Best of 2017

Inhale . . .

One, Two, Three.

It’s not real.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EVE

LYING on the couch a few days later, I hear the sound of the front door opening. Then I hear the click of Sydney’s heels as she walks into the living room. Placing my magazine down, I stare up at her.

“Hi,” I mutter out beneath my breath as I sit down in the chair. I know I shouldn’t be mad at her. I know I need to get over it.

“How was your afternoon?” she asks, gnawing on her lower lip. She’s nervous, unsure of how to act toward me. I need to forgive her. I need to tell her it’s all right. Preston is right. This is more than Sydney having sex with Richard. So much more. This is about him—Richard. I held him to unrealistic standards. In my mind he could do no wrong, and the realization that he was only a man, a human being who made mistakes is liberating. I need to forgive her, because this had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. My lips turn up. It’s a tight smile, but it’s all I have to offer right now.

She knows we’ll be okay. I know we will, too.

It will just take time.

“You left work early. Is everything okay?” Her lips purse and she narrows her eyes in my direction.

“Only a few minutes early. I figured I would grab my dry cleaning,” she says and I notice she’s carrying a stack of mail.

“Anything important?”

“Just the usual bills. Oh, here’s one addressed to you.” She leans over and hands me a large, rectangular business envelope. It’s non-descript and lightweight. I flip it around and check out the return address. Lord knows we get enough crap mail; no reason to open it if it’s not important.

Bold lettering jumps off the back of the envelope.

From the Office of Dr. Preston Montgomery.

Shit. I tear at the seal until a folded paper sits heavily in my hands. The weight of it, though less than an ounce, feels heavy . . . ominous. I open it with shaky hands. My eyes burn and my heart thumps rapidly in my chest. What is this? What the fuck is this?

Dear Eve Hamilton,

As you know, a good relationship between a psychologist and his or her patient is essential for quality medical care. Times arise when this relationship is no longer effective and the psychologist finds it necessary to request the patient select an alternative psychologist.

This letter is to inform you that I am no longer willing to be your psychologist. My office will continue to direct your care for any emergencies that arise over the next thirty days. It is imperative that you select another psychologist and arrange with our office for your records to be transferred to their office. If you need a referral, it would be my pleasure to assist you.

Sincerely,

Dr. Preston Montgomery

My emotions are like a storm. They batter me. Engulf me. They rip me apart. Anger coils in my blood. The destruction from his words is immeasurable. I knew this was coming, yet I made myself believe I could will it away. Apparently not.

I need to see him. I need to talk to him. I need to understand.

Now.

I make my way to his office in a state of haze and fog. Nothing registers other than the pounding of my heart. Streets, avenues . . . it makes no difference. Muscle memory leads me there.

The building looks ominous. Towering taller than the neighboring buildings, the floor to ceiling windows reflect the gleam trickling out from the cloudy skies. Once through the revolving door, I make my way to the security desk and flash my ID. With a brief nod, I’m allowed up. Step after step, my destination grows closer. A strange feeling weaves its way through me. What will I say to him? What will he say in return?

Trepidation.

Maybe confronting him is a bad idea?

No. It must be done, and nothing but divine intervention will halt me now. I’ve made up my mind.

Entering the office, I head straight for his door.

“Ms. Hamilton,” the receptionist calls out but it’s too late, I’m already halfway down the hall. With a heavy push, the door opens, and then slams against the frame. The sound ricochets, slicing through the silence as I step, no barrel into the room. Once all the way inside, I close us in together. There he is.

Mesmerizing me with his eyes.

Captivating me with his stare.

A man so imposing I no longer can remember why I’m here.

He arises from his desk. His eyes are wide as he steps toward me. He’s noticeably tense. His back is upright and a small line pinches between his brows. When he’s only inches away, I raise my trembling hand.

It feels so heavy.

The letter.

“What is this?” I fling the paper in his face. “What. Is. This?” My words come out staccato as I repeat to wrap my brain around what’s happening.

