Chapter 27 Now

Rebecca, I'm so glad to see you today." I pull out a pen and a notepad, writing her name at the top. She sits in the same spot on the couch, legs crossed, wearing high heels and a short sundress she had to tuck carefully under her bottom, as though it's July. Once again, she's dressed revealingly—which in and of itself is fine. People can express themselves however they want to. But it's a cool day, overcast, wind rustling through the early spring leaves just budding, and she must be freezing.

"Thanks." She's folded in on herself, shoulders curved. Hands pressed to her knee, Rebecca studies the bookshelf to my right as though it's filled with something besides out-of-date, boring medical texts. Today I've kept my mind on work. Kept focused on my patients, and only occasionally let my mind wander to Gabriel. I've been texting with Robert, flirty texts, full of winking emojis. It feels cozy and warm, and I know that when this session ends, I'll have messages from him.

"How have you been doing since our last session?" I ask.

"Okay."

I tilt my head, leaving silence, hoping she'll go on. Last time it took her a bit to warm up, too. I want to give her the space for that to happen again.

"Anything new?" I finally say when a solid minute has passed. Rebecca is one of my youngest patients—I don't see children or teenagers, so I rarely have patients reluctant to speak with me. Adults come to therapy for help. Even if it's hard to get to what they really want to say, they naturally fill the silence talking about something.

"I have a new boyfriend." Her eyes shine with the word boyfriend. Discomfort flits through me—she's undeniably obsessive. We've barely skimmed the surface of what we can work on together, but the diagnoses tumble through my brain, interwoven like spaghetti. She needs help. Once I would have known exactly what to do, what to say to start her on that journey. Now that flicker of self-doubt rears its ugly head. But I can do this.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. His name is Steve. We met online."

I fight to keep my face neutral. There's nothing wrong with meeting a partner online. Heck, that's how I met Robert. But Rebecca seems to be bouncing from one man to the next. No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, I realize I'm not much better these days. While Robert kissed me, while his hips were pressed against mine, while his hot breath warmed my skin, I was thinking of Gabriel.

I clear my throat. "Steve. Tell me more. What do you like about him?"

My hope is to focus on the traits that will create a positive relationship for her. And to let her share her frustrations, so we can plan how she handles them—hopefully in a more resilient, appropriate way than showing up at Steve's work or stalking him. Especially if poor behaviors were modeled for her growing up, that's likely what she'll turn to now. But maybe we can create a better relationship. Even if she has deeper underlying issues.

The thing about therapy is you can't tell people what to do. You can guide them, but their realizations have to be theirs alone. I'm not planning her life—I'm helping her learn to plan her own life, hopefully in a more adaptive way.

"He's cute. And he plays baseball for St. John's University. I like the way he looks at me. Like I'm special." She stops, nibbles on her fingernail, and glances nervously over at me. Our eyes meet for the briefest moment. "He brought me flowers for our first date. No one's ever done that."

"How sweet of him."

"Yes, he's really sweet." Indecisiveness flashes across her pretty features. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "I don't know. There's something about him. I really like him."

Something about him.

I can understand that. Something about Gabriel…

No, no, no. I press the point of my pen to the paper too forcefully, and it scrapes, ripping it.

"Anyway, we decided to be girlfriend and boyfriend. And I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead." I lean forward, smiling kindly. She's opening up. Acknowledging to me and to herself that she wants help.

"Is it… is it normal to think about someone, like, all the time?" Her eyes widen. "Because, I mean, I think I love him. And I think about him all the time. When I wake up, when I'm taking a shower, when I'm in class, even right now. I mean, I'm talking about him, right?" She laughs nervously.

I keep my psychiatrist face on—kind, impartial. A hint of a smile. But inside, Gabriel's name pounds with the beating of my heart. The thought of him. How I almost feel like we've been together, the way I imagined it was his hair I ran my fingers through, his mouth I was kissing, his hardness I pressed up against…

Even though I know it was Robert.

Is it normal to think about someone all the time?

