Chapter 14 Now

My chest tightens, about to burst, as I wait for him to recognize me. The moment when his eyes will go wide and he'll realize who I am—whether that's his family's killer's wife or merely the woman he collided with coming out of an alleyway.

But he smiles pleasantly and sits there on my couch while I gape at him. "Good evening." He nods. "It's nice to meet you."

"Gabriel… Wright?" I somehow force my voice into my smooth therapist's tone, hoping that whatever is on my face has transitioned from shock to confidence. I do try to instill confidence in my patients, especially on day one. They come in timid and self-conscious, huddled in on themselves. Though Gabriel doesn't seem to have that issue. His shoulders are relaxed and his dark eyes soak in the room before finally landing back on me. He might as well be waiting for a seat at a local restaurant, not sitting in my office.

Cool. Calm. Confident.

I clear my throat, putter at my desk as my thoughts go haywire. My cell phone sits at the corner, and I reach to put it away in a drawer when it occurs to me—I could fake an emergency.

Pretend to get a call.

Apologize, promise to reschedule.

Have Sarah send him elsewhere, to another therapist, preferably on the other side of town. Then this problem would be gone, and I could go back to focusing on growing my office and not following him.

"I'm sorry, do you need a minute? I just walked right in." Gabriel offers an apologetic smile. "I don't mind. I can step out."

"No, no… of course not."

Get it together, Meredith.

I manage to land one foot in front of the other and walk to my seat across from him. Staring down at the notepad in front of me, I take a deep breath and motion to the couch. "So, welcome, Mr. Wright. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He sits. "Please, call me Gabriel."

"Of course. Gabriel. How are you doing today?"

I look up and wait for him to respond, realizing I'm holding my breath. But it's more than nerves. I really want to know how he's doing. Is he living again? Yes, from the outside it seems he is. I've witnessed him laughing, going out with multiple women, and doing all sorts of things that appear normal. But he can't feel normal inside. Not after what I've allowed to happen to his family.

This, perhaps, is the perfect opportunity.

Maybe I'll find out the truth…

"I'm okay," he says. "I just… think I need to see someone."

I process a moment, trying to sort out how to word my next question. "Might I ask how you found me?" I shake my head. "I mean how you heard about my practice. Were you referred by someone?"

"Yes, I was referred."

"That's wonderful." I force a smile. "And who referred you? I like to thank people when they recommend my office."

"It was Johnson and Johnson."

I squint. "Johnson and Johnson?"

"The maker of Tylenol PM." He flashes a playful smile. "Sorry, I'm just teasing. I saw an ad for your practice, for people who are having trouble sleeping, on the Johnson and Johnson website when I was looking up how long the sleep-aid effect should last for Tylenol PM. I thought it sounded better to say I was referred."

"Oh. Okay." I swallow. "Well, I'm glad you're here. I have a few basic questions I do for intake, and then we can really talk. How does that sound?"

He nods along, and I take him through a basic patient intake—verifying his primary physician, his demographic data, family psychiatric history, medications, and so on. No red flags. No history at all, really, besides the obvious—what you did to him. What we did to him. Gabriel speaks easily, relaxing back on the couch, talking with his hands. He has good eye contact, and I find myself starting to relax, noticing he's even more handsome up close. Soft fuzz peppers his angular jaw, telling me he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. When he speaks, his whole body grows animated, and his entire face smiles, not just his very full lips. His emotions are on display through his big brown eyes, as though he holds nothing back, and something about that seems almost freeing.

But he can't be free. I know that better than anyone.

"What brings you in today?" I circle back to the moment at hand, waiting, pen poised, to take detailed notes. It's only when I look down and scribble his name at the top—Gabriel Wright—that I become aware I didn't pull a patient notebook from my desk. I pulled my notebook from my desk. The one that already has pages and pages of notes and observations on him. Whatever calm I'd begun to feel disappears, and my hand starts shaking. I grip the notebook as tightly as possible to try to stop it.

"I'm struggling with sleep. I've tried everything—over-the-counter stuff, even got a prescription for Ambien. It does put me to sleep. But I've been on it a while now." He takes a breath. "I don't want to be on a medication forever. I'd rather deal with the root of the problem."

My insides quiver. With dread. With anticipation. I knew he couldn't have gotten over what happened. Maybe this is the reason we've crossed paths again. I'm meant to help him. Help him move forward, get over his grief.

Grief that I caused.

Something niggles at my brain.

I swallow hard. But how did this happen? There are millions of people in this city—how is it we just happened to be in the same coffee shop at the same time those months ago? And now, for him to sit across from me in my office? Does he really not know who I am?

My eyes come into focus once again, and I realize Gabriel has been silent for too long. He's waiting for me to say something. But what the hell was the last thing he said? Something about sleep. Medication. Oh! Root cause!

I clear my throat. "And what is the root of the problem?"

His chest lifts as he takes a deep breath. "Sorry, this is difficult for me to talk about." He looks anywhere but at me, and my gaze follows his to a nearby shelf, books lined up on all topics of psychiatry, mixed with a few coffee table books I swap out in the waiting room. And that's when I notice the piece of you I've missed.

