Chapter 20 Now

Hey." Sarah pops her head into my office. "Package for you."

"Oh, thank you. I ordered some new notebooks the other day."

She sets the box on my desk and lingers. "Would you mind if I leave at three today? I need to take my mom to the doctor. Your last appointment will be done by then."

My brows knit. "That's fine. But I didn't think I was done so early today? I thought appointments went until five."

"They did. But you had me fire your four o'clock, remember? Mr. Wright…"

A wash of panic rushes over me. "You spoke to him?"

She nods. "I had to call him three times, but I finally reached him this morning."

"How did he take the news?"

"Surprisingly well—no pushback. He was polite and said he under-stood."

I should be relieved, but some other emotion is there, too. I pause, searching for what it is, and realize I'm disappointed. And worse, distracted enough by my disappointment that it takes me another couple of seconds to appreciate the enormity of what's just happened. It's over. Gabriel is out of my life. Once and for all.

I'm lost in my head for I'm not sure how long, but when my line of sight finally comes back into focus, I find Sarah watching me. She tilts her head. "Can I ask why you fired Mr. Wright as a patient? He's the only new patient you've had me refer out."

"It—I wasn't the right fit for him."

She bites her lip and takes a half step in. "We're friends, aren't we, Meredith? I mean, I know you're my boss and everything. But I like to think of you as a friend, too."

Clearly she's asking for a reason, so I hesitate before answering. "Umm, of course."

"Okay." She laughs. "I can see my even asking that question made you nervous. So I'm not going to pry too much. All I'm going to say is this: I know how by-the-book you are. But I also noticed the way Gabriel Wright looked at you the last few times he was here. And the way you looked at him. So if you quit it so you can hit it, I'm all for it. You go, girl. You deserve to be happy, boss." She winks, and I pretend heat isn't crawling up my face. "Your next patient will be here any minute. I'll go grab you your midmorning coffee."

I think my jaw is still hanging open when she closes the door.

The way Gabriel looks at me?

The way I look at Gabriel?

I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. If only Sarah knew exactly how by-the-book I am.

Luckily, I don't have time to dwell on her observation. I have patients starting soon and need to clear my mind, distract myself from all things Gabriel Wright. So I reach into my drawer for the letter opener and use it to slice open the packing tape in the middle of the box Sarah's left behind. What I find inside is definitely not what I expected. There are no notebooks. Instead, there is… a Hello Kitty figurine. At first I assume it's a mistake, a simple shipping error once again. But then my brain connects a bunch of dots I wasn't even aware were there. In psychiatry terms, I suffer a somatic flashback.

The photo in the newspaper the day after the accident.

The pool of red blood on the white concrete sidewalk.

Connor's mangled car off to the side.

The tarp covering a small body.

So, so small.

The Hello Kitty stuffed animal, no more than a foot from the dead little girl.

I clutch my throat. I can't breathe. I really can't breathe.

My hands are shaking, yet I somehow reach into the package and pull out the figurine.

The small covered body.

So, so small.

Abruptly, I drop the toy back into the box and pull over the flap in search of a label.

My name is there. And it's my address. But the wrong suite number.

Just like last time.

Sarah knocks and opens the door. "Your appointment is—" Her brows furrow. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"This isn't my package."

"What do you mean?"

"I ordered notebooks. I didn't order this."

She walks to my desk and peeks inside the box. "Oh, I love Hello Kitty. It's made such a resurgence lately."

"It has?"

She nods. "My niece has a big collection. It's kind of cool how long they've been around. I had them as a kid, too. Didn't you?"

I shake my head.

"Do you want me to email Amazon and send it back?"

I blink a few times. "You think it was a mistake?"

"Of course. What else could it be?"

A reminder? A threat? A warning? My mind immediately goes to that group that put up flyers. Mothers Against Abusive Doctors. Those people want me to never forget. I once had a patient whose abusive husband beat her to within inches of death. He'd been physically abusing her for years, but that time she finally had him locked up. Somehow he sent her gifts from prison—the same model pot he'd fractured her skull with, the wine bottle he'd smashed and used to slice open her face. It's called an anchoring tool—planting an item intended to paralyze someone with fear.

