by Ava Harrison
Richard is standing across from me. He holds the folder with my notes. “Start from the beginning. Clear and precise. Believe in yourself. If you do, no one will doubt you.”
My pulse starts to regulate. With an inhale, I re-adjust my skirt, fix my top, and then make my way out the door.
It’s two hours later and I nailed it. Not only did I land the client, but I’m already back at my desk starting research on the next project. As I browse the Internet for fresh ideas, I feel a presence hovering behind me. Peering over my shoulder, I see Barry standing over me. My initial instinct is to recoil. Scared of confrontation. But I’m not scared. Not anymore.
I won’t allow myself to let the fear win. I know exactly why he’s standing beside me and I know exactly what he’s going to ask me, so why not answer? Why not end this annoyance now? I have been avoiding his question for weeks but I do know who the new owner is and I know he has nothing to fear for his job, so why am I hiding? I’m not. And I won’t.
“Barry, the answer to the question I’m sure you’re about to ask me is my mom. My mom is the owner of this company. Your job is not at stake. You will not be fired.” There I said it. Now he can stop bothering me. Now he can go back to being the office creep, who ignores me. “I have work to do. So now, if you can please stop badgering me for answers, I’d appreciate it. Nothing bad will happen.”
I turn my attention back to my computer and continue to type. But he’s still there hovering. My back gets stiff.
“Yes?” I say turning back to him. His mouth hangs open. His eyes really stare at me, maybe for the first time ever. This is a different side of Barry and I don’t know what he wants. I lift my hands off the keyboard and pivot my whole body to face him. “Is there something else?”
“I was—” He nibbles a little more on his lip. “I was wondering if you would have time to go over some of my ideas I have for the Femmes Fetale campaign. I pitched them and landed them . . . but I think I’m a bit out of my element.”
My mouth drops. I’m completely taken aback.
“What?”
“Brainstorm,” he clarifies, still uneasy and biting his lip. “Can you help me?”
“I don’t understand. I thought you hated me. You’re always so rude. Why would you want my help?” I feel as if I’m living in a parallel universe and I just can’t understand what’s happening. This man doesn’t speak to anyone. He’s like a one-man island.
“I don’t hate you.”
“But you’ve been harassing me for weeks.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” I pull at my hair. “I’m really confused right now.”
“I guess I was just nervous and didn’t know how to approach you. I don’t really get along with people. They don’t understand me, so I tend to just work alone.”
My eyebrow lifts. Is that it? Was I reading him wrong this whole time?
I have a moment of clarity and then I get it. Barry wasn’t creepy. He was only like me. Unsure of himself. Scared. Yes, that was it, and I get it. I understand how hard it is to believe in yourself. To not feel comfortable in your own skin, and how that fear can manifest into something you have no control over. For me it’s panic. For him it’s social awkwardness. Either way it’s the same. It’s still two sides of the same coin.
I smile up at him. To let him know I understand that putting himself out there must have been hard.
“Okay. I’d love to help.”
“Thank you.” He pauses. “We can meet during lunch one day,” he stutters out and with that, I let my smile turn up even more.
“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
With a little less than five minutes to spare, I make it to Preston’s high-rise office building. By the time the elevator reaches his floor, my whole body is trembling uncontrollably from the nerves of having to see him after the clusterfuck at his house.
Just thinking of Preston and our nearing session has me in knots. I’m so confused by his behavior, but I need to continue seeing him because I’m still not able to sleep. Last night was horrible, and even the cocktail I had before bed didn’t do the trick. I finally did fall asleep, but it was a rough night. When I woke, my heart was thundering, a scream was tearing through my throat, and my hair was soaked from the night terror. I need to talk to Dr. Montgomery about the nightmares.
The fear from last night still consumes and claws at me.
I feel lost and emotionally drained.
In a complete daze, I find myself sitting in the waiting room. It’s as if my feet carried me here, but my mind resides elsewhere.
My gaze sweeps across the vacant room. I like the quiet. It allows me peace for a minute, and helps to shut off the distractions from everyday life.
I let out a yawn. God, today was a long day.
“Hi. Need some coffee?” I look up to find Preston looking down at me. I’m not sure how I missed him entering the room.
“God, yes,” I press out. Every word feels pained today.
“Well, then, let me get you a cup.” He gives me a small smile and it feels slightly awkward. As though he doesn’t know how to act with me anymore. That makes two of us, because I’m so uncomfortable right now. I feel as if I might pass out from nerves. Being at his apartment made me feel close to him, but now it’s weird being here. “I just made a pot. Go have a seat in my office and I’ll bring some right away.”
I walk into his office and take a seat in the center of the couch. A few minutes later, Preston sits across from me, placing two steaming hot mugs on the coffee table that separates us. He sits back and pulls out my file that’s on the table beside him.
He scans the file before he returns it and takes a sip of his coffee. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“You seem off today.” Preston asks.
“I am.”
“Is it work?”
“No, I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . ” I can’t speak.
“Is this about what happened the other night?”
“Yes.”
