Chapter 12 Now

Nothing is right.

I rearrange a series of pots holding succulents on the windowsill. Lift the blinds so the cheery outside sun can come in. When I turn back, I see you, waiting for me on my desk—the same desk you helped me move in here, three hundred pounds of solid walnut. The image is so real, I feel like it can't possibly be my imagination. You smile back at me, all teeth and squinty eyes and the scar on your eyebrow from when the puck—I blink and then you're gone. Just like that. I shake my head and force myself back to cleaning.

My heels click across the room. I snap up a framed photo. Add it to the growing pile of things that have to go. My breath comes in fast, ragged bursts, but I only have seven minutes before my first patient in a year comes into this room and sits on my teal couch to pour her heart out. It's nerve-racking, but things will be right once I'm working again.

They have to be.

Finally, I've removed all signs of you—the desk itself the one exception.

Four minutes.

I shove the box in the corner, behind the ficus that somehow survived my absence. Gerry, my temporary replacement, was able to keep it alive.

Unlike my practice.

No, my practice is not dead, just… waning. I exhale as the outer door squeaks open and closes with a thud. My assistant Sarah's muffled voice greets my patient—a patient I've, thankfully, treated for years. One of the early ones. One of the handful who've stuck by me.

I sink into my desk chair. Most who remain probably don't know what happened—the patients, I mean. I somehow managed to keep my face out of the papers and off the news. I shielded my face going in and out of my apartment, in and out of the services. It helped that photos of famous hockey players walking into a funeral parlor probably fetched more money than the partially covered face of a woman the media had never noticed before. My name made it into stories, but not the name my patients know me by. I've always practiced using my maiden name, something you weren't fond of, but now I'm glad I did. It's been my safety net.

I hear Sarah say something about new insurance and paperwork, and I close my eyes, grateful for a few minutes more. It feels like I've been waiting for this day for months, wearing out the soles of my shoes to pass the time until I could come back and have purpose in my life. But now that it's here, what if I can't do this anymore?

What if, after all that's happened, I'm incapable of making a difference?

I pull out my phone to distract myself, my finger gliding automatically to my email, where a confirmation awaits:

Your ad has been approved and will run for another fourteen days—

I swipe the email away, disgusted. We're running advertisements for the practice—like I'm a two-bit ambulance chaser—when previously, all my clients came from referrals. I should be grateful that Sarah knows how to do these things for me, instead of bitter about the fact that I must.

"You'll get back to that," she reassured me last week when I came to check in and expressed wariness about using ads. "But right now you're down forty percent of your patients. You have to do something." So I agreed. Now we're placing ads and running discounts for people who pay out of pocket and all kinds of stuff I would have turned my nose up at not too long ago.

But it's about survival.

The practice's and mine.

Someday it will be about more. Someday people will come because they've heard good things.

I open a different icon, eyeing my door—I probably have another minute or two before my patient finishes updating her medical forms. A rush of nerves and excitement sends tingles down my spine when the dating app tells me I have New Messages.

Two of them.

One from a man five years my junior with sandy red hair, blue eyes, and a teasing grin. His name is Phil, and while I'm not usually attracted to his particular combination of looks, there's something about his smile—it makes me think there's more to him than meets the eye. It's pure fantasy, of course. We've exchanged flirty comments, and he's suggested grabbing coffee. I'm not planning on saying yes anytime soon. But I type out a quick message, because this is good for me. I'm getting my feet wet. Easing into the idea of companionship in the future. Plus, it feels safe, anonymous almost. I can say anything, mess up, or decide to stop responding without real repercussions, since I didn't use my last name to create my profile and my photo is nothing more than a vague smile.

