by Jiffy Kate
I thought it might be a bad idea, being that close to Luke’s apartment and all. The first Wednesday was a little weird, but the second I saw Mr. Chan and he greeted me in his familiar way, all the weirdness left. Last Wednesday, I ended up staying over two hours and helping him clean up a little before I left. He told me if I kept it up, he’d have to pay me, which is crazy. I owe him so much. He has no idea.
“Two lattes?” the friendly girl behind the counter asks.
“Yep,” Layla answers. “And it’s on me this morning.”
“No, you paid yesterday.” I put my five-dollar bill down on the counter, not leaving any room for argument. Layla and Connor both drive me crazy with not letting me pay for things. The truth is, I’m doing so much better financially. Staying with them is saving me two hundred dollars a month in rent, so I don’t need her buying my damn coffee.
“No,” Layla says forcefully. “You,” she continues, taking the money and shoving it into my bag, “bought everything to make tacos last night, so coffee is on me.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and walk to the end of the counter to wait on our order. She’s impossible sometimes.
“So, are you still thinking about taking that part-time job at the clothing store?” Layla asks, grabbing sugar packets and stirrers and sticking them in her bag.
“Yeah, I think it’d be a great way to make some extra money. I can’t live in your spare bedroom forever.”
“You’ve only been there three weeks. Stop trying to leave me so soon.”
I laugh and grab my coffee off the counter. “You’re going to get tired of me. I promise.”
Layla loops her arm in mine, and we start off down the sidewalk toward the library. Just before we get to the front doors, my phone rings in my bag and startles me. It hardly ever rings anymore now that I live with Layla and see Mia all the time...and Wyatt finally quit calling and texting.
“Hello?” I say, pressing the phone to my ear, trying not to spill my coffee.
“Yes, I’m calling for Harper Evans,” the lady on the other end says.
“This is she.”
“Ms. Evans, this is Fremont Rehabilitation. Can you say your identification code, please?”
Great. Sadie’s facility is calling, and they won’t give me any information unless I say the code number I was given when she was admitted. Part of me wants to claim they have the wrong number and hang up, but I won’t. It has to be important if they’re reaching out to me, right?
“E-V-A-N-five-eight-three-six.”
“Thank you. We’re calling to let you know your mother, Sadie Evans, has been moved to a halfway house.”
“Okay.” I don’t know what she expects me to say, but that’s all I’ve got. I don’t care. They could send her to the moon, and it’d be fine by me.
“You, uh, don’t need to do anything,” she says, stumbling over her words a bit, probably expecting more of a response from me. “It’s just our requirement to notify the next of kin. I can give you the telephone number and address of the house, if you’d like.”
“No thanks.”
I hang up, not giving her a chance to say anything else. I don’t want to know where they’re sending her. I’m afraid I’ll cave and go to her, and I don’t want that. She doesn’t get to make me feel bad about my life anymore. She doesn’t get to make me feel sad and helpless. She can continue being the martyr, but I’m done being the victim.
Luke
“So, tell me, Luke. How was your week?”
It’s been three weeks since I started seeing Caren, and I still struggle with my current role reversal. I know this is what I need to get better, and it won’t do me any good to play games. Caren Hughes is one of the best in the business, so now the therapist has become the patient.
“Fine. Boring. The same.”
Caren’s expression doesn’t change as she waits for me to elaborate. It must be tough to have a patient that’s in the same field as you, but at least we both know when the other is bullshitting.
I let out a deep sigh and slouch down in my chair. “I’m being serious. It was fine. It was boring because I didn’t do anything other than hang out in my apartment and take the occasional walk around my neighborhood. It was the same because that’s all I’ve done since leaving my job.”
“Have you spoken with anyone?”
“Just Sarah. We’re meeting for coffee later.”
“Have you...seen anyone?”
“Are you asking if I’ve fucked anyone in front of my window?” Caren knows all about my extracurricular activities, so my question doesn’t surprise her.
“Yes, that’s what I’m asking, Luke. Have you fucked anyone—escort or otherwise—in the past week?”
My mind flashes back to three Sundays ago. I don’t remember anything about the girl I screwed in my living room. I only remember the look of defeat and rejection on Harper’s face earlier that day when we were sitting on the bench in the cemetery. It haunts me. Later that night, I intentionally hurt her even more by what I did in the window. Selfishly, I’m glad I couldn’t see her face at that moment. It would’ve killed me. My guilt from that night is a constant reminder of one of the many reasons I deserve to be alone, which is exactly why I did it. I had to show Harper I’m unworthy of her.
“No. There hasn’t been anyone since the night before I called you.”
“Has it been difficult to refrain? You had quite the sexual appetite before you started therapy.”
“I’m not a sex addict, Caren. We both know I use meaningless sex as a form of stress relief, a way to fulfill a need without attachments.”
“I agree that you’re not a true sex addict, Luke, but if you’re not careful, I’m afraid you could cross that line. My main focus here is your depression. You’re harboring some major guilt and self-loathing, as well as feelings of abandonment, and you tend to use sex to act out. I’ll ask you again. Has it been difficult to refrain from sex?”