He lifts his gaze to the ceiling and blows out his cheeks. The muscles in my stomach tighten into knots. I feel ill. When he finally meets my eyes, I notice a line has appeared between his brows.
“I know we talked briefly on the phone about this, but when you came over we never touched upon it again. I do think we should talk about what happened in more detail.”
“Can’t we just pretend it didn’t happen?” I groan and he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not just that. The lines have been blurred for a long time. I shouldn’t have invited you to my apartment.”
“I was upset. You were doing your job.” I turn my head away from him and fidget with the material of the couch pillow.
“Eve . . .” I don’t turn back. Just continue to tap at the pillow. “I wasn’t doing my job when I invited you over. I wasn’t treating you like a patient, and you weren’t treating me like your psychologist. It’s my fault these lines are blurred, but it’s not your fault. It’s called transference. Or in this case, because of the sexual nature of your feelings toward me, erotic transference. It’s very common for a patient to develop feelings for their therapist.”
With that, I snap my head back to him and shake my head. “I . . . what?”
“In psychotherapy, it’s classified as the unconscious redirection of feelings you associate for one person such as a parent to another, such as me, your therapist.” My mouth drops open as I pull in ragged breaths. “Basically, you’re replacing the emptiness in your life with me. I’m a figure you look up to. You’re replacing the void of losing the caring father, the person you gathered comfort from, with me. These feelings you have are normal, but I think we should talk about why you feel this way.”
“Who are you, Freud?”
“It was actually Freud who came up with the theory.”
“Of course it was,” I deadpan. “Listen, I was drunk. Then I was sad. It won’t happen again.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair and then nods. Neither of us speaks, and my stomach drops with each passing minute that we sit silent. I rub at my eyes as I stifle a yawn.
His eyes shoot up. “Tired? Didn’t sleep well again?” I shrug and he sighs. “What’s going on? Please. Talk to me.”
“I’m still having nightmares,” I blurt out before I can second guess telling him.
“Why didn’t you mention it earlier? Did something new happen that I should know about?”
I take a deep breath, and then exhale it slowly. “No, just the same exact nightmare as the night I spoke to you.”
“How long have these nightmares been occurring?”
“Since Richard died.”
His eyes widen at my admission. The look in them makes me sad. It’s as if he’s hurt by my not telling him. As though I betrayed him. And seeing it rips a hole in my chest. For some reason, I want to tell him everything now.
He casts his eyes downward and breathes in slowly, “Can you tell me about these dreams?”
“I have them all the time now. It’s as if the world is closing in. Sound fades, my vision becomes spotty, and I feel as though I’m hyperventilating. It’s like a nightmare where you’re running in the woods and you’re not sure who’s chasing you.”
“What do you remember about them?”
“Not much. They’re like a mirage. I can feel them. I can smell them. But just when I think I can touch them, they fade away into the haze of my mind.”
“And what is it you feel?”
“Scared. An unimaginable fear.”
“And smell?”
“Copper. Almost like blood.”
“And you’ve never had these dreams before?”
“Not that I remember.”
He places his mug down and reaches for his note pad, quickly jotting down his thoughts. When he looks up, there is a new clarity in his eyes. “Sometimes these nightmares are actually repressed memories, fighting to find their way out. In a case such as that, I typically would suggest a referral to my colleague who uses hypnosis techniques to retrieve the repressed memories. Is that something you would be interested in discussing?”
“No.” My answer comes out harsher than I intended, but he shakes his head with understanding.
“Okay, I understand. But if you change your mind, please let me know.”
I stand and stroll to the window, peering out to the city below. A stream of sunlight peeks through the shades, blinding me. I squint and lift my hands to cover my eyes. A cloud must pass because the room that was only seconds ago bathed in white light is dark again and I no longer need to squint.
When I turn back around, I notice Preston is watching me. He’s tense, his back upright, and a small line pinches between his brows. I have a desire to keep looking at him, to lose myself in the depths of his blues. He stands and makes his way over to where I am. He’s so close to me. His cologne infiltrates my senses—fresh and spicy, and an overwhelming need to bury my head in the crook of his neck and get lost in the smell weaves its way through me. It begs me to touch him, to feel his rough skin against my fingers. It’s overwhelming.
Blinding.
I can’t think.
My hand reaches out of its own accord across the space that separates us. His eyes flutter shut, and I swear the air around us changes. The tips of my fingers hover above the scruff on his jaw—
Boom!
The sound of a car backfiring or a gunshot rings outs in the distance and I’m suddenly frozen in place. My vision starts to flash, a black haze takes over, and then an image appears behind my closed lids.
An image of flesh.
Of crimson streams.
And brutal cries so sad they break my heart.
My chest pounds erratically. The hum surrounds me. Engulfs me. Suffocates me.
Two arms wrap around me.
Pull me close.
Whispers.
Light flutters across my hair.
“I’ve got you. I’m here. Breathe. Remember what I taught you. Inhale. Now count, one, two three, four, five, six, seven. Exhale.”
