Page 53 of Look, Don't Touch

“Don’t we all.” She unclasps and re-clasps one of her thick gold bracelets several times. “You know you’re not the only therapist in the city, right? He could find another.”

“He’s not interested in me. Not like that.”

She releases the doorframe and straightens her shoulders. Her head shakes. “Hay Bale, if you’ve seen the way that man looks at you and have come to that conclusion, you might need to let your license go.”

How he looks at me?

In truth, I’ve only seen him look at me once, and that didn’t go so well.

“When have you ever seen him look at me?” That’s not the response I’d planned, yet it flows from my lips.

“Every time he opens this door.” She gestures to the threshold she stands inside. “He opens it, looks at you as though you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. He takes the deepest breath, lets it out slowly, and then stalks forward like you’re dinner and he’s starved.”

I wave her off. “He’s entering therapy to talk about some heavy shit, Nat. He’s bracing himself.” I shoo her. “Go to Paris and get laid, would you? I can’t deal with you like this.”

“Don’t call the cops if I’m not in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I remind her.

She grins. “In that case, fuck gardening club and a blowout. Hello Paris and blow jobs.”

“Bye, slut.” I wave.

“Au revoir.” She blows me a kiss and skitters toward the main entrance, grabbing her purse as she goes.

As soon as she leaves, the world around me goes quiet, but my head is wild with thoughts. Like a jungle at night, things yip and chirp and hiss and roar for my attention. I have thirty minutes until he arrives. So I take a page out of my therapy playbook. I cram my head into bulky noise-canceling headphones, set a timer for twenty minutes, and start a guided meditation.

It’s nearly impossible to concentrate. I miss the first several prompts for the noise in my skull. I place my right hand over my belly and my left hand over my heart and breathe slowly, deeply. I blank my mind of everything, even the prompts for several rounds of breathing.

Finally, I’m grounded. I’m centered. I’m quiet.

Gently, I let the first prompts in. I acknowledge the weight of my arms as I slip them palm up onto my thighs. I focus on openness to my body, to the emotions I’ve pent-up inside it. One by one I acknowledge them and release them. Anger. Anxiety. Confusion. I relax my neck, bringing my chin forward. I roll it side to side for a minute or more each way. My shoulders settle.

Out of nowhere, tears rise to my eyes, threatening to spill over.

That’s when I realize the affliction tickling my chest. Fear. It’s been here all along, hidden away in the darkest recesses of my brain. It’s informed all the decisions I’ve made in life. Yet, I’ve never truly acknowledged it.

I’ve worked hard to maneuver around it. I’ve worked harder to pretend it doesn’t exist. But here it is pressing in on me like a tidal wave.

I rip the headphones from my head and jump to my feet. My chest heaves.

Arlo Judge stands propped against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze zeroed in on me.

“You’re early,” I blurt to try to cover my discomfort.

“That’s not Morbid Angel.” His dark eyes slide to the headphone still pumping the sounds of rushing waves into my office.

“No.” I hurry to my computer and close the program. We’re plunged into silence. “That would be much more soothing than this guided meditation and my thoughts.”

“And you want me to learn how to meditate?”

“It’s not always bad.” I smooth my trousers, adjust the tuck of my silk top into them, and center my belt. “Please, come in.” I gesture to his usual chair. “Have a seat, if you’d like.” He doesn’t move from his propped position. I offer him a smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d show after I made quite the fool of myself last time.”

“You didn’t.”

“Your quick retreat says otherwise.” My hands clasp in front of me to keep me centered.

“It wasn’t you. It was me.”

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