7. Talia

Chapter 7

Talia

“ T his is… a complicated situation.”

I groan in the direction of my phone, currently on speaker on my bathroom counter, while I apply mascara. “Come on, Leo. You can do better than that.”

Dr. Leo Chastain, Mia’s husband, is a colleague and a friend, but right now he’s my therapist. I even sent him five dollars before calling to seal the deal. Not that I doubted he’d agree to counsel me on demand—he owes me.

Once upon a time, Mia was his client. I was the colleague he turned to when the shattering of his ethics nearly broke him. Because of me—and my brilliant insights, thank you very much—he eventually forgave himself and pulled his head out of his ass before Mia disappeared from his life.

“Do you have feelings for him?” he asks finally.

I almost stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand. Reinserting the applicator, I screw the top closed and throw it into the open drawer. “This isn’t a you-and-Mia repeat. Not even close.”

“I’m still asking.”

I sigh. “Like I already told you, at fourteen I had a fantasy-based obsession with a memory of him. From my first sexual experience onward, I gravitated toward the physical archetype of him as an eighteen-year-old.”

“You’re pissed about that.”

My mirror agrees with him. “Not as angry as I was when I realized it, but yeah.”

“Why? Are you still attracted to eighteen-year-olds?”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I think I do. You’re insulted that you made decisions subconsciously steered by childhood experience. Because you think you’re smarter than the rest of us and should’ve been exempted from ordinary psychosocial development.”

I growl, and the jerk laughs.

“What’s past the anger, Talia?”

Grabbing my phone, I carry it across my bedroom to the closet. As I step into heels, I tell Leo, “Sadness.”

“Why does this new information about yourself make you sad?”

“Because it’s tainting beautiful memories. Time I’ve spent with incredible men. And I guess it makes me worry I wasn’t totally authentic with them.”

“That’s bullshit,” he says crisply. “Just because a formative experience led you to be attracted to a certain body type doesn’t mean you treated any of your partners like stand-ins for someone else. Unless you’re saying you were actively replacing them during intimacy with fantasies of Kieran?”

I grimace. “God, no.”

“I didn’t think so. Also, you dodged my question. Do you or do you not have feelings for your client?”

“Absolutely not. He’s volatile, emotionally stunted, thinks therapy is a waste of time, and chauvinist might as well be stamped on his forehead. Every conversation we have leaves me with a headache and second thoughts about my career choice.”

He whistles softly. “In that case, do you foresee your past experience or current personal opinion of him preventing you from being an objective, effective therapist?”

“Maybe the first one,” I admit.

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re attached to the idea of saving him, which makes sense given the experience in Ireland and your preoccupation with equal reciprocity.”

“Dang, don’t pull punches on my account.”

The problem with receiving therapy from someone who’s known you a long time is… they’ve known you a long time. Leo is well aware of my family history. After years of my mother and sister taking and me giving, I finally set boundaries. I have reduced contact with my mom but haven’t spoken to my sister in almost two years. I don’t speak with my father often, but at least it’s for the simple reason we don’t have anything to talk about.

I can hear his smile as he adds, “All I’m saying is you don’t owe him, Talia. Nothing beyond your skills as a psychologist. As much as the line sometimes blurs, it’s not our job to save anyone. We simply do our best to light the way for them to save themselves.”

I deflate with a sigh. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m smarter than you.”

I laugh. “You’re such an ass.”

Leo chuckles. “You mean I’m the older, wiser brother you always wanted.”

“Yeah, that too. Thanks. Say hi to the family for me.”

“Will do. One final question.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re sure he doesn’t recognize you?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Hmm. I find that hard to believe.”

I smile. “Trust me, I look drastically different than I did at fourteen. I’ll show you a picture sometime. It’s been seventeen years, Leo. Not only that, it was dusk, raining, and he’d just smoked a joint. I’m confident what was a memorable meeting to me was something quickly forgotten for him, a random American girl he found in a graveyard and walked back to her hotel.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and I know I’m not going to like what he says next.

“And how does that make you feel?”

I was right—I don’t like it at all.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I read it with no small measure of relief. I quickly turn off the speaker and bring the phone to my ear.

“Sorry. My date is here. I’ve gotta run.”

“Uh-huh.”

My laugh is a tad shrill as I grab my purse and leave the bedroom. “I’m not lying. He’s taking me to the Philharmonic. Ask Mia. She was the one who set us up. He’s the principal of her school.”

He groans. “Oh, no. Tell me she didn’t.”

I jerk to a stop in the foyer, eyeballing my front door. “What?” I whisper-hiss. “Leonardo Chastain, tell me right now if I need to get out of this.”

Leo coughs. “No, no, Alan is great. You’ll have a splendid time.”

“Splendid?” I screech through my teeth.

My doorbell rings.

Leo’s laughter ends abruptly as he hangs up.