutes. Your boss hasn’t walked in yet. He won’t know,” she said.
“Ava.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
My mind swirled with that question. I knew he wouldn’t recognize me, and somehow that just made me more furious. I felt my neck turning red as I thought about how I’d felt about him. How my grief had pushed me into the arms of my late husband. How Brandon had ripped from me the love I wanted only to drive me into the arms of a different kind of love that was eventually ripped from me too. Tears of anger crested my eyelids and Ava’s hand came down onto my forearm. I turned my misty gaze toward her as I drew in a shaky breath.
“I’m feeling so many things,” I said.
“Then put this ex business out of your mind. It didn’t work, and that happens. We all have that guy that got away. Even I do, but we can talk about that later. Right now, I think you need to start with talking about Carl,” she said.
“I don’t think I can talk about my husband with him.”
“But you have to. Because honestly, Melissa, I don’t think you ever coped with it.”
I closed my eyes as I heard the crunching of the metal. I could remember the horn of the truck blaring as Carl raced through the yellow light. Had I not taken so long to get ready. Had I just stuck with the first outfit I’d tried on.
Had we gone to see a different movie.
“Start with that and see how you feel,” Ava said, “and after this session, if it still feels weird, just call and get another psychiatrist. This is for you, not for your past but for your ability to progress forward with your daughter.”
“I can do that,” I said as I swallowed hard.
“You have to do that,” she said.
Even with the talk I had with Ava, I was still counting the seconds. The moment three thirty ticked over on my laptop, my boss came knocking on my door. He wanted to make sure I didn’t forget my appointment. I packed up and trudged down to my car, getting one last hug from Ava before I headed to the doctor’s office. I had the paperwork in a little file I was going to take in with me, and with every step I took, I grew more and more nervous.
Then, the moment finally came. The front desk attendant took my paperwork and looked it over before telling me I could go back. I walked through the door and slowly started down the hallway, reading all the names on the doors.
Robert Flanagan, Michael Smith, David Coxway.
Then finally, I came to the door with his name written on it.
I knocked on the door and heard him say to come in. It sounded just as I remembered it, a bit deeper and a little raspier maybe, but it was still that same rich voice that had murmured beautiful things deep in my ear when I was nothing but a goofy, sheltered teenager in love.
My trembling hand descended onto the doorknob as I turned to open the door, and the moment I opened it, I watched his reaction. His eyes rose from a notepad on his lap, but the moment his eyes caught mine, I saw the flash of recognition that sent shivers down my spine.
“Melissa?” he asked.
He did remember me.
Holy shit, Brandon Black remembered me.
I nodded my head, and he stood to his feet. He came over to the door and looked down at me heavily, removing the door from my hand as he ushered me into the room. I heard the door close behind me as I went to sit on a couch in front of his chair, but I was shocked when he sat on the other end of the couch instead of back in his seat.
“I didn’t think you would remember me,” I said lightly.
“I could never forget you, Melissa,” he said.
“It was easy for you to do in college.”
I could tell my words had hit him hard. He visibly winced, and I knew it was something I probably shouldn’t have said. I promised Ava that I wouldn’t talk about that, that I would address something both of us knew I hadn’t coped with yet.
The first of many layers that needed to be peeled back.
I felt my stomach jumping with butterflies. His eyes were still the bright blue I remembered them being, and all of the memories came flooding back to me at once. I watched him reach for his notepad as he began to write something in it, and as my eyes raked over his body, I could see just how much he’d changed. There were muscles pulling at the fabric of his shirt that hadn’t been there before. There was a distance in his eyes that somehow seemed to pull me in as his eyes fluttered over his notepad. His hair was dark and longer than I remembered. Slicked back and shining, just like his skin.
His beautifully tanned skin looked as soft as the day I’d raked my fingertips down it.
“Your doctor sent over your file,” he said as he looked up at me, “and while I have some theories as to what might be going on, I’d like to talk with you a little more in depth about what you’re experiencing.”
“Sounds fair enough,” I said.
“It says here you don’t sleep well. What causes the sleeplessness?” he asked.
“Um, I don’t know. Sometimes nightmares. Sometimes I just wake up crying. Sometimes I think I hear Sarah crying in the other room, but she’s not.”
“Sarah?” he asked as he wrote.
“My three-year-old daughter.”
I saw his eyes flicker up to mine, and I could’ve sworn I saw a bit of understanding in them. There was a great deal of concern etched on his face, like he was actually worried about me. But I shrugged it off. It was his job to worry about his clients.