The air in my lungs leaves in sudden gasps.
“Slower. Slow. Inhale.”
Part of me calms. The flutter in my chest weakens as I continue to follow Preston’s directions. As I regulate my breathing, I realize that I’m calm now. Preston calmed it all. He made everything better.
“You’re doing great.”
His hands rub circles up my back as he lulls me into a peaceful state. Our breathing comes in tandem. Our bodies press close together. Goosebumps spread across my limbs and I lift my head to meet his gaze. His pupils are dilated, the blue almost completely gone. His breath tickles my lips.
“I have you.”
I lean closer, allowing the air he expels to fan my lips. Kiss me. Please, God, let him kiss me. I’m so close I can almost taste him. His eyes sweep over me. His nostrils flare and his eyes dilate as he assesses me. I can see he wants me.
Right now, in this room, he’s not looking at me as a doctor. He’s not looking at me as a patient. No. Right now, he’s looking at me like a man in lust.
My eyes flutter shut and I close the distance. As my lips find his, my body moves backward. He breaks our connection.
Pushes me away.
I meet his gaze. His is now void. Closed off. The warmth is gone. The compassion no longer exists in his stare.
He walks away and ushers me back to the couch. By the time we make it, my panic has lessened, but now I’m cold from the distance in his eyes.
“Take a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. Do you want a cold compress?” he asks and I nod. My strength isn’t great enough to find words.
When he returns, his detachment has grown. He won’t even make eye contact as he regains his seat across from me. It feels as if I’m being broken apart but I don’t speak, afraid of the outcome.
“I am so sorry about what happened before. It is completely my fault that a line has been crossed.”
“Nothing happened. It’s okay,” I stammer out.
“It’s not okay. I crossed a line when I comforted you, and I think it would be best for your healing if I refer you to a colleague.”
“No, you can’t do that,” I beg.
“I can’t be your doctor anymore.” He won’t meet my eyes and it rips me to shreds.
“But why?” Confusion and then anger coil in my stomach as he continues to hide.
“Well, I . . .”
“I understand,” I mutter and then his eyes finally meet mine. They look sad and drained.
“No, you don’t, but please trust me. I think it will be for the best.”
I need to leave. I need to go before the anxiety takes over. If I leave now, nothing has happened.
“It’s my fault. I don’t need another doctor. I–I’ll put distance. It’s fine.” I stand and walk toward the door. If I leave now, he can’t end things. He can’t abandon me.
“Eve—”
“I’ll see you later, Doc.” I shut the door behind me and dash down the hall. If I don’t hear him say it, it’s not real.
Inhale . . .
One, Two, Three.
It’s not real.
Lying on the couch a few days later, I hear the sound of the front door opening. Then I hear the click of Sydney’s heels as she walks into the living room. Placing my magazine down, I stare up at her.
“Hi,” I mutter out beneath my breath as I sit down in the chair. I know I shouldn’t be mad at her. I know I need to get over it.
“How was your afternoon?” she asks, gnawing on her lower lip. She’s nervous, unsure of how to act toward me. I need to forgive her. I need to tell her it’s all right. Preston is right. This is more than Sydney having sex with Richard. So much more. This is about him—Richard. I held him to unrealistic standards. In my mind he could do no wrong, and the realization that he was only a man, a human being who made mistakes is liberating. I need to forgive her, because
this had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. My lips turn up. It’s a tight smile, but it’s all I have to offer right now.
She knows we’ll be okay. I know we will, too.
It will just take time.
“You left work early. Is everything okay?” Her lips purse and she narrows her eyes in my direction.
“Only a few minutes early. I figured I would grab my dry cleaning,” she says and I notice she’s carrying a stack of mail.
“Anything important?”
“Just the usual bills. Oh, here’s one addressed to you.” She leans over and hands me a large, rectangular business envelope. It’s non-descript and lightweight. I flip it around and check out the return address. Lord knows we get enough crap mail; no reason to open it if it’s not important.
Bold lettering jumps off the back of the envelope.
From the Office of Dr. Preston Montgomery.
Shit. I tear at the seal until a folded paper sits heavily in my hands. The weight of it, though less than an ounce, feels heavy . . . ominous. I open it with shaky hands. My eyes burn and my heart thumps rapidly in my chest. What is this? What the fuck is this?
Dear Eve Hamilton,
As you know, a good relationship between a psychologist and his or her patient is essential for quality medical care. Times arise when this relationship is no longer effective and the psychologist finds it necessary to request the patient select an alternative psychologist.
This letter is to inform you that I am no longer willing to be your psychologist. My office will continue to direct your care for any emergencies that arise over the next thirty days. It is imperative that you select another psychologist and arrange with our office for your records to be transferred to their office. If you need a referral, it would be my pleasure to assist you.
Sincerely,
Dr. Preston Montgomery
My emotions are like a storm. They batter me. Engulf me. They rip me apart. Anger coils in my blood. The destruction from his words is immeasurable. I knew this was coming, yet I made myself believe I could will it away. Apparently not.