I tilt my head, chewing the end of a pen, and open the second message. This one is from a man I haven't chatted with yet. Though we must've both hearted each other or he wouldn't be able to send me a message. He's handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a dimpled smile that makes me think he's adventurous. I read through his introduction. The first paragraph is filled with compliments, telling me he loves my smile and all of the things that caught his attention on my profile. It's a good start. The second paragraph dives into details about him—attorney, thirty-eight, lives downtown. But things turn south when he gets to his hobbies. "I'm a hockey fanatic who played in college but didn't have what it takes to get to the big leagues."

Delete.

And just like that, the smile is gone from my face and I'm dragged back to thoughts of you and whether I'm ready to date yet.

A knock at my door quiets my ruminations. Sarah pokes her head in with a smile.

"Your first patient is here. You have a few more minutes. She's still updating some forms."

I take a nervous breath. "Great. Thank you."

She steps inside. "And this package came for you. I'm sorry I opened it. I thought it was paper I ordered from Amazon yesterday."

I haven't ordered anything for the office. Not that I remember, anyway. But lately, my memory hasn't been so sharp. I take the open box. There's a book inside.

You, by Caroline Kepnes. I've heard of it, but haven't read it. "I didn't order this, Sarah."

"Really? I did notice that the address has the wrong suite number. But it has your name on it." She shrugs. "Amazon must've made a mistake. But did you see the show? The book was made into a series."

"No."

She smiled. "It's so good. Creepy as hell, but addicting. It's about a guy who stalks women."

I blink a few times, looking down at the label. My name is definitely there, even if the suite number is wrong. "It's about a stalker?"

"Yeah. You should read it. Just don't do it at night alone. It'll scare the crap out of you. There's gory murders and stuff."

I drop it back in the box abruptly. "Send it back. I don't want to read it."

"Oh. Sure." Sarah forces a smile. "No problem. I'll send Mrs. Amsterdam in as soon as she's done."

"Thanks."

My assistant shuts my office door, and I feel more than a little unsettled. A book about a stalker shows up addressed to me? It's a very strange coincidence. Though a guilty conscience will do that to you, connect dots to form a line that isn't really there. How many times have I told that to patients? It's a not-so-subtle reminder that I'm playing a dangerous game.

A few minutes later, there's another knock at the door. This time, Sarah shows my first patient in. I feel panicky, but when Mrs. Amsterdam smiles, I welcome her, telling her I missed her, too, and yes, I'm back for good. Something turns on in my brain after that. Words come from my mouth, and my hand sketches notes across a pad. She tells me about her husband and her dog and her daughter-in-law. It's like riding a bicycle, and I've hopped right on, started pedaling along like nothing ever changed.

Even though everything has changed.

Soon enough, the soft buzzer that keeps time on the table next to me goes off. I check my watch, certain an hour hasn't really passed. Surprisingly, it has. Mrs. Amsterdam and I finish up our conversation and discuss meds—she needs something different for anxiety—then I'm walking her to the door.

"How'd it go?" Sarah greets me with a fresh cup of coffee and a supportive smile. I smile back, wondering if we could be friends. Would that ruin our professional relationship? We are friendly…

"Good," I say. "I'm relieved the first patient was one I'm familiar with. I think it helped me ease into things."

"I'm glad." She takes something from her back pocket and holds it up, though not offering it to me. "I'm sorry to tell you that this person dropped by."

I peer over at the business card in her hand and notice the logo immediately. Two fists. I frown. "Someone from Mothers Against Abusive Doctors came here? Inside the office?"

Sarah nods. "Her name was Mary Ellis. She was kind of scary-looking. Manic with a nervous facial tic and nails bitten down so far she barely had any nail beds. Her hand shook when she held out the business card for me to take."

"What did she want?"

"She asked to talk to you while you were in session with Mrs. Amsterdam. When I said you were busy, she told me about her group and what they stand for. Then she asked if she could make an appointment to speak to you. I told her she could leave a message with me, and if you were interested in speaking to her, we'd call her."

I feel sick. First the book arrives to set me on edge, and now this. "Did she leave a message?"