I couldn’t read into this more than I already was.
“What are the nightmares about?” I asked.
“The car accident. The night I lost my husband.”
And again, his eyes shot up to me.
“Melissa, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. It happened a couple of years ago. It’s not something that’s fresh,” I said.
“It’s fresh enough to cause you nightmares that jolt you from a dead sleep. Talk to me about them.”
I looked at him warily as my hands began to tangle in the excess of my blouse. My mind began to whirl with sights and sounds. Smells and reactions. I felt my skin tingle as my gaze glanced over his shoulder, and I wasn’t even aware I was crying until Brandon pushed a tissue into the palm of my hand.
His skin brushed against mine, and I drew in a heated breath to try and keep my composure.
“It’s usually the crunch of the metal that wakes me up. There’s a blaring horn, the scraping of metal, and then me calling out for Carl.”
“Your late husband,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You were in the car with him during the accident?” he asked.
“Yes. We were on our way to a movie. Our first actual date after having Sarah,” I said.
“You carry guilt, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said as I stared out the window.
“Why?”
“Because we were late. He ran the yellow light because we were behind. I took too long in the shower. Putting on my makeup. I kept changing outfits. I wanted things to be perfect. Like they were before we had Sarah.”
“Were you having problems after having your daughter?” he asked.
“It took me a long time to recuperate from my C-section. Our intimate life had taken a nosedive, and I was exhausted. I put on a bit of weight, and we fought more. His parents took Sarah, so we could have a weekend to ourselves, just the two of us again. I wanted it to be perfect. If I would’ve just fucking stuck with the first outfit …”
I drew my eyes back to him before I dropped my gaze to my lap. My blouse was sprinkled with tears I didn’t even realize I was crying, and I had to keep my gaze away from Brandon. If I looked at him, even for a second, all I would want to do was throw myself into his lap and sob.
He stared at me for a while as I gathered myself, and then his beautiful voice hit my ears again.
&nbs
p; “It’s not your fault. What happened.”
“Yes, it is. Had we not been late, he wouldn’t have felt the need to run the yellow light,” I said.
“If you really want to place blame, it’s a bit his fault. But it’s also the oncoming car’s fault. Even if the light were yellow, his was still red. Carl was trying to make the light, yes. But that driver was breaking the law. That driver is to blame. Not you,” he said.
I was tearing the tissue into little squares as I littered his couch with them. He pressed another one into my hand as I ran out of things to tear, and I felt the warmth of his touch against my skin again. I wondered if he knew what he was doing to me, what he still did to me. I wondered if he felt the way I still did or struggled the way I still did. Did he crave me the way I still apparently craved him?
“Anyway, that’s that,” I said as I drew in a long breath.
“It says here you’re taking things to try and help you sleep. Doesn’t sound like many of those are working,” he said.
“Not really, though sometimes I forget to take them,” I said.
“There’s a question I want to ask that your general physician didn’t,” he said.
“All right. Ask away,” I said.
“Are you having suicidal thoughts?”
“No. Not for a second,” I said.
“You have to be honest with me, Melissa. I can’t help you if you’re not,” he said.
“I have thoughts about falling asleep and not waking up, just sleeping until my body finally repairs itself. Waking up better. Not hurting so much. Waiting until my joints no longer swell and creak with every movement I make. Wake up when the sun is brighter and colors are more vibrant. I want to wake up but after the hard part is done.”
“You’re tired,” he said.
“So very tired,” I whispered.
I sank back into his couch as I simply stared in my lap. For the first time in years, I felt oddly relaxed. I simply sat there and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to go wherever it wanted. I saw Carl on our wedding day as I walked down the aisle. I saw the OR as I listened to Sarah cry for the first time. I listened to my parents yelling at me as I packed my bags and headed off to college, screaming that I’d never be welcomed back if I left.
I saw Brandon’s eyes, gazing down onto my body as he sank his cock into me.
And when I opened my eyes, I was met with the exact same loving stare I’d memorized all those years ago.
“I’d like you to make another appointment with me. Same time next week. Can you do that?” he asked.
“I can, sure. What do you think about my doctor’s original thoughts? Did I do all right?”
