by Ava Harrison
“Well, you look hungover.”
“I’m sick,” I mumble. I’m never leaving my bed and facing the world again.
“What’s wrong?”
Groaning again, I continue to hide and not answer.
“Get out of there and look at me,” she scolds.
“No.”
“What are you? Five? Get your head out from that pillow and tell me what’s wrong.”
“Sick.”
“So, now you’re your mom?”
Low blow. No way did she go there. I throw the pillow at her across the room, and it lands on the floor with a thump. Peeking up from the bed, I narrow my eyes at her.
“Not cool.”
“It got you out, though.” She gives me a coy smile and I wish I had another pillow to throw at her head. “Seriously, though, what’s going on? You’ve never slept this late. Not even when you’re hungover.”
I look her dead in the eyes. “I told you. I’m sick.”
“You don’t look sick,” she retorts. “Saying you’re sick when you’re not is something you hate, so why don’t you man up and tell me what’s going on?”
This is why I both love and hate Sydney. She always calls me on my bullshit. “Fine, I’m hiding. Okay? You happy now?”
She nods and her lips tip up into a smile. “Kind of. What are you hiding from?”
“Life.”
“You need to be more specific.”
“Preston—I mean Dr. Montgomery. I mean . . . I don’t know what I mean.”
Her eyebrow rises. “I don’t get it. I feel I’m missing some crucial info.”
I bite my lip and conjure up the courage to tell her about my massive faux pas.
“Um, I might have gotten drunk . . .” She waves her hand to get me to continue. “I might have gotten drunk and madeapassathim,” I rush out in one syllable before I chicken out.
Her mouth drops open, her eyes wide.
“Oh. What did he say?”
“He kissed me. And then he pretty much ran away.”
“He’s your therapist.”
“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. Why do you think I’m hiding?”
“You know what? Fuck it. You’re both adults, shit happens. Don’t beat yourself up over it. How are you planning on handling it from now on?” Her eyes soften as she sits on the end of the bed.
“I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
“I can’t tell you what to do, but you’re making such great progress I’d hate for you to start over from scratch. Why don’t you clear the air?”
“You don’t think I can just ignore it and pretend it never happened?” I don’t want to ignore it, but I know the truth and that he regrets it.
“Yeah, no.” She breathes in and then lets out an exaggerated breath. “Maybe you should call his office and speak to him. If you show up to your next appointment feeling the way you do, it will be all kinds of awkward.”
I shrug. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.” She stands and walks toward the door. “I’ll make us some greasy breakfast. Get your ass up and stop wallowing, you little wench.”
I give her a little shake of my head and then I lie back down, considering what I should do.
I grab my journal.
Journal Entry
I’m a fuckup. Shit! What the fuck am I going to do? He’ll never want to see me again. I know it sounds crazy but he makes me feel. I’ve never had that with anyone before and it scares the life out of me. I used to laugh when I heard women talk like this but now I’m living it and it’s not so funny.
He’s brought me such clarity in the last few weeks. I can’t risk losing him. Not for a passing crush, because that’s what this is. It’s only a crush.
It’s only a crush.
I tell myself this over and over again. As if I say it enough it will make it true.
But I don’t believe it.
And I’m afraid if I lose him, I’ll lose what I’ve gained.
I’m afraid I’ll lose me.
I pick up my phone and fire off a text.
Me: I’m sorry.
I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for.
Missing the appointment, getting drunk, pushing my body to his, tempting him?
After putting the phone down, I try to busy myself so I don’t check my phone. Eyeing the frame I bought the other week, I decide to put a picture of Richard and me in it and add it to the wall collage hanging above my desk. Where is my tape measure? It’s not in the desk drawer. It’s not under my bed? I head into Sydney’s room.
“Hey, do you have a tape measure by any chance? My tape measure?” I smirk.
“Actually,” she grimaces, “I think I do. Hmm, I think it’s in the closet in the very back. There should be a storage box. It might be up top, actually.”
As I rummage through her closet, I spot a familiar shirt buried in a pile of clothes. My eyebrow rises as I look at it. Turning it over, I examine the cuff. Embroidered in red, I see a familiar monogram.
RDS.
Richard David Stone. Why is this in her closet? Why would she have his shirt unless . . . my breath leaves my body and I can feel the blood throbbing inside my veins. She has Richard’s shirt.
“Where did you get this?” My words are sharp. Confusion, anger, and betrayal hang on every syllable.
“Get what?”
“This,” I lift the offending shirt up. The evidence of her lie.
“What are you talking about?” She turns around to look at me and her face is guilt ridden.
“This was Richard’s.” I bite out.
Silence. She doesn’t say anything and it infuriates me.
“This shirt. This shirt was Richard’s. I should know. I bought it for his fiftieth birthday, three years ago.”
“It happened before I knew you.” Her hands reach up. “Months before I knew you.”
“Just say it.” I pace back and forth, my body not knowing what to do with the nervous energy coursing through me.
“I slept with Richard. I had a fling with Richard.”
