Page 21 of For Her Own Good

I don’t think it’s my imagination that he feels the same. His lips have parted and there’s that fucking look again. The one I would take to mean helikes melikes me from anyone else. A look that confuses the hell out of me and I can’t deal with right now on top of everything else because it’s going to end badly and I can’t take that. No, not from him, not right now, and let’s be real, not ever. So, before he can say anything else, I spit words out. Any words.

“That’s so nice of you to offer, really, but I couldn’t possibly take you up on it. That feels like it would be…inappropriate. And I can’t…I just can’t, okay? Please drop it.”

Which is precisely the opposite of what I want. I want him to coax and cajole me, make me give in because he knows what’s best, and he can tell I’m exhausted. That work is taking its usual toll, which I can handle, but all this with my father’s empire is wearing me down.

He would understand, not think I was lazy, insist I take care of myself, and if I refuse, do it for me. Which, yeah, as a modern independent woman doesn’t seem okay to want, but in my heart of hearts, I would cry with relief if he was willing to shoulder that responsibility.

The fucked-up thing is that I think he would, but I don’t want them from Lowry my friend, or from Doctor Campbell my former psychiatrist. I want that from my daddy who would expect me to follow his rules and reward me when I did. Who would truly have my best interests at heart and I would believe him because I would have so much respect for him and he would know how to navigate the world far better than I do.

The thing is, while I trusted Lowry that way when I was his patient, it was in an amorphous way. It was in the air I breathed, the water I drank. It was a feeling I had, but I couldn’t put a finger on it because it was so pervasive. It took a while for it to build up to that concentration in the atmosphere, but it was eventually a thing I took for granted. That no matter what else might go wrong, he would always be there.

On the day he came to Milo’s house, something crystalized. I can’t say if it was when he lifted me out of the bathtub in his strong arms, when he toweled me off, when he got me dressed, or when he braided my hair. Perhaps it was the way he spoke to me tenderly and without judgment the entire time. I don’t know. It was the precious experience of a need being fulfilled, of someone seeing what I required and handing it to me without making me feel like I was broken, even though that was one of my lowest points.

Or so I thought. Because despite him always being there for me, no matter what shape I was in, doing his best to provide for me, convincing me it was not foolhardy to put my trust in him…once I had placed my life in his hands and felt relieved to be doing it, he left. Abandoned me. Took that precious gift I held sacrosanct in my cupped palms and smashed it. Years and years of carefully cultivated belief in not only him, but also in my ability to be loved. Yes, loved. Because there was something more than a professional obligation there. And then there was nothing.

I was not lovable, I was not even tolerable. The one person who had successfully convinced me I was couldn’t stand to be around me anymore. The weight of my issues was too heavy, I had asked for too much, been so needy and desperate that I sickened him, forced him to leave.

He broke my heart and I believed it was my fault. That I deserved it, that I could expect nothing more from anyone. I was a failure and would continue to be one for the rest of my life.

I’m not sure why that didn’t result in another suicide attempt. Given the circumstances and the fragility of my mental health, that would have perhaps been predictable. But the combination of a full course of ECT and Lowry’s success in convincing me that killing myself wasn’t an option meant I didn’t. It was perhaps too all the therapy I’d done that helped me recognize the difference between rightful sadness and depression. What I felt when Lowry left was abandonment, grief, heartbreak, anguish, and desolation. Not the insidious whisper of depression, so I’m the girl who lived. Who is alive. And, despite the loss of my father and the other hardships I’ve endured since, will continue to live.

Having dinner with Lowry has become one of the best parts of my week. I enjoy his company very much and have allowed myself to enjoy it, to trust him this far. But while my fantasy life of handing him every delicate part of me yet again and having him cherish and keep it is very much alive, that’s what it is. A fantasy. While I enjoy daydreaming about Lowry—and yes, getting myself off to the many episodes I’ve crafted ofLowry Loves Starlain my mind—I cannot risk even imagining that could be a reality.

So, to be given a chance to effectively play house with him? To have so many parts of my fantasy come true, to be so tempted to disclose the rest of it? To believe in him and place myself in the hands I once believed would treasure and nurture me, hand him every fragile part of myself? I don’t think so.

I can’t stomach the possibility of floating that offer to Lowry only to have it sink like a paper boat in a hailstorm. Again. This time it would be worse too. A rejection so thorough it would not only split me down to my core, but likely crumble that part of me as well. A girl can only take so much. And apparently, so can a man, because Lowry looks like I’ve slapped him in the face.

