Page 14

Eleven

Present

T he clock on the wall ticks steadily, a rhythmic metronome to the quiet tension in the room.

My newest patient—Claire Reynolds, according to the intake form—sits across from me, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap.

There’s something too controlled about her posture, too polished.

But I push the thought aside. People come into my office with all kinds of walls up.

I fold my hands on my notepad. “What brings you in today?”

She exhales, as if steadying herself. “I struggle with…attachment.”

The words feel rehearsed. My skin prickles, but I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Attachment how?”

She tilts her head, studying me, her lips curving just slightly. “With men, mostly. Dangerous ones. The kind you know you should stay away from, but can’t seem to resist.”

A pulse of unease flickers through me. I shift in my chair, keeping my voice level. “That’s not uncommon. Many people are drawn to relationships that mirror past experiences. Has this been a pattern in your life?”

She leans forward slightly. “I was hoping you’d understand. Given your history.”

Something in the air shifts. Subtle but suffocating.

I grip my pen a little too tightly. Anxiety coiling tight in my throat. “My history?”

Claire’s eyes gleam, and the mask slips just for a second. “With Cooper.”

My breath catches in my throat.

I force myself to stay still, to keep my face impassive. But inside, a cold, crawling sensation works its way up my spine.

“You’re not a patient,” I say, my voice sharper now.

She doesn’t deny it. Just offers a slow, knowing smile.

“I was just wondering,” she continues, as if we’re having a casual chat over coffee. “Was it true love? Or just a tragic mistake?”

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “This session is over.”

Claire—or whatever her real name is—doesn’t move right away. She watches me like a predator who’s just confirmed the scent of blood in the water. Then, finally, she rises.

“I just have a few questions for you, I swear,” she murmurs, smoothing her blouse as she takes a step.

I don’t respond.

I can’t.

My pulse is hammering, my thoughts racing.

“Out.” I point to the door.

She cocks her head at me, trying to suss something out before she finally leaves.

When the door clicks shut behind her, I bury my face in my hands for a moment, forcing the air slowly in and out of my chest until the hammering of my heart begins to subside.

I sink back into my chair, exhaling shakily.

I stare numbly at the notepad. The scrawl of our brief conversation glares up at me.

With a shaking hand, I rip off the sheet of paper and crumple it into a ball.

Pushing to my feet, I retreat to my desk, pull the thick stack of pages from my bag, and read.

The descent into… us — was maddening. But it was worth the wait. You canceled our next two appointments, fraught with guilt, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t couldn’t let you get away. I didn’t play fair.

I used my knowledge of you to win. I preyed on your desires, your wishes, your loneliness. But the biggest gift, the luckiest stroke of fate, was the day you arrived at my door.

That I could have never planned for. But I’m not there yet.

We’re not there yet.

There was the afternoon with the puppies.

When NEL posted to their Facebook page that they were hosting a puppy adoption event, I knew that you would be there.

The dog lover in you is too strong to resist such a cause.

I contacted NEL under the guise of my career in journalism and volunteered to cover the event for them.

God, the memory of you when I walked in. I play it over and over in my mind on days that are…hard.

You were on the lawn, surrounded by volunteers unloading puppies. The corners of your eyes crinkled in joy. A gentle breeze. A cloudless day.

Little yelps and mewls coming from the animals circling your bare calves. You plopped to the ground, and they clawed and climbed all over you, burying their noses in your skin and hair.

I was jealous of the dogs. I wanted to know what your skin smelled like, tasted of.

Others can give joy without intending to. Simply observing the unadulterated happiness those puppies caused you made my own soul warm with joy.

That’s what watching did for me. Gave me glimpses into others’ ups and downs, made me feel what they felt, but also gave me pride and accomplishment, knowing I was the only one privy to witnessing those secret moments as well.

But then you looked up. The way you cast your eyes down when you saw me — it made my heart stutter. I wanted to see your light, not your remorse.

It only spurred me on. I would do whatever it took to see your glow. To make you glow. For myself, though.

I wanted that light for me.

Directed at me.

You stood up and approached me with a formidable expression blanketing your face. I should have been nervous, but the closer you got, the more at ease and excited I felt. I was the sole focus of your attention, and it felt good.

Before you reached me, Aubry, the event coordinator, appeared in my face—blocking you. Agitation consumed me, but I hid it well—I think.

I wanted to push her aside, out of my way. Out of your way. Because when our eyes locked, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

It was live wires and lightning. I hope these memories of mine mean something to you. I hope you remember them with the same affinity that I do.

Maybe this is just one long painful babbling heartache for you—but that’s not the intent.

I need you to see that there was beauty in what we were—what we are. That we offered each other a gift in this life.

A groan slips out of me. I clutch the page to my chest and rest my forehead to the cool wood of my desk.