Page 27 of You Can't Hurt Me

“What exactly did you talk about?”

“Oh, nothing, really, and everything. Her sculptures, how she was training to be a therapist. The piece never ran in the end. She invited me to go to one of her exhibitions, but I couldn’t make it. I always felt bad about that...” I trail off, bite the inside of my cheek.

Tell him. Don’t tell him.

“That’s a shame. You’d have liked her if you’d met her properly. Everyone did.” The shadow of a smile plays on his lips, and I find myself relieved that this hasn’t triggered a stronger reaction. “Eva could be difficult to refuse, whatever she asked of you.”

“I sensed that, yes,” I manage. “I just thought you should know. No secrets, right?”

The early afternoon gloom of his windowless study draws tighter around us as we sit side by side. He switches on a small brass reading light and I glance at him in profile, the tips of his mouth sloping downward, his eyebrows drawn together like a battle line as if bracing himself for combat.

My notes twist angrily through his text, in brash shouty capitals:MORE OF YOU HERE, TOO CLINICAL. CLICHÉ ALERT!

His head leans one way and then another in an attempt to decipher my thoughts, his features darkening by the minute.

“Yup, okay. Got it. You want more gush, more emotional honesty.” He crowns the words with ironic commas.

“Right. The reader will just keep wondering, what are you really feeling here?” I turn my chair to face him.

“That magic word again. Ifeelfine. But I don’t really get your problem with—this.” He taps the paper with the back of his fingers. “I’ve outlined everything I witnessed when I came back and found Eva. It’s accurate and truthful. I don’t really understand what more you want?”

I flinch inwardly as his indignation rises, that old habit of hypervigilance ever present. Does it signal another meltdown, are these red flags I should recognize?

“Well, I guess the point is it’s factual and it’s not badly written. But—” I pause with the effort of being delicate “—sometimes the facts alone make it feel less accurate. They can be...alienating to the reader.”

“So you’re saying you want me to exaggerate, give a sensational account of what happened?”

“I’m simply outlining what I know Priya will want.”

He nods dismissively, keen for me to finish so he can speak again. “As I see it,” he says, that tone again, “I write down the facts, my life, my work and what actually happened. You warm it up if need be and I’ll say if I like it or not.”

“I’m not sure if that’s how it really works. Can I ask, have you ever talked to a psychotherapist about her—I mean, about your loss?” It’s a swerve but I need to shake him up a bit, get to the heart of the issue. He looks indignant.

“Why would I? I’ve got my own inner therapist. I’m good at processing my feelings. I know myself better than anyone.” I try to suppress a smile. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing, I guess. Except I’ve heard a lot of men say the same thing about therapy.”

“Women have it all worked out, right?”

“That’s what you think?”

“I think you sound like a convert.”

“It’s not a religion,” I retort.

“Well, a cult then.”

“You really are resistant. There’s nothing wrong with seeking professional advice. It can help to talk it through.”

Nate sighs, shifts in his seat and leans forward. “Okay, the truth is, I tried it for a month or two actually, but it wasn’t for me. The goal of therapy is to work on change, but perhaps I don’t want to. I’m quite happy the way I am.”

“If only I could be that sure. I mean, who doesn’t want to change in some way, isn’t that the whole point? I know I wish I could.”

He shakes his head firmly. “Trawling through the past with someone, all that endless navel-gazing, it isn’t my style.”

“Much safer to stay the same and give nothing away.” I tease lightly.

“Not quite what I meant.”

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