Chapter 17 Now

Screen time average this week: 4 hours and 16 minutes per day.

"Go away," I mutter, swiping the notification so it disappears. I'm well aware of the ridiculous amount of time I've spent on my phone. And I'm also aware that 90 percent of it has been on this dating app. It's how I've distracted myself since my appointment with Dr. Alexander last week.

For once, though, at least my time is occupied by something other than Gabriel. I've started chatting with someone new. Someone I find interesting, even. That's a good thing. I should embrace that, and I do, typing a message to Robert, whom I swiped right on two days ago. When you swipe right for a guy—and he swipes right for you, too—a heart explodes across the screen, tiny hearts coming down like snowflakes. Then you have the option to message them. To reach out.

In a moment of weakness—or desperation—or maybe it was the three glasses of sauvignon blanc—I'd typed out a message and hit send. He'd typed back immediately. And now we can't stop.

My heart beats faster for a reason other than something to do with Gabriel Wright. My thoughts turn warm and fuzzy when a notification tells me Robert has sent me a new message. For the first time since the last time you told me you loved me and really meant it, I feel wanted. Which now, I realize, I've missed.

I tap out another message to Robert—add an emoji, then delete it, because maybe that's old-school? Do people still use emojis?

I haven't texted a man regularly in ages.

"Excuse me, Meredith?" My office door cracks open, Sarah peering through it.

"Yes?" I look up from the phone, fingers pausing.

She's silent, and for a second, I think something's wrong.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing. It's just… you're smiling. I haven't seen you smile in a long time."

"I am?" It takes a moment, and I realize I am, my mouth is drawn up in a smile—a freaking smile. That same warmth lighting my body.

"You look happy." Sarah opens the door wider, takes a half step in. "It's so good to see you like this."

A flush works its way up my face. I tilt my head down at the phone, then smile back up at her. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

She laughs. "Who would I tell?"

"I don't know." The words come out fast, flustered. "I joined a dating app. I'm talking to someone." I've never sought Sarah's approval before. Never expected it or wanted it. I pay her to do her job, she does it well, and we exchange pleasantries appropriate for the relationship we have. But her face lights up, and I'm relieved.

"Oh, that's wonderful! I love dating apps. That's how I met Matthew. I don't tell people that, usually. They can be so judgmental about meeting people online. But I think everyone does it these days. People just don't like admitting it."

"Oh." I find myself nodding. "It's my first time, but this guy is really interesting."

"Tell me about him." Sarah perches on the edge of the chair closest to my desk, and suddenly I'm back in college, telling my roommate about you. Except you're dead, and I'm talking about a guy I've never met—to my assistant, of all people. But this is good. I need to do this, need to move on.

"Well, I don't know much. His name is Robert, and he's a doctor—"

Sarah squeals, and it makes me laugh—laugh. I tell her what little I know, warming up to the topic. He's an oncologist and works in a clinic. He likes tea, hates coffee, but I won't hold it against him—and a myriad of other random facts we've managed to share in our dozens of messages.

"So, do you have a date planned?" Sarah asks five minutes later.

The high of talking about Robert, about our messages, leaves me in a single exhale.

"No. Not yet." My gaze travels back to my phone, the screen dark, waiting for my finger to touch the glass and awaken it.

"Do you want to?"

I think about that a long moment, and I'm about to say yes—I'm sure I am—when a buzzer sounds from the outer room and Sarah leaps from the chair.

"Oh, shoot. I have the outer office locked because I was eating lunch. Your twelve o'clock must be here." She's gone in the next moment, and I'm left alone, staring at my phone. Thinking about whether I want to meet Robert—to see the real person behind the messages—or if maybe there's something magical in the idea of him. If maybe that's enough for now.

"Rebecca Jordan is here." Sarah stands at the door again, but she looks as though she has a secret this time. "New patient."

"Okay." I tilt my head. "Is something wrong?"

"No." She grins. "I just wanted to say, you should meet him." She winks and disappears.

A second later, a tall, slim woman is ushered in.

"Ms. Jordan?" I rise and cross the room, extending my hand. "Welcome."

She smiles back, and I can't help but notice she's gorgeous—not just run-of-the-mill pretty but stunning. Probably perfectly symmetrical. High cheekbones and a narrow jaw, heart-shaped lips. A faint blush to her cheeks. The sort of face you imagine someone will "discover" someday, and soon you'll see her peeking out of a magazine as the face of some brand. In fact, I'm not so certain I haven't seen her on a page already. There's a vague familiarity to her. Her hair is long and blond and so smooth she surely has had it treated with something. It extends almost to her rear. And though her insurance info shows she's twenty-three, she looks no older than someone in high school.

"Thanks. I'm a little nervous." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking everywhere but at me—not wanting eye contact, it seems. Hopefully, by the end of the session, I can help her feel comfortable enough to look at me.

"That's normal. I think most of my patients feel nervous when they first come in. Thankfully, by our second session, they're usually pretty relaxed. I think you will be, too." I observe her a moment as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She tries to decide what to do with her hands before hugging them around her tiny midsection. Rebecca wears joggers and a strappy tank top, so she must have a jacket on the coat hook outside. It's not nearly warm enough to go without. I realize, suddenly, she's struck a chord with me—some maternal instinct to cover her up. To tell her it will all be okay. Usually I'm better at staying objective.