Chapter 7

Lowry

The lookon Starla’s face when I suggested we go on vacation… How quickly it went from the purest wishful delight to the most profound horror.

And here I am on a rowing machine at the gym on Harbinson’s campus at three o’clock in the afternoon, rehashing the whole thing in my head. I am here because of her wise counsel, and she… I don’t honestly know where she is, what she’s doing, or who she might be doing it with, and it seems as though she would like to keep those things true.

The rest of our dinner had been eaten in near silence and we hadn’t said anything about next time. Me because I wanted her to be the one to initiate our next meeting since I wanted to know if she wanted there to be a next time. And her…apparently because she didn’t want there to be a next time.

I overstepped my bounds. Asked far too much of her. Asked her to trust me with her safety after a handful of dinners. What was I thinking? Oh, I know very well what I was thinking. That I could have more time with her, that I could provide a sense of security so she could run about and make her world bigger without a care, that perhaps being together like that would let her see me in the way I see her: as a possibility. The brightest, boldest possibility, one I am terrified of, because of how perfect it has the potential to be.

Yes, it feels dangerous. I don’t like the implications of what I want from her. But I do know I want her. It’s been two full weeks without her and I feel like one of those trees that’s rotted from the inside—the only thing holding me up is an exoskeleton of bark. Without the structure of how I’ve arranged my life, the fact my patients need me, I would have collapsed because I miss her so. Miss her smile, miss her sass, miss her darling outfits, and how she gives me no quarter, challenges me all the time.

It feels eerily similar to when I’d left for Chicago, a darkness I never thought I’d have to endure again. Does she feel anywhere near the same? Or is she glad to have left me behind?

Though I’ve already exceeded my usual speed on the rowing machine, I push harder with my quads and calves, pull with my arms, shoulders, all the way through my back until my muscles burn and scream for relief. But I will not give in. Not when the sweat courses down my forehead and stings my eyes, not when my shirt is plastered to me with the truly excessive amount of perspiration this workout has engendered. Not even when my stomach has started threatening a revolt—it doesn’t scare me because it’s got nothing to throw up. Which is what finally makes me slow and then come to a stop, slip my trainers from the toeholds and try not to stumble when I push to my feet. I’m not keen on the idea of fainting in front of my colleagues.

I have thought about texting or calling Starla many times over the past two weeks, but haven’t because I don’t want to be pushy. Perhaps if I stand very still and hold my hand out, she will nudge against it. But I can’t bear the idea that she might not. Besides, I remember how much effort it took for her to knock on my door at Harbinson. It might take even more if she wants to see me now.

It’s freezing outside but I still consider ducking out without showering first because now that I’ve decided on a course of action, I want to get on that as soon as possible. But Starla believes me to be a practical and responsible man, and if she did the same, I’d be tempted to scold her. If I were too distracted to think better of it, I probably would. Far better to wash the grime away and outfit myself properly for the cold than to go out in weather like this and end up a sweatcicle. As if Starla would be able to sense such a thing. She’s clearly no mind reader, but better safe.

* * *

Starla

I know on Wednesdays we smash the patriarchy. Would it be possible to arrange tostabthe patriarchy on Thursdays? Because the only weapon I have right now is a really nice fountain pen my father gave me. I’d be loath to ruin it on these fuckfaces, but it would be worth it.

While my daddy kink for sure extends outside the bedroom, it does not extend into the boardroom and it makes my blood boil that these people still treat me as little Starla Patrick. As if at any moment, I’m going to take a doll from my satchel or perhaps crayons and a coloring book to camp out under the boardroom table. Have I done those things in the past? Of course, as a child when my father toted me around as his kindergarten-age protégé. Would I perhaps participate in those activities even now? Yes, but not in a boardroom where I am functioning as a major stockholder in an international conglomerate. For fuck’s sake.

I am however, verging on hangry, and am definitely wound tight from the stress of managing never-ending statistics and balance sheets, real estate agreements, legal matters… everything. I have a sneaking suspicion this doesn’t have to be so onerous except Tad wants me to feel overwhelmed. Is in fact using his knowledge of my shortcomings against me. He wants me get rid of my shares. I suspect he would like it if I sold enough directly to him—or whatever partnership he put together to actually come up with that much money—that he would have a controlling interest in Patrick Enterprises, and that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t trust him. And I like him even less when he clears his throat and levels me with a look that says he doesn’t think I’m very bright.

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