"Meredith?" Sarah puts a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and nod. "Yeah. Just tired. That's all."

She doesn't look like she believes me, but at least she takes the box from my office so I don't have to look at it anymore. "I'll give you a few minutes before I bring Mr. Halloran in."

"Thanks."

Though a few minutes won't help. The damage is done. I'm on edge yet again. A Hello Kitty figurine. Not too long ago a book about a stalker. Coincidence? How many is one too many of those? Three? Six? Or do you not figure out the magic number until something really bad happens…

I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything when Sarah shows my first patient in. I'm not ready, yet I'm grateful for the interruption. Work has become my fortress, acting as a barrier from my negative thoughts and worries. Session one feels like driving over rough terrain. Session two, a few speed bumps. By the time my last patient arrives, I'm back to smooth sailing.

Henry Milton. He's been with me for years. Depression. And a pathological liar. The latter is a term people throw around to describe someone with a penchant for telling tall tales, but a true pathological liar is very different from a guy who describes his fish as twice its size or weaves stories about conquests that never happened. The average, common liar lies for a reason—to get out of trouble, to avoid embarrassment, to make themselves seem more important than they are. But a pathological liar makes up stories that have no clear benefit to them. It's a compulsion. And it's often difficult to tell if anything they're saying is the truth. They perfect their craft. But with Henry, I can usually recognize his lies by the level of detail and the outlandishness of the story.

"My friend got hit by a car," he begins today. "Prius. They're so quiet. He was crossing on East Sixty-Fourth against the light. He made it halfway and—" He smacks his hands together. "Splat."

"Oh, that's terrible. Is he okay?"

He shakes his head. "He broke his back. Well, they're not sure if it was broken. Definitely sprained. But he was in a lot of pain. They went in to do exploratory surgery. He's originally from Ohio, so his parents were driving up to be with him. But he died on the table."

"He died during surgery?"

He nods but looks away. Another telltale sign that Henry is lying. I briefly ponder if Dr. Alexander can read me so easily.

"His parents are suing. They think it was the anesthesia. His father's a big-time lawyer, too. He's got commercials on TV. Real channels like Fox, not just local stations. And get this—the guy who was driving the Prius is a pretty famous actor. Well, not too famous. But famous enough that he'll probably have deep pockets for a settlement."

Now I'm certain this story is fabricated. Because he just keeps spinning it, like a spider—all different directions and round and round. If I don't stop him, in ten minutes the story will have morphed into something unrecognizable from where it started.

"Henry…" I use a stern but tempered tone. "Did your friend really have an accident?"

He frowns and changes the subject, rather than answer my question.

"I don't think the guy who was subbing for you while you were out liked me."

"Why do you say that?"

He shrugs. Then babbles on with a new story. This one about a woman he's started talking to who I'm not sure is real. I should be paying better attention, but I've been distracted all day. Ever since Sarah broke the news that a certain patient is no longer a patient. Of course, the mistaken delivery didn't help matters, either. Lately my life has felt a lot like trudging through mud. More and more things weigh me down as I go, but I have to keep pushing forward.

My buzzer goes off while Henry is in the midst of yet another story. I wait until he finishes and then wrap things up. Sarah pops in as soon as he's gone.

"I'm going to head out in a few. Are you sticking around?"

I nod. "I have some session notes to catch up on."

"I'm going to make myself a green tea for the road. You want one?"

"I'd love that. Thank you."

