by Bella Grant
“Fiona, you look…amazing. Like you always do, of course. This is your going home outfit, am I right?” The lightness in his voice was back, though his appearance still bothered me.
“It’s not for going home… it’s for you,” I confessed and played with the hem of my dress. He walked over to me and tilted my head up by my chin.
“I love it,” he said before kissing me softly, something he hadn’t done since the evening in his office. I melted into his kiss and wrapped my arms around his neck for more, but I felt the hesitation in his body as his hands held nervously onto my hips.
“It’s okay. I missed this,” I said against his lips, my attempt to soothe his concerns. He nodded, and the kisses grew longer, harder, and heavier. My hands were in his hair, and his hands were reaching for my backside when he stopped us.
“Fiona, we have business to get to. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t….”
“Shh, it’s okay. Say no more,” I assured him and put a finger to his lips, which he kissed. As much as I wanted to continue, there were more important matters to discuss and I wouldn’t pout about it, not after the way he kissed me. Once we were untangled from one another, we sat on the couch together. Crossing his legs, he picked up a pile of papers and settled them into his lap. His pen clicked in his right hand.
“Now then, let’s talk about your discharge…”
Chapter 15
Two weeks came and went since our night spent together, and the images continued to haunt me. The memory of how her lips felt against mine and how her skin pinked simply at my touch. The yellow dress and how it looked on and off her. How perfectly her breasts felt in my hands and the softness of her thighs as I held them in place. The way her skin tasted, and how her hair stuck to her flushed face. Every damn sound she made still rang in my ear. Her laugh, her voice, whether she was sad or happy. Her sobs, her whimpers, and the way she moaned my name, like a prayer.
It was all still in the forefront of my mind, even after her discharge a week ago. Even after I pulled away from her kisses. I remembered how her face had fallen when I told her the news of her outpatient treatment plan on her discharge day.
“So you’re not staying on as my therapist?” she asked, and I heard the quiver in her voice.
“No. I will see you on a psychiatric basis from here on out. I will be the one prescribing your mild anti-depressants and following up with you to see how the medications are working and their levels in your bloodstream. I highly recommend Dr. Rebecca Anderson as your outpatient therapist and wrote her contact information down on your plan. She specializes in grievance counseling, so I think she will be best for your progress.”
“May I ask why?” I didn’t miss the indication in her tone, knowing she wanted to know if this had anything to with what had transpired between us.
I set the clipboard down that was in my hands. “Of course. It’s because I usually don’t take on outpatient therapy patients. Just inpatient ones who need therapy during their stay here. We have a whole department regarding outpatient services and all patients are directed there. I am merely the first act of your journey but I usually remain a psychiatrist to quite a few of my patients to keep track of the medicine side,” I explained.
“When will I see you then?” she asked as she leaned into me while we sat on the couch. I sighed because I knew it would either go over very well or very badly.
“I’ll see you in two weeks to check on the progress of the new medication.” I couldn’t even look at her when I said it. I was such a coward, and she wasn’t having it. This could have been my chance to break our contract, to transfer her completely and to date her.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, barely above a whisper and then louder. “I can’t believe you. After everything you said. After everything you…you did for me. To me. You made me actually believe you really cared and weren’t like other men.” She stood up, her body shaking with her pent-up anger.
“Fiona, please calm down before Vickie hears you…”
“Let her hear me because you need to hear this. Josh, I thought you were different. If this was all an act to get me to sleep you, then I’m more of a fool than I realized it.”
“No, Fiona, it’s wasn’t an act, I really do care about you more than you’ll ever know.” I stood up to take her hands, to reassure her, but she whipped them away from me, her eyes seething with hurt.
“Then why are you practically pawning me off? Is it because you don’t want to see me? You said you usually don’t keep inpatients so why are you not keeping me?”
