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Hugo

“ W hat do you know about mindfulness?”

Any calm Hugo might have been feeling evaporated upon hearing Dr. Marsh’s words. He had to think of her as Doctor Marsh here, in her office—to keep the inappropriate thoughts at bay. And there had been a lot of them. An entire night and morning of inappropriate thoughts.

Today, she was wearing black tailored pants and a soft, black, sleeveless blouse that left her toned arms bare up to her shoulders. It was like seeing a woman’s shoulders for the first time. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to shift his gaze to the plant in the corner, to the clock on the desk—anywhere but on her.

She repeated the question again, her voice soft, deliberate. Her eyes remained on the tablet in front of her. She’d been less careful today to look at him every time either of them spoke, and he realized she’d been playing a role the previous day—the role of a seeing person. Today, everything was different, and Hugo noticed things he hadn’t noticed before—the way her pupils didn’t react to brightness as quickly, so her iris shone dark blue even in direct sunlight, or the way she cocked her head sideways as she looked in his direction, because it was her hearing, and not her eyesight, that gave her the cues she needed.

Mindfulness. Right. That’s what she was asking about. An image formed in his mind, of young women standing around in tight, colorful leggings. Was that mindfulness? Or Pilates?

“Not much,” he said, purposefully keeping his voice neutral.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Mind reading again, Dr. Marsh?”

She smiled, then—a real smile, not the smile of a doctor looking to put her patient at ease. And he wanted to make her smile like that all the time. He breathed in, taking in her soft, lavender scent. Not helping . But now that he’d met her, he felt like he’d have to move to a different planet to stop smelling it. He shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the fabric of his shirt against his own skin. Stop it . She’s your therapist. A professional. And you’re here because you need help, not because ... not because she has shoulders that make you wish you were a sculptor.

“Whatever you might know, or think you know, about mindfulness, forget it. It’s perhaps the most misunderstood therapy form.” She paused for a moment. “You don’t believe me.”

Hugo shrugged before realizing she couldn’t see him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Forget mindfulness for now. I’ll tell you more about that later. Let’s try a grounding exercise,” she said, leaning forward slightly. And now he could see the top of her creamy breasts. His erection rose, and he was suddenly glad she was blind, or she’d be kicking him in the balls and out of her office. “Come on, help me out, Hugo. Relax.”

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to focus. “Sure,” he said, hoping the single word didn’t betray him.

“I want you to take a deep breath. Like this. Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth.” She demonstrated, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath.

His pulse quickened as he tried to follow her lead. He tried with everything inside him. Relax . Breathe . Focus . But all he could think about was the way her collarbone curved, the faint line where her shoulder met her neck, the top of that creamy breast.

“And now,” she continued, her voice calm and unwavering, “I want you to notice three things in the room. Tell me about them. Help me see them through your eyes.”

He almost laughed at the irony. If he admitted what he was actually seeing—the soft contours of her skin, the lines of her long legs, the way a loose strand of blond hair had escaped her ponytail and now framed her face—he’d probably have to find a new therapist.

“The plant,” he said quickly, gesturing toward the corner before once again realizing she couldn’t see the gesture. “In the far corner of the room.”

“Tell me about the plant.”

“It’s … green.” He could tell by the pursing of her lips that she found that answer unimpressive. Her eyebrows rose as if to say you can do better . And he wanted to do better. He wanted to impress her, damn it. “Let me try again. It’s bright green, with leaves that look like tongues.”

“That’s a good description. Where I come from, the plant is known as mother-in-law’s tongue.” She smiled. “Okay. Good. Two more.”

“The clock on the desk. It’s round. Like an egg.” His eyes darted around the room, avoiding her entirely now.

“Great. One more.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering back to her despite himself. “Your top,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. His face flushed instantly, and he cleared his throat. “I mean, the color. It’s black. Nice. Uh—simple.”

Her brow lifted slightly, a flicker of amusement passing over her face. But she didn’t comment, didn’t even pause before continuing. “Now let’s move on to what you can feel,” she said, her tone as composed as ever.

He swallowed hard, wishing he could crawl under the chair. God, get it together, he thought. She’s just a professional. Think about her like that. A professional who’s trying to help you.

But when her hand brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the graceful line of her neck, Hugo realized he wasn’t strong enough to stay focused in her presence.

Jo

The clock on her desk struck, signaling the end of the session. They hadn’t gotten as far as she’d hoped with the first technique she wanted to teach him, but she’d heard the doubt creeping into his voice and understood he needed more time to get to know both her and himself.

She heard him stand up and walk to the door, then hesitate. “I want to apologize,” he said.

“What for?” As far as she knew, he hadn’t done anything he needed to apologize for.

“My surprise the other day in the grocery store. I was an idiot. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Ah, the blindness again . “You didn’t offend me. I didn’t tell you about it because my eyesight doesn’t affect our therapy sessions and, as I mentioned before, when I do tell a patient, usually the next twenty minutes are all about me, and that’s not what I wanted from our first session together.”