After she's gone, I stare down at my daily appointment sheet. Gabriel Wright is the only name not crossed off. Deep down I know cutting all ties is the right thing to do. There shouldn't have even been any ties to cut. Yet I feel a heavy sense of loss. And I can't stop myself from wondering a dozen what-ifs…

What if he wasn't who he was, and he and I had matched on the dating app instead of Robert? It's lunacy to even think about such a thing, yet I can't deny that part of me was attracted to him. Would I be dating him right now? Would I have met him for drinks the other night, instead of Robert? Would I have gone home with Gabriel? Slept with him? There's some sort of chemistry there. Sadly, his two-minute appearance during my date was a stark reminder that I don't have that with Robert. No spark. No fire. No pull. Which stinks because Robert is a great guy—the guy I should've been dreaming about last night, rather than my patient. Or ex-patient now.

I waste another hour sitting at my desk. My mind isn't focused enough to write the session notes I need to get done. So I decide to pack up for the day and take my work home with me. I have my own appointment with Dr. Alexander first, but maybe after that I'll take a bath with some lavender-scented salts to try to clear my mind. A glass of wine while I soak might help, too.

I haven't even touched the green tea Sarah made before she left. It's cold, so I nuke it in the microwave and dump it into my travel mug to take with me. As I get to the door, I'm still in the fog that's surrounded me all day. I'm also balancing an armful of files, my laptop, and my Yeti, and I have to shift it all to one side to dig my office keys from my purse. My nose is down as I swing the door open and walk through—and crash straight into a person.

One by one, the files in my hands start to slip, and I bend forward to catch them. Which causes my tea to tip over. I must not have sealed the lid right, because the plastic pops off and the entire contents of my large travel mug spill, all over the person I've crashed into. It happens in a split second.

"Shoot. I'm so sor—" I freeze when I get a look at the handsome face looking down at me.

Gabriel.

He reaches out to steady me as I wobble. "Are you all right?"

I stare. "I, uh, I didn't see you. What are you doing here?"

"I came to speak to you." He lifts his sopping-wet dress shirt away from his skin. "That's some hot stuff you got there."

I shake my head and snap myself out of it. I've just spilled scalding tea on this man. "I'm so sorry. Let me grab you something."

Gabriel follows me into the office, where I go straight to Sarah's bottom drawer. It's packed with ketchup packets, soy sauce, utensils, and wads of napkins from different takeout places. Grabbing a bunch of the napkins, I nervously blot at Gabriel's shirt. But when I feel the ridges of hard abdomen underneath, I realize I'm being inappropriate and apologize again, handing him the napkins.

He cleans up as best as he can.

"I really am sorry. I'll pay for your dry cleaning."

"That's not necessary."

"I insist." I take the wet napkins from his hands and toss them into the garbage. When I turn back around, the room is quiet, and there's no distraction to focus on anymore. Gabriel waits until our eyes meet to speak.

"Why are you dumping me as a patient?" he asks.

My heart races, and suddenly I feel how warm it is in here. "I, um, I have to apologize about that. We're too busy to take on any more new patients. I should've known that before we started working together."

Gabriel squints. "Too busy?"

I nod and look away. "I think you'll really like Dr. Pendleton. He's a wonderful listener."

His heavy gaze sears into my skin. "What if I pay you double?"

"Oh, no. This isn't about money. It really isn't."

Gabriel is quiet for way too long. I start to question if he can hear my heart smacking against my rib cage. When he does eventually speak, his voice is low—intimate, almost.

"Meredith?"

My eyes jump to meet his. I hate that I like the way my name sounds, rolling off his tongue in that soft tone.

"You're the first woman I've connected with since my wife died." He pauses, then adds quickly, "The first person, I mean."

I swallow.

"The other night after our session, I slept six hours straight. That's a record since…" He pauses and lets the unspoken words hang thick in the air. "Do you think maybe you could squeeze me in for a few more weeks at least? Let me get a little further along before I make the switch to someone new? I feel like I'm making real progress, and switching right now would only set me back."

I open my mouth to say no, but the words won't come out. How could I possibly say no to a patient at an important crossroads?

How could I possibly say no to helping the man I had a hand in destroying?

The answer is I can't.

So I take a deep breath and force a smile. "Sure. Of course. Give the office a call tomorrow and Sarah will get you on the calendar."

And just like that, I'm sucked back in again.