“No, it’s not that at all. Please believe me, I wish I could still see you every day. I want this just as much as you, but my job… you don’t understand the severity of this situation. If anyone caught wind, I’d be fired on the spot and would lose my physician’s license,” I assured her, attempting to keep my voice calm though my blood was boiling under my skin. “Please understand I can only keep you on this way okay? Or people will get suspicious if I suddenly take you on as a full-time patient when I haven’t done that in so long.”
“Then why, Josh? Why would you lead me on? Why would you sleep me with me? If I’m such a sore in your side, why?”
Because I’m falling in love with you. Because you are the most amazing woman I’ve met. Because…
My intercom buzzed, indicating our last session was over. My eyes were on hers as the tension wafted around our poised bodies, waiting for the other to give in or strike.
“Fiona, I…”
“Just forget it, Josh. I get it. Your job is more important. I don’t know why I thought I was somebody special to you. I’ll see you in two weeks…Doc.”
I reached for her, to pull her into my arms, to hold her once more because I was selfish and didn’t want this to end. The door clicked open, and the presence of Blaine made me drop my hand. Fiona shook her head before she glanced briefly at me, turned sharply on her heels, and walked right out of my grasp.
I didn’t expect for us to fight, nor did I expect the tightness in my chest that followed. I watched from my office window that overlooked the entrance of our facility and picked out the blonde who had threatened me on the first night—Lisa, who looked like she had come straight out of the psychedelic city of Haight-Ashbury wore a tie-dyed maxi dress with her long hair in dreads. Then there was Fiona, who ran and jumped on her friend and was swung around in response like long lost lovers. I laughed, but my laughter died when I watched Lisa swing an arm around Fiona and pick up her duffel bag for her. Fiona would most likely tell her everything and as they walked side by side out of my view, I clenched my fists knowing I’d fucked up any chance I could have had with her.
I was still kicking myself for my actions. As her psychiatrist, it was in my job description to put her well-being first and to do right by her, and every night since our passionate crimes, I was up late, both my heat and heart refusing sleep while I thought about what I should do. What the right thing was. Simply put, it was the first time a discharge day kept me up, and after our fight, I still wondered if I had made the right move.
I didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Not only as a patient but as a fixture in my life. She changed something inside me and brought it to life. It was that same something I saw in my sister’s eyes when she looked fondly at her husband or her kids. The same something my parents had between them before they divorced. The same something everyone around me had chased after since we were in our early twenties. Something I had ignored for a long time.
I had always envisioned once my career was smooth sailing and I had accomplished what I set out to do, I would focus on finding a wife and settling down. I didn’t want to be a bum like my father turned out to be. I had no idea what my mother saw in him, but she’d had that same look I’d seen Fiona give to me. A marriage and a family couldn’t be sustained on that feeling and look alone, though.
Eventually, the lack of a job would crush anything my parents had. My mom worked her ass off to put food on the table,
working night shifts at a local twenty-four-hour fifties-themed diner while my father did nothing and sat in the worn out green armchair in the living room and drank himself to a stupor. Eventually it wasn’t just the chair worn down, but also my mother, who had called it quits after seventeen years of marriage.
He wasn’t always jobless, though. He was in skill trades and used to work for a local movie studio on the construction of sets for TV shows and even some top money movies. His dream was to be a part of Hollywood as a director or producer himself. I had looked up to my father in those days. I still remembered when he would come home with the smell of fresh cut wood and metal that settled on his work jumpsuit. He would ruffle my hair and ask me if I had taken good care of my sister, Sarah. I nodded insistently.
He would call my sister, and we would both end up in his lap, hanging on to every word he said as he told us all sorts of stories of the glamorous set life.
“She did?” My sister’s eyes were as big as saucers as my dad told the story of an actress gone diva on the director.
“She did. Even told the director to go screw himself as she strutted off the set,” he replied and bounced his knee.
“Frank, what did I say about your language around the children?” my mother, Clara, yelled from the kitchen before she announced dinner was ready.
“Go wash up now.” He patted our butts, and we hopped off to the kitchen sink to fight over who went first.