“It’s a formal letter terminating our professional relationship,” he replies. The words are spoken so matter of factly and they slice at me, causing a laceration to form inside my gut.

“You can’t.”

“I did.” His gaze is vacant and I take a step closer to study him, to understand why this is happening.

“How can you do this to me? A letter. You sent a letter. What type of bastard are you? “

“It had to be done.” I move past him, walking to the far wall and bracing my arms on it. Tears pool in my eyes. He can’t leave me.

He can’t abandon me.

“You’re discarding me?”

“I’m not discarding you. I just don’t think I’m the right doctor for you.”

“H-How could you?” I stutter, the anger once harboring in my body recedes into panic. He steps forward and I step back.

“Look at me,” he demands and I turn to face him. The expression reflected back at me makes my legs instinctively take a step back. “I think it’s for the best.”

“Give me a reason. W-why are you leaving me?” More tears well and threaten to fall. “Is it because of what happened? I-I-told you I was sorry. Do you hate me? Is this why you’re throwing me out? Is this why you’re leaving me, too?” My dad, my mom, Richard . . . I can’t stand to lose him as well.

“This has nothing to do with you, or your self-worth. This is completely my fault. It’s because of me, not you.”

It feels as though every last breath has been extracted from my lungs.

“No, it’s because we kissed. It’s because we spent time together outside of the office. I know you said it was wrong, but I like spending time with you. You make me feel as if everything will be okay.” His jaw clenches at my words. As if they pain him.

“This is my fault. I ruin everything. I promise I’ll do better. I promise,” I plead as moisture slides down my cheeks. My pulse accelerates at the thought of not having him in my life. Of not talking to him. Of not seeing him.

“No,” he affirms. “This isn’t your fault. I should have known better.”

“Known better than what?”

“This. This is all wrong. I can’t talk to you about this. This dependence on me. It’s not appropriate. This is—”

“No. Preston, don’t you dare say it! Don’t you dare say it’s transference. It’s not that. My feelings for you . . . I am not projecting my issues of abandonment from my childhood and my need for reassurance from an older figure. Damn it, you don’t know how I feel. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.”

His breath is ragged as he rakes his fingers through his hair. He opens then shuts his mouth, pulling at his roots until he finds his words. Swiping away an escaped tear, I stare at him. If this is transference, I don’t care.

“I could—”

“Enough.” My movements halt at the desperation in his voice. “What do you want me to say? You want me to say that every time you walk into my office, my world stops? That when you’re here, rather than helping you, I imagine what you would feel like beneath me? Do you want me to admit that all I see is you, and when I close my eyes you’re still there? That you’ve

embedded yourself so far in my psyche that I’m the one who needs help, not you? Is that what you want to hear?

“You want to hear that I think the universe is playing a sick joke on me? Yeah, that’s what you want to hear. That I have never felt this way before, and of course it’s my patient who makes me feel this. My fucking patient. The greatest temptation ever laid before me.” His voice bleeds with emotion.

“Of all the fucking people . . . Eve.” He snatches the letter from my hand, my heart racing. “This is self-preservation.” It drops to the floor. He inhales deeply, his hand shoving his hair back from his face.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to feel. All I can do is turn my back on him to gain some distance. My emotions teeter on the brink of eruption and I can’t let him see me crack.

“I—” I can’t bear the torment in his eyes, and turn toward the wall.

“God, all I want . . .” He steps up behind me, his lips tingling the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder. “All I want is to taste you, savor you, but I can’t.” Feathery breaths send chills up my spine.

“I was warned in graduate school this could happen. That one day a patient could walk in and knock me on my ass. Make me rethink everything I believed about myself. But what I feel surpasses all that. What I feel threatens everything I know, because this isn’t some hunger I need to quench. You’ve embedded yourself in my soul. And without you I would cease to be.”

His lips hover against my skin.

Taunting me.

Tempting me.

Teasing me.

Each pull of oxygen through my lungs releases in ragged bursts. I need him. I need him so much I can barely breathe.

I want to reach for him . . . but I can’t.

I want to touch him . . . but I don’t.

He needs to be the one.