Chapter 35 Now

I used to enjoy the end of the day. Organizing my files, letting my patients pass back through my mind as I remember how I helped them or try to think of what more I could say or do to get them through whatever they're dealing with.

Today, as I sip supposedly calming chamomile tea, my gaze slips toward the window, checking the sidewalk out in front of my practice.

"Any messages?" I call to Sarah. My voice is strong, confident. I'm anything but.

I've had a dozen messages this week. Eight of them were from Gabriel.

And he didn't stop there. He's emailed, too, filling my inbox with:

Meredith, let's talk—

And

Meredith, don't shut me out. Let's be adults here.

Adults. Adults implies we're mature. That we can have a normal, sane conversation. But that's not possible. He's lying to me. Probably to himself, too. Because he knows who I am. He knows who you were.

I inhale a rattling breath and wrap my cardigan around me more tightly to ward off the chill. It's not cold in the office—it's cold inside me. Cold dread, trying to understand what his long game is. It's all I've thought of these past days.

I thought I was obsessed with him. Now I think he's the one obsessed with me. And that distinction leaves me breathless.

"Sarah?" I call again, because she hasn't answered.

"Sorry, Meredith. I was just taking a message." She hurries in, holding two yellow sheets with notes scrawled across them. "One is Mr. Wright. He said he was returning your call and to put him right through, but you were with a patient." She raises her brows, waiting for me to confirm or deny, or give details. I nod tightly, taking the paper.

"Thank you."

"And this one is from Ms. Nash." She hands over the other note, lingering.

I thank her again and add, "You can head home, Sarah. I appreciate it." Dismissing her. Shutting her out.

She gives me a tight smile and nods, turns to leave. And for a moment, I hope she'll stop. I hope she'll turn around and demand to know what's going on with Gabriel. Probably she thinks we're having some sort of weird affair. Though I don't know in what world a man calls a woman's office and leaves messages with her assistant on nonstop repeat.

I blow out a breath. If it were something a patient was going through, I'd call it stalking.

But can I call it stalking? I mean… who stalked first?

I listen to the sound of Sarah preparing to leave—a drawer opening, closing. Her purse, I know, is now over her shoulder. There's the zip of her jacket, followed by the shuffle of footsteps.

I almost stop her. Almost say, "Can I talk to you?" and tell her everything, because I need someone else's take on it. Am I losing my mind? I might be. I just might be. I take a trembling breath and step forward, toward the door that separates the rooms. I know that at least she won't tell anyone. She's my employee.

But as I open my mouth to call to her, she's gone. The front door closes. And because I'm not yet ready to leave, and because I wouldn't put it past him to show up here, I hurry forward and turn the dead bolt.

Twenty minutes later, I've gathered my belongings. My body is tense, rigid. I wish there was a peephole through my office door. But at least it lets out into a hallway—a hallway where other offices exist in case I need to call for help.

That makes me pause. Do I think Gabriel means me harm?

I can't say yes. But I can't say no, either.

The second I step outside, I swear I feel eyes on me. That creeping, tingling feeling, like someone's about to sneak up behind me. I'd say I'm nearly used to it—I've felt it every day since that night at Gabriel's apartment. And even before that, though I'd chalked it up to being in my head. So it's not new, but you don't get used to feeling like someone's prey. I wore flats today, just in case.

I swallow.

In case I need to be able to run.

I cast a look behind me. The sidewalk is full of people, hurrying home after hours, hand in hand on an early date, mothers grasping children's hands. But no Gabriel. Random eyes slant toward me as I search the crowd. I'm sure they're thinking, Who's that crazy lady who won't stop looking over her shoulder?

I recount the diagnostic material for paranoid personality disorder: pervasive, persistent, and enduring mistrust of others—something like that. But that's not me, right? It's not all others. It's just him.

I clutch my bag tighter and turn a corner, varying my route. Because that's what I do now.

My phone is in my hand, my fingers sweaty on it. Perhaps I should call Irina. Or Dr. Alexander? Or even call Sarah, tell her I could use her back at the office, or offer to go to her house. No, no, she has a child. I can't have him following me there, of all places.

I turn again, then step into a minimart. I feign browsing magazines, but really, I'm watching the sidewalk. Two men walk by. A young woman. Two kids, hurrying home from school. No Gabriel.

When I step back outside, a magazine in hand—I didn't want to piss off the guy who ran the place after standing there browsing for ten minutes—I recognize where I am. Dr. Alexander's practice is a block away. Which means I've walked several miles, circling my usual route, trying to catch Gabriel on my tail.

Not normal. Not normal at all.

But it is an answer of sorts to my problem.

I hurry toward his office, glancing at the time on my phone—6:10 p.m. Dusk is just starting to settle over the world. But maybe he'll still be there. Maybe he'll let me in, and I can talk, relieve some of this pressure inside me. Maybe he can give me his professional opinion—"No, Meredith, I think you're totally normal." I snort out loud. I'm not normal. This isn't normal. I can admit that much to myself.

I catch sight of him a second later. His tall, lanky form skips down the steps of the building, jangling keys in his palm, whistling, not a care in the world—if only that could be me.

"Dr. Alexander," I call. He doesn't hear me and turns to walk the opposite way, the flowering cherry tree above him making it almost picturesque. "Dr. Alexander!" I call, louder this time, pounding down the sidewalk behind him.

This time he turns. His eyes are wide, his stance defensive—like he's being accosted on the street by a patient, which he is.

It makes me take a breath. Remember myself.

What would I think if someone did this to me?

I'd think they were desperate. Which I am.

"I'm sorry to stop you like this," I say. "I just really need to talk. It's an emergency."

Dr. Alexander stares down at me. His mouth opens, and he hesitates. "I'm sorry, Meredith, but I have plans this evening."

"Please. I can—" I dig in my purse. "I can pay in cash. I can talk while we walk. I really need help."

"Meredith, you know as well as I do that we have to have boundaries around our practice." He gives me a grim smile. "But I can refer you to an emergency clinic, or my receptionist is still at his desk. You could call and see if we can work you in for tomorrow morning. I'll come in early, if need be."

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't wait until tomorrow morning. And there's no way in hell I'll go to an emergency clinic. I can't tell some random stranger what's happening.

When I open my eyes, I pin Dr. Alexander with my gaze, and it just comes out.

"I fucked Gabriel Wright in my office."

Shock, horror, judgment. They spill over his features a second before he returns to his excellent therapist's poker face. His Adam's apple bobs, and he shifts his weight. Finally, he gives a little nod, and a second later, he's gesturing to the staircase, ushering me back toward his office.