I used to look forward to his stories every evening before dinner. The way he told them with such dramatic flair would have any young child wanting more. Eventually, we all saw behind his act, and our family would never be the same. It all came crashing down one night when I had woken up after a loud crash from downstairs that caused Sarah to rush into my room, scared. Together, with our toy flashlights in hand, we crept down the stairs and huddled together on the bottom step. Our knobby knees brushed against one another’s as we tried to calm our pounding hearts to hear what was going on.
Our parents were fighting in the kitchen. Something about my dad needing to get a real job and stop filling our heads with nonsense.
“The show is over, Frank. Get a hold of yourself before you let your children down like you did me. Don’t you see how they look up to you? You’re gonna hurt them if you keep this up,” she scolded him, her voice raised in volume.
I couldn’t hear my father’s reply, his voice low and mumbling while Mom didn’t care how loud she was. The next thing we knew, he stomped to the front door opposite the stairs, saying he was going for a drink.
I’ll never forget when his eyes flickered towards Sarah and me. His face had betrayed his raw emotions before he turned around and walked out. My mom was right. After that night, the spell had been broken, and my mom would later explain to us how our dad hadn’t worked for months and was putting on a show for us so we didn’t see through him and so he wouldn’t let us down. I resented my mom for a long time after all was said and done because I wanted to keep believing in my dad and told him I wouldn’t give up on him. Yet some men must admit defeat, and my father gave in to the bottle as he waved his white flag.
I vowed not to be like him and it was the driving force behind my medical schooling and the dream of becoming a psychiatrist. I wanted to help people before they got to the bottom of the bottle, like my father, and at the same time have a good job to provide for my own family one day. I wouldn’t be a burden like he was. I wouldn’t tolerate it.
I was twenty-nine going on thirty, and the only picture on my desk was of my nieces. My hopes of starting my own family had dissipated until I met Fiona and that hope came back in full force. I wanted it all with her. The dates, the laughs, the fights, sex, marriage, and eventually, kids. I wasn’t getting any younger, and whether I admitted it or not, I had reached my peak in my career at the hospital.
Yet there was still one more dream I hadn’t accomplished. The dream to one day have my own private practice. It was always there in the back of my mind, like an annoying buzz I couldn’t get rid of. When I’d accepted the job at Langley Porter, I was sucked into a hectic hurricane of a schedule where there was no room for dreams. It remained an annoying buzz until I recently started questioning my career after Fiona came into life.
Fiona was so young and had just begun healing from the biggest tragedy of her life, something a twenty-one-year-old shouldn’t have to go through as she figured out her own path in life. The plus side was Fiona was determined not to let it all drag her down anymore. She was driven, like me, and studied hard while she worked her way slowly up to owning her own non-profit one day. She had so much to look forward to and so much to pick back up and start anew that I didn’t want to get in the way of her potential.
Yet, at the same time, I did want to be there to see her through, to witness every step of the way, to cheer her on and support her in any way I could. I knew it wasn’t only the psychiatrist in me talking, either. No, I desired to be there for Fiona as Josh Sullivan—her boyfriend, her lover, and eventually, her husband. Even if a part me regretted the necessity, I knew my outpatient treatment plan for her would be the best thing for both of us. It would give us time to clear our heads and I also hoped that it would appease her as a patient. I didn’t let her go entirely because she had put so much trust in me as her doctor first and foremost and that was still imperative to her treatment for here on out. Hopefully she would give Dr. Anderson a chance and perhaps even understand why I did what I did. That is, if she ever forgave me. Still, I had hope.
Another day dragged on, and I found myself glancing at my phone more and more. I had given Fiona my personal cell number before our fight occurred. I told her it was in case she reacted badly to the medication, since it was something new compared to what she’d had in the hospital. I also gave it to her, hoping she would keep in touch, but never did say it out loud.