Everything inside me seizes. A fling. A fling means more then once.
“Before you started working at the company, we were at the company holiday party, and one thing lead to another. We started sleeping together. No one knows.”
“You were with Richard?” Were they in a relationship?
“It was just sex.”
Even though she speaks and I hear her words, it’s as if I don’t understand what she’s saying. None of this makes any sense. They were together more then once. How did I not know this?
“You were with Richard. My Richard.”
“It was before I knew you, and he broke it off with me when you moved in.”
“He broke it off?” Her head bobs up and down.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t understand.”
“I just couldn’t. What did you want me to say? Hi, move in with me but F.Y.I., I slept with our boss, who also happens to be your family friend. My relationship with Richard was purely physical. Just sex, no strings attached, no promises of devotion and happily ever afters.”
“He was more than my family friend and you know it.”
“When I asked you to be my roommate, I didn’t know that, and by the time I found out, it was too late. I didn’t want to risk our friendship. I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you but—”
“But what? You lied to me.”
“I never lied to you. I just omitted the truth.”
“Well, that makes it so much better. You should’ve told me.” I run my hands through my hair. Outrage runs through me. “I have to go.”
“Can we talk about this?”
“There is nothing you can say right now that I want to listen to. As much as it repulses me that you slept with Richard—my Richard—it was before you knew me, so that I understand. What I can’t get over is that you never told me.”
“How could I? God!” She groans, burying her head in her hands before looking up.
“I was embarrassed. Don’t let this destroy our friendship, Eve. Please. You’re like a sister to me.”
“Yeah, I imagine you would be . . .” As the words come out of my mouth I realize what a hypocrite I’m being. She slept with her boss and I want my psychologist, but it doesn’t change the hurt I feel.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here. I need air.
Without looking back, I grab my coat and head out the door. I welcome the breeze that gently cools the flush on my cheeks. I don’t know where I’m going or what to do.
Out of nowhere, the phone rings in my pocket and my whole body seizes when I see the name on the screen. Preston Montgomery. Shit. What do I do? Do I answer it? I have to. But what do I say?
“Hi,” I answer, almost on a whisper.
“Hello.” I want to apologize for my behavior and just hang up the phone. I can’t talk to him now. Not when I’m on the verge of losing it. Of falling apart.
“I-I’m really sorry about last night,” I stammer.
“Listen, what happened last night can never happen again.” An uneasy feeling passes through my body. You can’t risk losing him. Just agree and get off the phone.
“Yes, I understand.”
“I was wrong to do that. I don’t want to stop treating you, but if anything like that happens again I won’t be able to continue our sessions. You will have to find another psychologist.” His voice is cold, professional.
This is not Preston.
This is all Dr. Montgomery.
I bite my lip and carefully choose my words, willing my voice not to give away my hurt.
“I understand, and it won’t happen again. I promise.”
“Okay. Then I will see you at your scheduled appointment this week.”
His cold tone finally has me snapping and falling apart. I start to sob uncontrollably in the phone.
“Eve, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” The sobs come out in heavy broken breaths. “Shh. It’s okay, you’re okay. Please calm down. Where are you?”
“What?”
“Where. Are. You?” His voice leaves no place for argument.
“By my apartment.”
“Meet me.”
“But you just said—”
“Forget what I said. None of that matters right now. Meet me.”
“I can’t, I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care, and you could never be a mess. I’ll see you in ten minutes. I’m on Thirty-Fifth between Park and Lexington. Number 115.”
My brain and my heart are at war. I know I shouldn’t go, but there’s no one I want to speak to about this but Preston.
What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? I just told my patient to meet me for the second time in a matter of days. Talk about crossing into completely unprofessional territory. But fuck, when I heard her crying she broke me. She’s cried before, but that was when she was just my patient.
Ever since the day with the kids, I’m having a hard time distinguishing the woman who sits in front of me week after week from the woman at the diner. I knew she was strong. I knew she was caring. But the side I saw . . .
She is special. The kind of special that makes you question everything you believe in or everything you thought you believed in before her. I know I’m doing something I shouldn’t, and in the past that would have mattered to me, but hearing how distraught she was . . . something inside of me snapped. This can’t wait until next week to get fixed. I can’t wait. I need to help her. I need to take her pain and make it mine. I need to see her now.
So what am I doing?
I’m now pacing my apartment thinking I might have made the biggest mistake of my professional life. I invited Eve Hamilton into my house, and by doing so I invited myself into her world, and worse . . .
I invited her into mine.
I take a swig of my scotch. The amber liquid coats my throat and burns, but I need it. I need to drown the voice inside me. The one telling me to call her back and say I’ll see her on Friday, but instead I throw back another shot. I need to see her and make sure she’s okay.
Even if her presence consumes me.
Even if seeing her destroys me.
As I take a step toward the large wooden door. It swings open. Preston is standing there. The moonlight peeps out from a cloud and bathes him in its glow. I suck in a breath. He’s beautiful, mesmerizing, consuming. I feel bare before him. Being here, standing at his door feels so right, yet wrong at the same time.
