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“Yes, hi. Come in.”

I shake his hand. The grip of his hand on mine isn’t lost on me. He shakes my hand as if we’re old friends, tenderly. One entwined with mine, the other resting over the back of my clasped hand. Not at all like a stranger. I make a mental note as he settles into a chair, draping his coat over the back of another chair. I can feel his eyes move down my body, then back up.

It’s not uncommon for my patients to give me a thorough once-over during their first two visits. I cross my legs and rest my notebook on my knee, the page blank except for his name and the date.

He’s a new patient.

It’s impossible not to notice how attractive he is, but I tuck those thoughts aside. He’s fifteen years younger than me and, judging by his appearance, is probably swimming in women.

Taking him in, it occurs to me that he is the polar opposite of what I attract. Especially if last weekend’s twentieth college reunion one-night stand is any indicator.

I school my disappointment at the memory of lackluster sex and subpar conversation the next morning before packing my belongings and high-tailing it home before he could ask for my number. It’d been a stunningly pathetic show that I’d suppressed for the last three days through Basset hound snuggles and copious amounts of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

I clear my throat and look at him. I’m surprised at his expression. It feels like he’s conveying that we have unfinished business, which is atypical of new patients. Generally, their body language screams insecure and nervous.

The air feels electric around me. “So, why are you here?”

“My therapist said you’re a miracle worker.” His voice is even, which surprises me. The statement doesn’t match his tone.

“I’m not. This is hard work. The goal of this room is to focus on you and how to make you happy. But it doesn’t work unlessyou do all the hard parts. So, tell me a little about yourself and what you’d like to accomplish here.”

His gaze is intense and focused on me. I lift my pad slightly and doodle a flower on the bottom corner—a coping mechanism I often practice when I feel control slipping.

“I have a problem. An addiction of sorts that I can’t seem to kick on my own. I’m worried it will begin to interfere with my day-to-day life and I think we could make progress together.”

The way he lingers on the wordwemakes the hair stand at the nape of my neck. The way he said it implies we have an established relationship or it could indicate he has boundary issues. I make a note in my notebook.

“Already writing things down? That can’t be good. What’d I say wrong, Doc?”

Snapping my eyes to his, I say, “Oh no. You’ll see I take lots of notes. It helps me after our appointments to recall and review so I can devise the best treatment plan for you.”

He lifts his chin, almost before a small grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Ok.”

“What is your day-to-day life like?” I ask.

“I am a freelance journalist, and I own and run a bed and breakfast right on the ocean. So I’ve got my hands tied pretty well right now with renovations and bookings and writing gigs.”

“That sounds wonderful. What part do you find yourself struggling with?”

He grins but says nothing. My stomach clenches. It’s the reluctant-to-speak patients that end up being the most devious. Well, unless they’re psychopaths, they love to divulge their secrets and gain recognition for their actions. A bubble of unease rises up my esophagus.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve always felt different.”

In my line of work, there is nothing worse than a broad, vague answer. It’s incredibly hard to get people to pinpoint what they really want to express.

“Any emotions you can’t explain?” I say.

He only shakes his head at me.

I proceed with some standard questions. “Do you feel violent or angry for no reason?”

Again, a simple head shake.

Grinning, I toss in something different to test him. “How many windows did your childhood home have?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says while crossing one leg over the other.

“You’re not answering them. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”