“No, it hasn’t been hard to stay away from women.”
“Why do you think that is?” She’s really making me dislike my profession today. All the damn questions.
“I have no desire to be with anyone any time soon. No desire, no action. It’s very simple.”
“Low sexual desire could be a result of your prescribed antidepressant. Would you like for me to change the dosage?”
Shaking my head, I shift in my seat. “It’s not the meds. I still get aroused. I just don’t act upon it. I don’t have the desire to be with anyone.”
I haven’t had any desire for anything since I pushed Harper out of my life. Knowing she’s better off without me and that she probably hates me now is the only thing stopping me from going to her apartment and apologizing.
We’re a lot alike, Harper and I. We have similar backgrounds that cause us to seek affection and approval, and yet we’re very lonely. The difference is, Harper doesn’t want to be alone, and I do.
I recognized the glimmer of hope in her eyes when she asked about me removing myself from her mother’s case that Sunday in the park, but I know I’m not the person she thinks I am. I was beginning to feel myself slipping. The walls I put up so long ago had started to crumble, but I couldn’t allow them to fall. My life has worked this way for a long time. Keeping the compartments locked tightly is the only way to maintain the balance.
I hope she finds solace in someone else. I hope she gets what she needs and deserves.
Don’t I?
That’s what I want, right?
Since I’m not good enough for her and I can’t give her those things, I want someone else to fill that void. I do. I’ve worked hard over the last few weeks to convince myself of that, but I’m not sure it’s working.
§
Instead of taking a taxi from Caren’s office to the coffee shop by the rehab facility, where I’m meeting Sarah, I decide to walk. It’s not too far away. Plus, I’ve found I do some of my best reflecting when I’m walking without a purpose, just strolling and enjo
ying the scenery.
I love living in the city. My senses are assaulted in the best ways every time I step onto the sidewalk, except for the smells. City life only smells good when you’re walking past a great restaurant.
As if the universe didn’t hate me enough already, the minute that thought enters my mind, my attention is caught by a delicious aroma. Looking to my right, I see Mr. Chan’s place and immediately think of Harper. I’ve walked past here a couple of times recently, but I’ve never allowed myself to even consider going inside. I want to today, though. I don’t know if Harper still lives here or not, and I’m not sure what I’d do if I were to run into her.
It’s not lost on me that I’d be the one looking like a stalker this time.
Without another thought, I step into the restaurant and walk to the counter. Mr. Chan is stirring a soup that smells fucking amazing, and my mouth instantly waters. I recognize it as being Harper’s favorite, and the memory of how her face lit up with delight when Mr. Chan gave her extra wontons makes me smile.
“You with Harper?” Mr. Chan asks, startling me.
“Oh, um, no. I’m not.”
“You don’t get soup.”
Am I in a Seinfeld episode or something?
“Is the soup not ready?” Surely he’s not denying me the soup because Harper isn’t here with me...
“Soup always ready, just not for you.”
“Why not? What did I do?”
“You Harper’s boyfriend?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You her friend?”
“No.” I sigh, not caring that he can hear the sadness in my voice.
“Then you don’t get soup.”
“But I’m a paying customer.” Mr. Chan watches me closely, and I feel myself shrink back under his gaze. He may be old, but he seems kind of scary if you’re on his bad side, which I obviously am.
Finally, he hands me a bowl of soup. When I thank him, he tells me “no extra wontons” and goes back to work.
§
Later at the coffee shop, I order an iced coffee and wait for Sarah. My mouth is still burning from Mr. Chan’s soup, and I can’t help but wonder if he spiced up my bowl on purpose. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I’m glad he’s so protective of Harper. She needs people like that in her life, friends who will keep people like me out of it.
A steeping cup of tea is placed on the table across from me before a flustered blonde sits down with a huff.
“You picked a shitty time to take a sabbatical, Luke.”
“Nice to see you too, Sarah.”
Sarah and I have worked together at Fremont for the last two years, and she’s the closest friend I have. I use the term “friend” loosely, though. We work together, we understand each other, and we used to fuck occasionally. Sarah isn’t one to want something meaningful either. She’s too focused on her career to let a relationship get in the way, and to be completely honest, she can be a real selfish bitch when she wants to be.
The few times we were together, we struggled to find a balance between us because we both like being in control. We tried to take turns. When we fucked at her place, she was always on top while my hands were tied to her bed. At my apartment, I’d take her from behind with my hand pulling her ponytail tightly. After getting off, we’d get dressed and go our separate ways, and when we’d see each other at work, it was like the night before had never happened. After the last time we fucked, we agreed to start meeting for coffee instead, and it’s worked out rather well for us. Sarah doesn’t know all my secrets, but I’m comfortable talking to her, and I know she won’t judge me.
She rolls her eyes while blowing on her tea. “We received three new patients last night, and they’re all violent while they detox. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”
I hate hearing this. “Why hasn’t anyone been hired to replace me? It’s almost been a month.”
Sarah shrugs before answering. “It’s hard to find someone as dedicated and as good as you are, Luke. But don’t even think about coming back. I won’t let you. You need this time to yourself. Besides, starting next week, a couple of therapists from Townsend Recovery Center are going to fill in until we find someone to permanently take your place.”