Sarah nods. "She said to tell you that more than sixteen thousand people died from prescription opioid drug overdoses last year, eleven hundred of them children. I showed her the door and told her this was a private office and she wasn't welcome to stop by ever again. If she did, she'd be trespassing."

While I know Sarah meant well, I'm not sure it was wise to threaten a group that likes to hang my picture around town like a mug shot. It might be smarter to lock up, go back home, and reconsider my career, perhaps something where I'm not expected to be the stable one. Yet I swallow back my fears and nod. "Thank you. I'm sorry you had to deal with that, Sarah."

She shrugs. "Doesn't bother me at all. I'm sorry they're pestering you."

Anxious to change the subject, I force a smile. "So… what's the rest of the day look like?"

Her expression brightens. "A full schedule! Just had a last-second add-on, so you have two new patients today." She hurries around the desk, pressing her finger to the schedule where she's written names. "I booked them for ninety minutes, like you asked. Oh, and don't forget, I have to leave by five for Charlie's cello lesson. But…" Sarah screws up her face. "Shoot. That means your last new patient won't be here until five fifteen, after I've gone. Tell you what, I'll stay a few after. I'd hate for a stranger to walk in when you're all alone. Maybe he'll come early—they usually do—and I'll sneak out while you're in session."

Sarah's done so much to keep my practice afloat already. "No, you should go. Take Charlie to his lesson. I'll be okay. I'll put the sign out and…" I shrug. "It'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, okay. Let me know if you change your mind."

The outer door creaks with another patient coming in, and I return to my office to finish my notes on Mrs. Amsterdam before my next patient is on the couch. Keeping busy is key. I can't think about the book that just happened to arrive today or the group that wants my head. If I allow myself to dwell on things, I'll be the one on the couch, curled in a ball, sucking my thumb.

Hours later, the sunlight slanting through the side window changes. That golden glow of late afternoon begins to fade toward early evening. My next-to-last patient waves goodbye, and I take a sip of herbal tea—a replacement for afternoon coffee, at Dr. Alexander's suggestion.

One more appointment. A long one, though, since it's another new patient.

I blow out a breath and reach for my appointment list, skimming down to the bottom until I find the name of the new patient Sarah has added.

But it can't be correct.

Because the name that is handwritten in at the bottom of the typed list is…

Gabriel Wright.

I blink down at it and wipe my eyes, as though that will clear away an illusion. But no, the letters are still there, written in black ink, Sarah's familiar bold cursive. My mind short-circuits, goes blank. And that's when I realize what it is—a coincidence. It has to be. It's not actually him.

Wright is a common last name. I went to med school with a Bianca Wright and had third grade with a Bobby Wright, before he moved away. New York probably has hundreds of Wrights. This is just one named Gabriel.

Yes, it's definitely a coincidence.

Albeit a shocking one.

But one all the same.

I yank my laptop from my desk drawer. Sarah would have done an intake when she set up the appointment. Basic answers, like date of birth, address, and insurance, are stored in our computer system. That information will set my mind at ease. I type away, logging into the computer, finding the program icon, clicking into that system… While I wait for it to open, I fan myself, realizing I've gone hot with anxiety.

It can't be him. It can't be.

I pull up the new patient's chart, navigate to the personal information tab, and feel ice slide down my spine as I read the address that's been entered.

It's no coincidence.

Gabriel Wright, the man I only recently stopped following, has made an appointment. I shake my head—it can't be. It just… can't.

But then a knock comes at the door.

A deep voice calls out, "Hello? Anyone home?"

I don't move. I'm paralyzed with fear. I don't even breathe. Long seconds tick by before another knock comes. This time, it's followed by the creak of my door opening…

A familiar face peeks through, splitting into a grin.

"Sorry, I didn't see anyone out there. I hope I'm in the right place. I'm here to see Dr. McCall?"

It takes me a second to find my voice. "Y-yes, that's me."

"Excellent." He pushes the door open the rest of the way and stares straight into my eyes. "I'm Gabriel Wright."