Our wedding photo. You, me, arm in arm, white dress and black tux, laughing as though we haven't a care in the world. And we didn't back then. The frame had been on my desk, photo facing away from patient view. But I moved it while I was packing earlier, set it aside to wrap so the glass wouldn't break. Now it's on full display, staring at my patient…

Gabriel might not have recognized me, but he certainly would recognize you—if not from your days playing hockey, then from the photos that were plastered all over the papers and social media after your "accident."

Shit.

"My wife and child died last year." Gabriel looks down at his hands, loose in his lap. "They were killed by a driver who was under the influence of…" He waves a hand. "Whatever the fuck he was under the influence of. Sorry. I didn't mean to curse, I just…" He sighs heavily.

I sit in my chair, vibrating with tension. I have to move that photo. Have to get rid of the damn thing. But this is important, this moment. Gabriel Wright, sharing his inner thoughts with me. His truths.

Usually I sit quietly, patiently. Silence encourages someone to continue talking, to fill the space. But today I can't.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," I say. "Tell me more. Did your sleeping issues start when they died? And excuse me for a moment, please. I just need to grab a new pen."

I'm on my feet, moving toward the frame. I used to love that photo. It made me smile every time I looked over at it. But now my husband's smiling face no longer looks joyous to me. It's marred with the knowledge of what you did. What I allowed you to do. A glass of new pens sits nearby, and I reach for one, simultaneously reaching for you—hoping, as blood thrums through my veins, that I can move it before he notices.

A loud slap echoes around the room as the frame smacks face down against the wood of the shelf.

Gabriel immediately stands. "Are you okay? Do you need help?" He takes a step toward me—toward the photo I've just pretended to accidentally knock over.

I wave him off. "Oh no, thank you. It's fine. I'm so sorry to interrupt. Tell me about your family."

He eases back on the couch, uncertain. As though manners dictate that he help me.

I like that about him.

Settling back in my chair, I offer a warm smile. "Please, continue."

It takes a moment, but then he does. Gabriel dives right into the deep end. He tells me things I already know—how his wife and child were mowed down. How they were killed instantly. But he also tells me things that I didn't know, like how his daughter was hearing impaired and wore hearing aids, and his wife came from a wealthy family. I listen, riveted, but when he talks about their funeral, I find myself wondering if he'll mention where they were buried. But he doesn't, and there's no way to ask. I scribble detailed notes, knowing I'll pore over them a million times tonight. I'll try to remember every face he made, every emotion that spilled from his warm eyes. I suddenly wish I recorded my sessions.

I'm also intensely aware that my behavior is anything but professional. That accepting him as a patient—which I've effectively already done by continuing this session—is morally wrong. And yet another thing I could get in trouble for with the medical board. Big trouble. But it's like the universe wants me to right my wrongs.

Or… and I can't help returning to this again. Or it's not a coincidence he keeps popping up in my life. I squirm at that thought, at why he might be here besides truly wanting help. Except I started this all by following him.

"What do you think?" Gabriel asks.

A pause of silence. I haven't been listening. Too lost in my own thoughts to hear a word he's said in the last minute or two.

"I think…" I summon my inner therapist, think of the common phrases I've repeated to my patients over the years. "It's likely you're dealing with something that really digs at your subconscious."

He tilts his head, gazing at me, and I start to panic that I've said the wrong thing, that my response to whatever he's said is inappropriate.

But eventually, he nods. "Yeah, I think you're probably right. My sister thinks I never really dealt with their loss, that it's hitting me now, and that's why I can't sleep."

I consider the smiles, the laughter, the happiness I'd witnessed. It was all a facade the entire time.

"That is definitely possible. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure." He rubs at his face with one hand, a gesture that seems almost uncharacteristic for this man who usually seems so collected, so confident. It's like a crack in his shell, and I want to peer into it—to understand what lies beneath so I can help. "I should've been with them that night. But I wasn't. I…" A loaded silence follows. Another downcast look, flexing of his hands. I notice the glint of metal on his hand, his ring finger—a wedding ring. One I've never seen him wear before, and I'm certain I've looked. "I have a lot of guilt," he concludes.

At that moment, my timer beeps. I want more than anything to grab it and shut it off and tell him to go on. But that's not what a therapist would do. It's what the twisted part of me wants to do, the part that is hardly acting professional. And I need to maintain at least a pretense of professionalism. He is a patient, after all.

"I guess we save the guilt for the next session." Gabriel smiles, and it's real—or at least it seems that way. Though again there's that niggle—or maybe he's been fooling me this whole time.

There are just too many maybes.

Maybe he's really not happy.

Maybe he's not okay.

Maybe he really does need professional help.

Maybe we have far more in common than I ever fathomed.

Maybe he knows who I am.

Or… maybe not.

"Yes, that sounds good. Gabriel, I'm so pleased that you're seeking help. It was a pleasure to meet you today." I stand and usher him to the door. I want to tell him to call immediately and make another appointment—that sooner would be better.

But I control myself.

"Hey, have we…" He hesitates in the doorway and turns, studying me with a furrowed brow. "Have we ever met before?"

I respond quickly. Too quickly. "No, I don't think so."

My heart races. Though I can't help but feel oddly pleased that something about me is memorable to him.

Gabriel shrugs, steps through the doorway. "Something about you is familiar. I'm sure it will come to me."

After he's gone, I lean my forehead against the door. God, I hope not.