Chapter 30 Now

Most psychiatrists would never admit it, but there are patients we dread. Mrs. Rensler, who only wants to talk about her daughter's life and how depressed she is that Gracie doesn't make more time for her. Mr. Altman, who, lucky for me, is no longer a patient. He'd been mandated to undergo court-ordered psychiatry after beating his wife and complained that she'd made him do it, with her constant nagging to get a job. But then there are patients we look forward to. Perhaps we see them making progress, or they're just interesting people with unique stories. I have a few of those. But the reason I've been anxiously awaiting my next patient is a very selfish one.

Rebecca Jordan is a looking glass for me lately. Listening to her gives me a dose of reality. Reminds me where things could progress if I keep up my inappropriate behavior. And since I've barely been able to stop myself from going past Gabriel's apartment twice in so many days, I really need the reminder today.

Sarah escorts Rebecca into my office. Today she's dressed even more provocatively than usual—like a schoolgirl with a white button-up blouse tied at the waist, her slim, tan midriff on full display, and a navy and black plaid pleated skirt that is so short I hope she doesn't drop anything. Knee-high white socks and conservative oxford shoes complete the outfit.

I smile. "Hi, Rebecca. How are you?"

She plops herself down on the couch, much like a child. "I'm tired."

"Oh? Are you not sleeping well?"

She shakes her head. "I broke up with my boyfriend."

"Is it because of what we spoke about? You felt you weren't sexually compatible?"

She twirls a golden lock around one finger and shrugs. "I guess. We started fighting a lot, too. I accidentally called him the wrong name during sex once or twice, and it upset him."

"I see. Are you second-guessing your decision to break things off and that's why you're not sleeping well?"

She looks away. "No, I don't care about him. My ex is seeing someone."

"This is a different ex than the one you just broke up with?"

Rebecca nods.

"Okay, and that's what's upsetting you? Interfering with your sleep?"

"Of course it's upsetting me. We should still be together. He was the love of my life. And I was his."

"And what happened to end your relationship with him?"

"He was married."

"Oh." I'm not sure what else to say. So I wait until she speaks again.

"He was going to leave his wife for me."

Of course he was. Aren't they all?

"Why didn't he?"

"How should I know!" Her raised voice catches me off guard. I startle and sit back, putting a few more inches between us. I don't usually do that. In my line of work, patients have outbursts. I'm fairly used to it. Today I'm just jumpy. On edge. Because he still hasn't made contact. Because I haven't been sleeping well, either.

"How long ago did you and your ex break up?"

"I don't know. A while ago." She looks out the window again, then very randomly smiles. "I slept with someone the day before I broke up with him."

"Him? You mean Steve? The man you just broke up with?" I'm getting lost in all of these unnamed men.

Rebecca rolls her eyes. "Who else would it be?"

I'm not about to point out that she's talked about three men in the first five minutes of our session, so it would be reasonable to be confused. Instead, I nod and offer a smile. "Right. Okay. Do you like this other man? The one you slept with before breaking things off with Steve?"

She shrugs. "Not particularly. He was nice, I guess."

Rebecca and I are probably only a little more than a decade apart, yet I feel like it's an entire generation when it comes to sex and dating. I'd never used an app for dating until recently, nor had a one-night stand. Hell, the term hookup hadn't even been coined when I started dating Connor—at least, not in my vocabulary.

"So this other man wasn't the reason you broke up with Steve? It was just sex?"

"Steve and I had a fight, so I stopped at a bar on my way home. A guy came over and tried to buy me a drink. I didn't want to waste time if he was like Steve in bed, so I told him I liked it rough and asked if he could do that for me. If he was into that, I said he should keep his wallet in his pocket and come to my place instead."

Oh my. That doesn't sound safe.

"So you went back to your place and he… fulfilled your need?"

Rebecca shrugged. "It was better than with Steve. But something was missing. He smacked my ass and pulled my hair and stuff. But I could tell he was just doing it for me. It wasn't really driven by passion, like it was with my ex."

I look over at my desk, the spot of my own passionate encounter. I picture Gabriel behind me, holding me down. Pinning me. Goose bumps prickle my arms. And I realize Rebecca is talking again, yet I haven't heard her.

"Anyway, he texted again. But I don't think I'm going to see him."

"The guy from the bar?"

She nods. "I'll just ghost him."

Ghost him. Like Gabriel seems to have done to me. I shift in my seat and recross my legs. Let's talk about that a little more…

"May I ask why you would ghost him, rather than telling him you had a nice time but aren't interested in seeing him again?"