"I have a few questions I ask everyone at their first appointment, and then we can talk about whatever you like. Okay?"

She nods quickly, eyes still anywhere but on mine. I run through my list of questions, taking notes as I go. Minimal family support. She's in college but only part-time. Works at a coffee shop. No real friends, just a roommate she gets along with somewhat. Eventually, I get around to the most important question:

"So, what brings you in today?"

Rebecca goes still, as though bracing herself. "Um… It's kind of embarrassing."

"I've heard everything, Rebecca. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help you."

She nods slowly and sits a little straighter. "Okay. Well, I kind of have like a bad history with men. Um, my dad was never really around. My roommate thinks that's why." She flicks her gaze to me—green eyes, flecks of amber in them—as though looking for confirmation that this is why she has this problem.

"Tell me more."

"Okay. I just… I always have a boyfriend. And I like that." Her voice speeds up a notch. "I mean, I like being with someone. But my roommate told me—she told me maybe I should take a break. But I don't want to take a break. And then she said that that's not normal. Not not seeing someone sometimes. Or at least between…" She stops and takes a moment to collect herself, smoothing a hand over her hair. "And when I'm with someone, I want to really be with them. I don't understand doing things halfway. Like, what's the point of casual dating if you know you want to be with him? If you're spending all your time together, why would you not just live together? And if you're living together, I mean, isn't that a sign? And why do—why do men get scared at that point? I mean, if they ask me to move in with them…" Her voice trails off, and I wait, letting her think.

"And then sometimes they just break it off, and that's not okay," she continues. "I mean, if you love someone, you don't just break up with them. My last boyfriend, this guy named Collin, he said I should think about if I liked the way my first name sounded with his last name—he said that after two dates. Two dates!" She looks at me now, so wrapped up in her story she's forgotten to hold back. Left the shyness behind. "So I think that means he's serious, and then one day he just texts me that he needs space. So I showed up at his job, which is perfectly reasonable, if you ask me. But he got…" Another pause. Another deep breath. Her hands lower to the couch cushions at her side, French-tipped nails scraping the fabric. "I mean, he called me crazy. He got a restraining order. I didn't deserve that. He's the one who said I should try out his last name. He was the crazy one, not me. He got all afraid of commitment and just…" Again, her voice trails off.

I feel my own heart pounding for her.

"But I can't give up on him."

"What do you mean?" I have a dozen questions scribbled down, but I'm not sure where to start. She's not the first patient I've had who's hurting from a broken heart. But something is different here. I want to let her continue talking, continue explaining.

"So, I can't go within a certain distance of him. But… but I know we're supposed to be together."

Unease tingles through me. I shift, tilting my head, urging her with silence to go on.

"So I created a fake Instagram account and followed him. And sometimes I—" She stops. "This all stays between us, right?"

"Yes. What you say here is confidential."

"Okay, good." She takes a breath. "I follow him sometimes, too. I know I shouldn't. But what if… what if he needs me? Like he went to the bar with his brother last weekend, and I know sometimes they drink too much. I had to make sure he got home safely. And I just want to know where he's going. You know?" She looks at me imploringly, like I'll tell her this is all normal.

But it's not normal.

In fact, her behavior is incredibly abnormal. The sort of thing that may indicate neglect and abuse in childhood. That may point toward undiagnosed PTSD or possibly even borderline personality disorder. Her affect alone is cause for concern—the quiet, shy girl who suddenly became the passionate, fervent young woman looking for approval in front of me.

And worse…

My own actions flash through my head. Following Gabriel. Stalking him on social media. Sitting outside his work for hours waiting for him to emerge. Searching for his wife's and child's graves.

Not to mention I'm his goddamned therapist.

How is what I'm doing any different than what Rebecca here is doing?

It's not.

"I even pretended I was someone else and messaged him. Just to see what he'd do. He told me he needed space, that he didn't have time to date. And I wanted to see if that was true or if he was lying to me."

I look up from my notes. Her voice has changed—anguish coming through the frustration.

I think about how when Gabriel told me he was on a dating app, I went home and spent hours swiping, to see if I could find him. Thankfully, I didn't. And I've since found Robert, who fills a void I hadn't realized needed filling. Yet I'd started down the same rabbit hole as Rebecca, hadn't I? It's not the same thing, exactly. Gabriel is not an ex-boyfriend I was stalking.

But maybe what I was doing was even worse. Because technically, I was a therapist stalking her patient.

Rebecca breaks down in tears, reaching for a nearby tissue box. I think about myself, across from Dr. Alexander, admitting truths not so different from Rebecca's.

But I stopped. I did. I made a choice, and I stopped, and I'm done now. I need to suggest to Robert that we meet in person for coffee or maybe a drink. I can move on. I will move on.

And yet my gaze travels over to the list of patient names on the printed schedule for tomorrow. Gabriel Wright is still typed there. I haven't canceled, even though I promised Dr. Alexander I would.

I look up at Rebecca and wonder if I'm qualified to be her therapist—since I'm clearly not doing much better than she is.