Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“What’s going on?”
“Well.” I lick my lips, glance down at my hands. “I told you I’m seeing someone.”
“Yes.” He nods encouragingly.
I hesitate, trying to figure out how to tell him. Or if I should tell him. I mean, I can’t tell him about Gabriel, exactly. But I need to tell him, tell somebody.
“I had sex,” I say. Not a lie. I did have sex. I know he’ll assume it’s with the man I’m seeing, with Robert. And I’m okay with that. Relief floods me, realizing how I can talk about it.
“And how was that? How did it make you feel?”
The desk. Gabriel’s hands on my body. The sharp, wonderful pleasure and pain—
“It was good. At least, I think it was.”
“Wonderful.”
The word comes from Dr. Alexander’s mouth, and I realize it’s true. Having sex with Gabriel, being fucked by Gabriel—because that is the only appropriate word for what we did—was confusing and unexpected and obviously not right, but it was also wonderful.
“So what’s stressing you?” he asks.
“Well.” I feel my teeth digging into my bottom lip. I exhale slowly. “He’s ghosted me.”
It’s not totally true. It’s not a lie, though. Of course, we don’t usually call or text or—well, anything. Except appointments, or me stalking him, which I’m not doing anymore.
But God, I’m even calling what I’ve done stalking now.
“I see. How does that make you feel?”
“Horrible. Like I did something wrong. Like there’s something wrong with me. Like I’m—I was used.” My chest feels lighter at the admission. At the realization. “And angry. So angry.”
“Have you communicated with him at all?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“So he hasn’t reached out?”
“No. Nothing.” My hands shake, anxious energy pulsing through me.
“And have you reached out to him?”
That makes me stop. “No. I haven’t.”
“Is it possible he feels you’ve ghosted him as well?”
Dr. Alexander’s words linger. It’s a fair question. If it were Robert, I would reach out. I would text or call or even drop by…
But it’s not Robert.
It’s Gabriel.
And with Gabriel, there are no rules. Because we’re not dating. We’re not casually having sex.
We’re… I search for the right word or phrase, but can’t think of anything. It’s almost like we’re playing a game. A game with no rules or boundaries. It’s thrilling and panic-inducing. My fingers clutch at the fabric of my slacks, wondering who will make the next move. And what it will be.
“What do you think would happen if you reached out to him?”
“I don’t know. I heard… I heard he had to go out of town.”
“He sounds like a busy man.” Dr. Alexander crosses one ankle over the other and studies me.
His words penetrate. He’s being a good therapist—suggesting I consider Gabriel’s point of view. And he’s right. Usually, I’d absolutely agree with him.
Except this is Gabriel.
And with Gabriel, the normal rules don’t apply.
CHAPTER 30 Now
Most psychiatrists would never admit it, but there are patients we dread. Mrs. Rensler, who only wants to talk about her daughter’s life and how depressed she is that Gracie doesn’t make more time for her. Mr. Altman, who, lucky for me, is no longer a patient. He’d been mandated to undergo court-ordered psychiatry after beating his wife and complained that she’d made him do it, with her constant nagging to get a job. But then there are patients we look forward to. Perhaps we see them making progress, or they’re just interesting people with unique stories. I have a few of those. But the reason I’ve been anxiously awaiting my next patient is a very selfish one.
Rebecca Jordan is a looking glass for me lately. Listening to her gives me a dose of reality. Reminds me where things could progress if I keep up my inappropriate behavior. And since I’ve barely been able to stop myself from going past Gabriel’s apartment twice in so many days, I really need the reminder today.
Sarah escorts Rebecca into my office. Today she’s dressed even more provocatively than usual—like a schoolgirl with a white button-up blouse tied at the waist, her slim, tan midriff on full display, and a navy and black plaid pleated skirt that is so short I hope she doesn’t drop anything. Knee-high white socks and conservative oxford shoes complete the outfit.
I smile. “Hi, Rebecca. How are you?”
She plops herself down on the couch, much like a child. “I’m tired.”
“Oh? Are you not sleeping well?”
She shakes her head. “I broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Is it because of what we spoke about? You felt you weren’t sexually compatible?”
She twirls a golden lock around one finger and shrugs. “I guess. We started fighting a lot, too. I accidentally called him the wrong name during sex once or twice, and it upset him.”
“I see. Are you second-guessing your decision to break things off and that’s why you’re not sleeping well?”
She looks away. “No, I don’t care about him. My ex is seeing someone.”