date: Sept 10, 12:01 PM
subject: I have to ask
Why?
from: [email protected]
date: Sept 10, 12:18 PM
subject: I have to answer
Why do I want you? Because you are smart. Because you are beautiful. Because you make me laugh. Because you are sensual and passionate and the way you give me your body drives me absolutely fucking wild, and now I am rock-hard again for you. There. Satisfied?
from: [email protected]
date: Sept 10, 12:56 PM
subject: With you? Always satisfied . . .
Thank you. That was very nice of you.
from: [email protected]
date: Sept 10, 1:08 PM
subject: Nice is a bad word
It wasn’t nice. There was nothing nice about that. It was true, is what it was. Which is why I set up this email just for you. Why aren’t you here working in the same fucking building? I want you, Michelle.
Because if she were in the same building she’d get nothing done. She’d keep popping up to his office to visit him. Better that he worked across town. Besides, she had a packed schedule, and another new client in ten minutes, so she clicked out of her email and skipped over to her patient notes from the office manager. Another scant set of details, as was expected. The only info she had on the man named Clark Davidson was two words long—marital challenges.
She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and let her mind clear of Jack. The last thing she needed demanding space in her frontal lobe was that sexy, naughty, dangerously addictive man. She scoffed quietly to herself. Addictive. Funny that she’d used that term. She’d treated so many patients who had struggled with sex and love addiction; she’d helped them find their way to the other side. To peace. To sanity. To calm. To real love.
Here she was, using that word as if it were a good thing that Jack was addictive.
Addictions were bad. Addictions were trouble. If Jack felt addicting, that could only mean one thing—it was damn good their relationship had an expiration date. They’d spent three nights together now, and each time she’d left around midnight. “I turn into a pumpkin,” she’d say, then tell him how busy she was the next day. That was all true—well, perhaps not the pumpkin part. But the busy part. There was another side to the coin though, and that was the side where sleepovers unfurled into intimacy. They translated into vulnerability. Closeness. Cuddling and snuggling while deep in REM, then waking up next to someone in the broad light of day with the hope that the person would still like you was too risky. That’s why she preferred to meet at his place. If he came to hers too often, then he might fall asleep there. It was easier to be the one to leave than to kick someone else out. Meeting at his apartment gave her a small semblance of control.
She didn’t need Jack to have any questions about her. He viewed her as a sexual creature, a sensuous woman, and that’s all he needed to see of her. Any more would ruin the point of them. To help each other move on.
Right?
Right.
Once more, she pushed Jack from her brain. No. That was wrong. She gave him a massive shove, then kicked him under the carpet, because she needed to focus. Soon, she opened the door for her new patient, and said hello to the dark-haired Clark Davidson. He had deep brown eyes, a square jaw and a close-cropped cut.
“Good to meet you,” he said, and shook her hand. He was unusually confident for a first-time patient. Interesting.
“And you as well. Please, come in,” she said, holding open the door.
“Thank you,” he said, and his eyes lingered on her a tad longer than she would have liked.
Fifty minutes later, she had the oddest feeling that he’d been studying her the entire time. That even as he unspooled bits and pieces of his challenges with his wife, he was cataloging her.
From her hair to her lips to her breasts to her shoes.
She wished he’d look her in the eyes.
* * *
The next evening, she mentioned the session to the consultation group of other therapists that she met with every week to share best practices. There were five of them, all other women who specialized in intimate relationship psychotherapy. Carla Kimberly led the group; she was Michelle’s mentor and the president of the New York chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists.
“I had a strange appointment today,” Michelle began, then gave a brief overview of the session, and how his behavior and wandering eyes had made her uncomfortable. “Am I reading too much into things?”
Carla adjusted the gauzy blue scarf around her neck. “Only you know if you’re picking up on a vibe. But the key is always to refocus the patient, if this becomes an issue,” she said in her warm and friendly voice. She was a pro. She’d been doing this for many years, and Michelle was lucky for her support and her insight.
“Right. Of course,” Michelle said, since she certainly understood how to handle matters if a patient were ever attracted to her. Refocus the patient on the inner emotional experience and the therapy work. That was the rule of thumb. “It just seemed that something else was at play,” she added.
“Maybe he recognized you,” Jennifer said with a smile. She was a newer therapist to the group.
Michelle cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe he’s seen you out and about around town? Do you ever think about that?” Jennifer asked the crew.
Carla nodded, tucking a strand of her dark brown hair neatly behind her ear. “I do. You could run into anyone anywhere. I think it’s strange for patients to bump into their therapists in a public setting, but it’s inevitable. It’s happened to me a few times at the grocery store or movies, and then all of a sudden, the person you are trying to treat knows you buy Trader Joe’s Vanilla Almond Crunch cereal.”
“Well, that’s just a good cereal,” Michelle said with a smile.
“Or they know you went to see It’s Raining Men,” Carla added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
Michelle’s eyes widened. “No way. Did you run into a patient at the stripper movie?”