“I—” His phone rang, and she felt him hesitate. “Take it. Please.”

“It’s my mother,” he explained. Jo felt him move towards the window, while she busied herself by her desk, giving him the illusion of privacy. Illusion, because Jo had great hearing. But maybe not so much of an illusion, because her French still wasn’t great, and Hugo’s mother spoke fast.

The conversation was brief, but sweet. She was still worried about something. Hugo insisted she had nothing to be worried about. Hugo still didn’t have his work schedule, and wasn’t sure he could make it to his brother’s engagement party in early August, but he’d do his best to be there. His mother pressed him for a promise. Jo wondered if engagement parties were a big deal in France, or if his mother just wanted an excuse to see him.

When he hung up the phone, she found she didn’t want him to leave. “You should go,” she said. Then kicked herself because that’s not how she did things. She didn’t tell patients what to do. She could feel his eyes on her—warm like a blanket. “I’m sorry. I have really good hearing. I meant …” There really was no way to fix this without revealing more of herself. “I meant you shouldn’t miss family events if you can help it.”

The wooden floor creaked as he moved closer. She loved that floor—the way it spoke to her. She could tell things about him from the creaking. Some things she already knew—that he was big and strong. But she could also feel the caution with which he moved.

“Have you missed any family events, by moving here?” he asked. It was a logical thing for him to ask, given what she’d just told him. But he was so wrong. She wasn’t missing any family events because her family didn’t do events anymore. We don’t celebrate things . And it wasn’t as if they didn’t still have things to celebrate. They did. Her parents were alive and in good health. She was alive. They used to know how to celebrate.

When Jo was growing up, her mother was the kind to go over the top for every holiday. Turkey feasts to feed the whole neighborhood for Thanksgiving. Every inch of the house adorned for Christmas, lights strung across every eave and multiple trees decorated in various themes. Eggs hidden all over the place at Easter, so many eggs all the kids from the neighborhood joined in to look for them. Huge potluck summer dinners where all their friends joined in. Over the top, for sure, but for her parents it’d been a way to express love and make memories. Every holiday had been celebrated, until a jealous, crazed man had crossed their path. The car crash that took Becca’s life and her eyesight had destroyed her family. Her parents had aged a decade in the year after the crash. Bartholomew Horns had gone to prison. He should have spent the rest of his life in prison, where he couldn’t hurt any family again like he’d hurt hers. Except he’d escaped and made it clear he was coming after her.

“Where did you go, just then?” Hugo’s voice brought her back to the present.

“I’m … I’m not feeling so great,” she said, holding on to the desk in front of her for support. Her breaths were coming too fast and too close together—much too close. She was close to passing out. She felt him move closer. “I skipped breakfast,” she justified, whether to him or to herself, she wasn’t sure.

“I’m here,” he said softly, his voice low and reassuring. And she found his presence did reassure her. She tilted her head towards him. His hand came up to rest gently on her arm. The warmth of his touch was brief, just enough to ground her without overwhelming her. “Let me take you out to get something to eat.”

She exhaled, a small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “I’ll be okay. Thanks,” she said quietly.

He let his hand fall away but stayed close. “I’d still like to take you out to eat something.”

She pressed a button on her desk clock and listened as it read out the time to her. “I have another patient coming in fifteen minutes. But thanks.”

“You weren’t always blind,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Sometimes, you still look at things—at objects, or at people when they talk. I have a second cousin who was born blind. He doesn’t look at things.”

She smiled. “You’re observant. I lost my eyesight in a car crash six years ago.”

She heard his harsh intake of breath. “I’m sorry.”

Jo shook her head quickly, because she needed him to know the truth, or at least as much of the truth as she could share, and because it didn’t feel right, that he would feel sorry for her, when she wasn’t the one who’d lost everything. “I lost a lot more than that, that day.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “My sister died in that crash.”

“Hell. I’m sorry. I have two brothers. I can’t imagine?—”

“It was hell. For me, but also for my parents. To lose her and to have me … changed . For a long time, I didn’t know how I would rebuild my life. I was studying for my PhD in psychology, was half-way done with my thesis, and suddenly everything I’d written about seemed so, well, meaningless.” She took a deep breath. “Eventually, one of my professors steered me towards the study of PTSD. I think that’s what saved me.”

She felt her face burn. Why was she sharing all this with him? What was it about him that made her feel like sharing, when these were things she never—ever—shared?

“I’m sorry,” he said. There was real emotion in his voice this time—sadness, but also anger. And his anger strengthened her. Because she was still angry, herself. She’d never stop being angry about the way she’d lost Becca. But life went on. That was something she’d learned, as well, that anger didn’t have to stop you from living. That was something she tried to share with her patients.

“Thanks for listening, Hugo.” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll speak with Madame Lagarde to find a time.” He lowered his voice. “I think she’s starting to like me.”