“Are you okay?” he asks as I move closer to him and he ushers me inside.
“No.”
“Come in. Come on, I got you.” He takes my hand in his and I’m instantly warm.
“I feel betrayed. They betrayed me,” I blurt out, and I can tell by the look in his eyes he has no clue what I’m talking about.
“What happened?”
“Richard and Sydney had sex,” I huff out on a sigh.
“Can you please start from the beginning? So I can understand.”
“I found a shirt I bought for Richard in her closet. I confronted her. Apparently they had a relationship. It happened before I started to work at the company, and it ended when I moved in with Syd, but neither of them told me. I mean for crying out loud. I always knew he was weird about me living with her, and she was always weird about him, but neither of them said anything.”
“I understand why you’re angry. I really do. But I think if you sit for a minute and take a step back, you might see that this is not so black and white.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think right now you’re feeling blindsided by Richard. But since he’s not here to explain himself, you’re lashing out at Sydney because you’re hurt. You feel Richard betrayed you, but did he? Furthermore, did Sydney? They were both consenting adults, and Sydney didn’t know you. So, I believe your real problem is with him. You’re afraid the Richard you knew might not necessarily be the Richard everyone else knew. But you need to realize and accept that that’s okay. He didn’t love you any less because he had a clandestine relationship with her. He just put you in a bubble and as your “father”, he didn’t want you to see him as anything other than perfect. This isn’t really about Sydney at all.”
His words seep into my soul. He’s right. I know he’s right. I just wish Richard were here. I wish I could talk to him one more time. I wish I had a chance to say good-bye.
My tears flow again and this time, Preston pulls me close to him on the couch. I turn my face toward his body and bury my head in the crook of his neck. Needing comfort, needing him to hold me. Needing more of him.
He does. He holds me until every tear is expelled from my body. When I have no more tears left in me, I peer up. He’s looking at me in a way that makes my body quiver. That makes me want to close the tiny distance between us. Effortlessly I inch forward.
“Eve,” he groans my name as if it pains him to say it. His hands gently sliding up my arm until he strokes my jaw. “We can’t do this.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes imploring me to heed his plea.
“I know.” My lids close briefly as he presses his forehead to mine. A single touch that ignites a fire deep in my soul.
“I can’t.” His voice is barely a whisper.
I swallow back my emotions and separate our bodies.
“It’s getting late. I should go.” For a moment I think he’ll object, tell me to stay, but instead, Preston makes his way to his feet and nods.
“I think that would be smart.”
“Goodnight, Dr. Montgomery.”
I’m an asshole. A compete and utter asshole. When I held her tonight, everything felt so right. Nothing has felt this right in years, not since Sloane. I didn’t want to let her go and I didn’t want to pull away. But I had to. I can’t be close to her. I shouldn’t feel the way I do. I’m her therapist and I’m not worthy of her time, her friendship, and I’m certainly not worthy of my title. Doctor of Fucking Psychology, my ass. I should be sanctioned. I should lose my lic
ense for the shit I just pulled.
But there is something about this girl. The moment she’s around I lose all reason. I can’t see anything but her. I feel like I’m going mad. Trying not to watch her, trying not to kiss her. The only thing I can do is keep my guard up, but I swear trying to do that is driving me . . . mad.
I won’t be able to help her if I continue to blur the lines, and I need to help her. I couldn’t help Sloane and I won’t make that mistake again, no matter how hard it is.
My eyes hurt. They burn. Jumping up, I head to the bathroom and peer into the mirror. They’re swollen.
I’ll never be prepared for my meeting today.
My pulse races. Adrenaline courses through my body.
I’m going to be sick.
I need a moment to collect myself. Great. Just when I think I’m getting back into the swing of things, everything goes to shit again. I thought I was done losing it in the office, but here I am, pacing the bathroom and I’m a fucking mess.
There’s no way I can do this. I can’t possibly pitch this company. Every part of my body is screaming to push the door open and sprint down the hallway until I reach the exit. No. I have to do this.
With a large audible sigh, I head back into the office and look over my notes on my computer. Then I grab my presentation papers. They feel heavy in my hands.
I cannot do this. Not without Richard. I can’t even remember my proposal. All the words I’ve practiced and recited these last few months are gone. It’s as though my mind is completely blank. With each step I take, my heart rate accelerates.
Think.
Think.
Think.
I pull out my phone and look for the email Dr. Montgomery sent me a few weeks ago.
Visualization techniques.
Visualize.
Breathe.
Breathe. One. Two. Three.
Visualize a better time, when you knew what you were supposed to do. Breathe—one, two, three . . .
“Okay, from the top. Try to pitch me again.” Richard’s words ring through my ears. The distant memory breaks apart any of the strength I was able to maintain. Tears well in my eyes. I’m lost. So fucking lost without him. I knew the path. It was clear. Now there’s nothing. Visualize!