When I start to speak, Sarah holds her hand up to stop me. “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize or thank me again. You can’t move forward if you’re still focused on the past.”
“Shit, Sarah. You sound just like a therapist. You gonna charge me for that little nugget of wisdom?” I smile to let her know I’m picking on her, and she flips me off to say ‘thanks’. We both know things would be a lot worse if she hadn’t been the one to walk in on me and Harper that day, and I’ll always be grateful for her help.
“You look good with a beard, by the way. It suits you.”
Chuckling, I scratch at my jaw. The new growth is different for me. I’ve been known to sport a stubble every now and then, but this is more than that. “Thanks.”
“So, have you seen her?”
She doesn’t have to say her name for me to know whom she means. “No.”
“She hasn’t been back to the facility. I checked.”
I nod, hesitant whether I want to know this or not.
“Also, Sadie was released into a halfway house last week.”
“A halfway house,” I repeat, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling in my stomach. I know I’m not her therapist any longer, but I’m still invested. Removing myself from her case wasn’t easy. I take pride in seeing things through, helping people, and watching them get their lives back. It’s what keeps me going. It’s what makes me love my job. But Sadie wasn’t responding the way she needed to be. Maybe she started opening up more when she was reassigned. If not, then I find it hard to believe she was ready to be released. Patients slipping through the cracks is my biggest nightmare, something I never want to happen on my watch.
“I can see you don’t approve,” Sarah says, lifting her tea to her mouth and crooking an eyebrow at me.
“It’s not my case,” I tell her, deflecting and also trying to convince myself.
“Yeah, well, it isn’t my case either, but if you ask me, she wasn’t ready.”
Sarah and I usually agree on these topics.
“That’s not your fault either,” she adds, taking a sip of her tea and then setting the cup back down on the table. “You did the right thing by removing yourself from her case.”
“I know.”
§
It’s been a week since Sarah told me about Sadie being moved to the halfway house, and I haven’t been able to quit thinking about it. After a few nights of restless sleep, I decided to call Sarah and ask if she could get me the location of the house. I know I’m not her therapist, but I need to check on her, help if I can. I’m sure her current therapist is keeping tabs on her, but I need to know she’s okay for myself. I contacted her caseworker, and she thought it’d be good for us to meet, so she set up an appointment for today.
Walking up the steps, I push the buzzer and wait. The apartment building doesn’t look too bad from the outside. I’ve been in some halfway houses that are rat holes, barely better than a federal prison. On the other hand, there are some that are pretty nice. This appears to be somewhere in the middle.
The door buzzes, and when I hear it unlock, I open it and walk in.
“Can I help you?” an older woman asks. Her dark hair is streaked with gray and pulled tightly into a bun, giving her a hard edge.
“I’m Luke Walker. I’m here to see Sadie Evans.”
“Yes, Mr. Walker,” she says, looking down at a clipboard in her hand. “Ms. Jones said you’d be by. Follow me.”
We take the stairs to the second floor, and she leads me into an open room, what I’m assuming used to be an apartment but is now used for a meeting space or group activities. Sadie is sitting in the chair by the window.
“You have thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
The lady turns
and leaves, and Sadie continues to stare out the window.
“Sadie,” I say, trying to get her attention and gauge her mood.
She looks up and gives me a small smile. “Hello, Mr. Walker.”
“Luke. You can just call me Luke.”
She laughs lightly and nods her head. “Okay, Luke.” Shifting in her chair, she turns to face me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I smirk and have a seat in the chair across from her. “I just wanted to check on you, make sure they’re not mistreating you.”
“Well, it’s no Fremont, but it’s pretty swanky.”
It’s good to see that her spunk is there, and she looks better. Her skin has some color, and her hair is clean and pulled back in a ponytail. She reminds me a little of her daughter, and I have to push that out of my mind.
I decide to cut to the chase. “I was a little surprised when I heard you’d been moved.”
“Ms. Jones thought I was ready.” The way she twists her mouth and looks back out the window makes me wonder if she believes that.
“Do you feel ready?”
She lets out a deep, exaggerated breath and faces me, looking me straight in the eye. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You could go back to Fremont, you know.”
“And what are they gonna do for me, huh? Put me in more therapy sessions? Make me talk about my feelings? Maybe call my family?” She pushes herself forcefully out of the chair. “Oh, wait,” she says, spinning around. “That’s right. I don’t have any.”
I sit quietly, allowing her to vent. Switching from rehab to a halfway house can be stressful. Maybe she needs to get all of this off her chest. Sometimes it helps to verbalize.
“Harper is all I have, and she wants nothing to do with me. And for good reason.” Her eyes are filled with unshed tears. “The further she can get from me, the better. There’s no helping me, Luke. The damage is done.” Her voice goes from yelling to almost a whisper, and I watch as she deflates like a balloon. She sits back in the chair and pulls her knees to her chest, similar to the way she used to sit through therapy sessions, especially ones when Harper was there. “You’re off the hook. I’m not your concern anymore.”