My gaze darts toward my desk, where my phone is stowed away, ringer off. I know Robert is not Gabriel. I know that. And yet I'm using him. Using him as a replacement for my own obsession.

"Early in relationships, we often think of the person a lot," I hear myself say. "It can be euphoric. It's because of the release of dopamine in our brains. Of course, that doesn't make it any less real."

It's a neutral answer. Not telling her she's wrong. Not telling myself I'm wrong. Just the facts.

And the fact is, I'm not so different from Rebecca. Although from I am making different choices. I've chosen to step away from my obsession. To leave him in the past. To focus on Robert, even if I did allow myself that one fantasy.

"Well, it's not all perfect. Like, is that even possible?" She rolls her eyes, breaking my inner monologue. Reminding me she's a patient, and she's twenty-three, and I'm supposed to be helping her. This is an opportunity to help her. To guide her.

"Tell me more about that."

"So…" She huffs out a breath. "Okay, this is kind of embarrassing, but he won't do, you know, certain things." We make eye contact for half a second and she looks away again. "I got really mad at him last night."

I'm missing something. I'm just not sure what.

"Well, our partners certainly can't be mind readers. Have you spoken to him about it?"

"Yes. Oh yes. Every time."

"Every time…?"

"Every time we have sex." Now she looks at me straight-on, a wild glint in her gaze. "I mean, I just want him to do what one of my exes would. Or do it how he would. I mean, sex is about pleasing both people, you know? And if I want it a certain way, he should do that. Right?"

I have to take a moment before I answer. My mind spins out possibilities of what it is she might be asking this new boyfriend, Steve, to do. But before I can ask for clarification, she continues.

"So, the last guy I really liked—the one I thought was the one—I mentioned him last time. He was intense. So intense." She licks her lips. "He liked everything, and I mean everything. And there was no holding back. I didn't even know I liked it like that… like, so rough." She exhales shakily, as though even the thought of what she and her ex used to do has her bothered. "He'd shove my face into a pillow until I could, like, barely breathe. And it was…" She seems to search for the right word. "I mean, a little scary the first time, but I looked it up. It's called breath-play. And it's a whole thing. And it totally takes it up a level. You know what I mean?" Again, she looks at me for affirmation.

"What do you mean, it ‘takes it up a level'?" I lean forward with interest. I've heard of this before. But it's outside my realm of experience. Both in my own sex life and in treating patients. I've never had a client come to me and tell me a partner kept them from breathing—at least, not outside the realm of abuse. Is that what really happened, and she's confusing it with something positive?

"So there are all these studies, and by restricting oxygen, it like, enhances the sexual experience or something." She uses air quotation marks as though quoting an actual study. "He'd shove my face in the pillow when we were doing it doggie-style, or he'd, like, lock his elbow around my neck." She mimics it for me. "But, like, he could do it just right. And the orgasms—like nothing else I've ever experienced. And he just knew how to…" Her face pinks. "Pound," she whispers. "I didn't know I liked it like that. But I do. I really do."

This time, I'm silent because I have no words. I copy a few of the things down that's she said—because at some point I'll have to wrap my mind around it. Really understand how this does or doesn't weave into everything else she's dealing with now and has dealt with in the past. Or maybe this is good. Sex can be a place for play, for role-play, for acting out things that are not okay in real life.

"So you want…" I swallow, staring at the words I've written. Pound. Choke. Face smashed in pillow. It's like I'm sketching out an erotic scene. "You want Steve to do what this ex did?"

"Yes!" She practically explodes off her seat. "And he won't. So I'm not satisfied. And I told him that, which of course pissed him off because it questioned his masculinity or something. He wound up trying it, but he wouldn't actually do it hard enough that I couldn't breathe. Which completely ruins the whole point, and I had to imagine it was my ex, not Steve, to finally get off."

Rebecca goes on and on, but I'm stuck on how she pretended Steve was her ex.

Just like how I'd pretended Robert was Gabriel.

It makes me wonder. What else do I have in common with my patient? Would I like it a little rough, too?