Since her discharge, I hadn’t heard from her, and what was worse was I didn’t have the guts to send a text myself. To apologize and make things right between us. I had tried multiple times in the past week, but every draft of a text would end up backspaced and deleted. I couldn’t find the right words. Then, once I did, I was interrupted by my work phone or by Vickie announcing a patient, my caseload doubling in new patients in a week, and my focus was forced back to what was in front of me.
I struggled, though. Struggled to focus on my patients, on myself, and on my growing pile of paperwork. Everything in my office reminded me of Fiona, and from time to time, I inhaled the hint of jasmine and rose petals in the air. Vickie even picked up on my distracted mind and suggested maybe I take a vacation. Yeah, right. Then people would definitely know something was up. I never took a vacation and allowed all my paid time off to roll over, year after year. I had well over three months of paid time off now, and though it sounded tempting, a stronger urge pulsed through my head.
The sudden urge to quit. The need to throw in the towel, leave my job at the hospital, and start something new. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, Fiona had rocked my world right off its axel. She had shaken me to my core and had me questioning whether I was truly happy overworking myself to the point that I barely had any friends or family outside of these walls. It was an itch that I avoided scratching until the possible woman of my dreams was sitting right in front of me and now I wanted to scratch until I bled.
I twirled my pen between my fingers and glanced at the clock. It was 9:30 at night, and I had a massive pile of files ready for dictation in front of me. I glanced at my phone. The twinge of hope that she would contact me hit me almost every hour. Hoping she would give me a window of opportunity to apologize. My phone screen displayed zero notifications, so I put it in my drawer and slammed it shut. I tried again to focus on the task at hand.
I gulped in a deep breath before I pressed the space bar to bring my computer back to life. I needed to make my mind up soon before the consequences started piling up as well and we would both drown.
Chapter 16
I got used to
the coolness of the bathroom tile on the side of my face. Something I didn’t necessarily want to get used to, but since the flu had shown up at my doorstep yesterday, the constant need to vomit wore me out. The energy to drag myself back into my bed was long gone, so I remained laying on the floor, my body curled around the toilet, the bathroom rug bunched up under my torso. The one thing that kept me conscious and stable was my cheek pressed against the tile. I didn’t feel nauseated thanks to the sensation.
I hadn’t been sick like this since I was a kid, so my body made up for all the years I wasn’t. I knew it didn’t mean I was immune to the flu. I was just surprised by the suddenness of it. At first, I thought maybe it was a reaction to the new medication I was on, but when I pulled up Zoloft’s website, recurring vomiting wasn’t a symptom.
Sometimes, it was only dry heaves, and sometimes, it was my entire meal right back up. Then came the queasiness, and I knew it had to be more severe than merely a side effect to a drug. Thus, I self-diagnosed myself with the flu. Even if there wasn’t the usual fever attached, I simply chalked it up to my body not being in fighting condition. Not to mention the rotten mood I had been in for the past week didn’t help.
I peeked at my phone and it flashed the time back at me. 2:30 a.m. Lisa would be back any minute now from the club she worked at, and I hoped she wasn’t planning on bringing anyone home tonight. I texted her to warn her I was still sick, just in case she considered it. I didn’t need to battle some half naked male for the toilet at five a.m.
“Still? Jesus Christ, Fifi, it looks like you’re pregnant or something,” she scoffed when she showed up ten minutes later and leaned against the bathroom sink. Her combat boots were the only thing in my line of vision, so I sat myself up gingerly against the wall and looked at her. She wore her usual fishnet stockings with a hot pink mini skirt and a white, cut-up Ramones shirt. Her dreads were pulled back in a ponytail, and her makeup rivaled that of Harley Quinn. She was a shot girl at the local gay club, but of course she knew how to sniff out the straight males and usually enticed them to come home with her. Tonight’s lucky guy would have gone by the name Jake, but she’d picked me over him, which relieved me greatly. The guy turned out to be an asshole anyways and apparently didn’t like what he declared a sad excuse—that her roommate was puking her guts out so she couldn’t spread her legs for him. Typical.