"Why should I? It's not like we were dating. He didn't take me out to dinner or bring me flowers. I didn't make a commitment to him. We didn't even talk much. If he doesn't see it for what it is, then he's dumb."

My shoulders slump. I am to Gabriel what the bar guy is to Rebecca—not even worthy of a courtesy text. But Gabriel and I have more than that, don't we? We've been talking for a while. Albeit because I'm his therapist and he's my patient, but we have something more than a bar pickup, right?

Or maybe we don't.

Maybe I'm the only one even thinking about it after.

It dawns on me that my patient is counseling me now. Worse, I'm asking questions and probing, in search of advice for myself, rather than trying to counsel her. Not to mention my patient has compulsion issues. Probably not the best place to procure dating advice for myself. Or sex advice. Because Gabriel and I are not dating. And I need to remember that.

I muddle through the rest of the session with Rebecca, doing my best to counsel a woman who is obsessive with men, when I've spent the last week, the last few months, even, with my own obsession.

I'm exhausted when it's over, thrilled she's my last patient of the day. On my way home, I stop at the liquor store and pick up two bottles of wine. Not because I plan on drinking both tonight but because the guy behind the counter smiled at me like I was a regular. It's semantics, I know. Buying two at once or going in twice means I drink the same amount of wine, but at least I don't have to become the Norm of Cheers at the local liquor store.

At home, I eat a cheese stick and fry up a bag of frozen pierogi, only to eat two and toss the rest in the garbage. I finish off my second glass of wine and draw a hot bath. My third is three-quarters of the way done by the time the tub fills, and I might as well chug the rest back so I can slip into the tub with a nice full glass, right? So that's what I do. I'm feeling pretty good now. My neck is relaxed, my mind slows down, and I almost feel calm again. Alcohol is a great therapist like that.

Before I climb into the tub, I tie up my hair, light a candle, and call up some soft jazz on my phone. It's nice. Feels serene. So I keep drinking, sink into the warm water, and let it take away all my troubles. But then my cell chimes with an alert. And I'm the type of person who needs to know what I'm missing. Even when I'm about to finish my fourth glass of wine. So I swipe into my phone to see what the alert was for and find a text message from Robert. Robert, who doesn't ghost me. Robert, who takes me to nice dinners and is a gentleman, even when I go home with him, because he knows I'm not ready.

I'm not ready.

It's laughable, really.

I'm not ready for sex with a man who is a great catch, one who kisses me lovingly and seems completely into me. But I'm ready for breath-play and banging a patient on my desk.

I hold my phone in the air, high above my head, and slip down under the water, immersing the hair I tied up and hadn't been planning on getting wet. I count the seconds as I hold my breath. Fifteen. Then thirty. Sixty. When I hit ninety, I feel pressure in my head. Yet I push to a hundred and five. Ten more seconds tick by, and I burst out of the water with a big splash, panting. Water sloshes over the sides of the tub.

The candle goes out.

And now my hair needs to be blow-dried.

Also, my glass is empty again.

So it's time to get out.

I stumble out of the tub, wrap myself in a towel, and look down at the bathroom mat. I've never sat on it. It looks comfy. So I use the wall as my support to slide down to the ground, then grab my phone again.

Maybe Robert is too nice a guy for me.

Maybe I'm built like Rebecca now. Maybe the accident changed me. I need someone a little rough around the edges. Being punished seems fitting.

I can't picture Robert holding me down. Yanking my hair. He's probably gentle and kind in bed. Warm and caring.

With that thought, I call up the dating app. I've avoided it lately. No use finding a third man when I can't figure out what the hell is going on with the two I have. Not that I have Gabriel. But whatever.

I scroll for a while, randomly swiping right on any guy who looks a little rougher—guys with tattoos, guys with beady eyes. Motorcycle? Perfect! And then I go to the Columbia website to look at Gabriel's picture. He's even more handsome in person. I stare at his smiling face, wondering what he's doing right this minute. But I also remember all the young blondes he's spent time with.

My heart sinks. He's probably having dinner with a hot, young one right now. Wherever he is. I'm not sure if that thought makes me queasy or maybe it's the four glasses of wine on a mostly empty stomach. But I can't sit upright anymore. So I lie down on the nice rug I've never sat on and pull the towel around me.

I'll just shut my eyes for a few minutes. Then I'll get up and go to bed. I need to brush my teeth and plug my phone into the charger, too.

And that's the last thought I remember when I wake up the next morning—with grimy breath, a dead cell phone, an imprint of the nice bathroom rug on the side of my face, and a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that something bad is going to happen.