“You did perfectly, Melissa,” he said, smiling. “I don’t have a formal diagnosis yet, but we’re slowly getting there. I want you to do something for me, though, if you can.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Don’t take your sleeping medication this week,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Sometimes switching medications quicker than you should can cause adverse reactions. I want all of the medication out of your system the next time I see you. We’ll touch on some topics that seem to trigger emotion, and I want to see that emotion untempered by narcotics,” he said.
“What if I struggle to sleep?” I asked. “I have a job and Sarah.”
“Chamomile tea with a bit of honey. Diffuse some lavender into your room. I know it sounds hokey, but it’ll work. And if you struggle a great deal, call my office and leave a message. There’s a regular voicemail and an urgent one. Choose the urgent one and leave me a message. It shoots straight to my phone, and I’ll get back to you immediately.”
“Thanks, Bran—I mean, Dr. Black,” I said.
“You can call me Brandon. All my patients do eventually,” he said.
I smiled. For the first time in months, I actually smiled. It might not have reached my eyes, but I felt its impact in my chest. It felt warm. Good. Like a small beam of light trickling down into a prison of thick black darkness.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
“Same time next week,” I said.
Chapter 7
Brandon
I couldn’t believe it was actually her. As I sat there, watching her stare blankly over my shoulder, I knew she was depressed. There was a good chance she had undiagnosed postpartum depression, but I wouldn’t know until I asked her about how her recuperation from her cesarean section had gone. She said it had been rough but didn’t say anything else about it. The guilt she held onto from the crash suggested a bit of PTSD as well.
I wouldn’t know until we talked more, and I was relieved when she made another appointment with me.
Honestly, I never expected to see her again, but I recognized her the moment she walked into my office. Her hair was just as long and just as thick and just as dark as I remembered it. Part of me wanted to reach out and caress it. Run my fingers through it if only to regale myself with memories. Her eyes were the same, but they didn’t house the innocence and zest for life I remembered. It was like someone blew the candle out behind them, and her blank stares tugged at my heart.
Her skin was paler as well. That was a common phenomenon with people who were depressed. Coupled with her aching joints and that she wasn’t even aware she’d been crying, depression was very much playing a role in what was happening to her. My stomach lurched for her. I wanted to hold her and cry along with her. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was from the moment she made that first dig at me.
She needed to let out the anger she obviously still had toward me, but we had to peel back some layers first.
I had to get her diagnosed first.
“Knock, knock,” Michael said.
“Hey there. Just finishing up some paperwork,” I said.
“You up for a drink?” he asked.
“Fuck yes. Let me sign off on this last thing. All right. Let’s go,” I said.
I followed Michael to our local bar and slid into the booth. We were there so often the bartenders knew our orders by heart. Two beers slid in front of us as I sighed and leaned back, and Michael automatically started in on the questions.
“It’s the new girl, isn’t it?” he asked.
“We can’t talk about her file, remember?”
“Not asking you how it went. I’m asking you how it made you feel,” he said.
“Nostalgic.”
“Nostalgic? Wait, do you know her?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I definitely know Melissa.”
“How?”
“She’s the one who got away.”
I saw Michael set his beer down as his eyes began studying me. I chugged my beer and waved it in the air, letting the bartender know I’d need another one, and all the while, Michael continued to study me. Another beer was set in front of me, and I thanked the hand that gave it to me, picked it up, and put it to my lips.
“Do you still love her?” Michael asked.
“I don’t have that right, not after what I did to her,” I said.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I made her a promise to come back for her after college, and I married that Russian woman instead.”
“Oh, shit. Melissa’s that girl. Why the hell did you agree to marry that Russian woman anyway?” he asked.
“Her father was at the university teaching a one-off semester of Russian. They wanted to test run the language to see if the student body was interested,” I said.
“You wanted to learn Russian?” he asked.
“They have the highest rates of depression than any other nation on this planet. If I ever branched out internationally, at the time, I figured I’d go to Russia to do it.”
“Yikes. All right. So you took the class and …?”
“I stuck around to pick his brain about what Russia was like. You know, get the knowledge from a local. We went and got a drink, and we started talking about how he hoped the program would take off so he could get his da
ughter to the States. The drunker we got, the more the conversation morphed, and before I knew it, I was agreeing to being paid an exorbitant amount of money to marry his daughter to get her the citizenship he wanted her to have.”
“Holy shit, dude. That’s where you got the money to build your headquarters, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I invested it and let it sit until I was ready to build my business. Then yes, that’s what I used,” I said. “I figured it would only be for a year or two. Plenty enough time to divorce and get her settled in the States before I went back for Melissa.”