Page 134 of The Last Good Man

She advises me to take things slowly, allow myself to process my emotions, and contain my inner conflict.

A few minutes before nine, she begins looking at the clock.

I get the hint our session is about to end, but this is more than her clueing me that it’s time to go.

She seemingly looks forward to having her next session and seeing him again.

“Still doing that pro bono work?” I toss at her, catching her unprepared.

She swings her eyes to me, a bit distracted, and I feel that pang of jealousy again.

This time, it has nothing to do with how she takes notes about him or writes his name down.

This is a gut feeling.

Or is this my intuition going berserk?

But it can’t be.Sheisn’t dressed so sharply forhim. Or is she?

No. It can’t be.

My intuition is just ridiculous sometimes.

I look at her with fresh eyes, thinkingthat in a long line of clients––men and women like me, people with less thaninterestinglives who have the means and motivation to pay someone like her to make sense of their inner lives––Jax London is a breath of fresh air.

A trip to a pristine island with caves of luring secrets and devouring mystery.

Trilling, it must break the monotony of her everyday life. That’s how the time spent with him must feel like.

In retrospect, I realize how different he is from everything else in my life.

Disruptive?

Yes.

Exciting?

Yes.

Frightening and possibly derailing me?

Yes, and yes.

And she is like what…?

A few years older than me?

He likes older women––I already know that––although he doesn’t necessarily need to be interested in her romantically.

He only needs to be himself, and people already pay attention to how they dress and whether their hair looks all right.

Women in particular.

Like me with my red dress and fuck me heels.

Like her with her sharp business suit and perfect makeup.

“The pro bono work?” she murmurs, rising from her seat, moving away, and tidying up her desk mechanically,still glancing at the clock as if inviting me to leave.

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