Page 7 of The Last Session

Maybe that had been part of it. But it wasn’t the main reason. I envisioned Ryan staring at me, his mouth twisted in disgust.

I hadn’t told Dom the full story. I knew she’d be more open-minded—she was training to be a sex therapist, after all—but if there was even a flicker of judgment in her eyes, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Instead, I’d broken down and texted my former therapist, Cynthia. She hadn’t responded.

“Any dates on the horizon?” Dom dug cheerfully into her food. “Are you on the apps?”

“I was, but it’s just…” What was the best term: Depressing? Exhausting? Demoralizing?

During grad school, I’d widened my search to include women and nonbinary people after my brief infatuation with Dom. It had felt weirdly anticlimactic, maybe because I was in a progressive program and there were lots of queer people around me. Of course, I struggled with impostor syndrome, and I also knew my parents would have major issues if I dated someone who wasn’t a man. But I hadn’t yet had to worry about it—getting people to message back on the apps, much less plan to meet in person, often seemed near-impossible.

That’s why Ryan, who I’d met in person at a social worker happy hour, had seemed like such a godsend.

“Probably not a great time of year to date. Everyone’s depressed.” Dom tapped her beer can. “I’m sure things will pick up soon.”

I forced a smile. “I’m sure.”

4

For the rest of the week, I kept an eye on Jane Doe, increasingly certain I knew her. Every time I stopped in her room to study her blank, frozen face, the feeling grew.

If only I could talk to her. If only I could find out what had happened to her—something so presumably horrific that it had caused her conscious mind to shut down.

On Monday morning, I came into a flurry in the break room: joyful voices ringing out, growing louder as I approached.

“Gorgeous!” Rachel was gushing to Amani. The twentysomething new hire was nice enough, but I disliked how she constantly used the royal “we,” bringing her boyfriend into every conversation. I’d always been vaguely annoyed by people who did this, shoving the reality of their relationship—the fact that they’d been somehowchosen—into my usually single face.

Now, she hoisted Amani’s wrist. “Thea, look! Our girl’s enga-a-aged!”

“Oh, wow. Congratulations!” I took Amani’s hand, exclaiming over it like a courtier, the way you were supposed to. “It’s beautiful! Derek did a great job.” I let go and Rachel snatched her hand back, examining the ring like a jeweler.

“Thanks.” Amani smiled demurely. “He let me pick it out, thank God. Otherwise I don’t know what you’d be looking at.”

“Tell her how he did it.” Rachel nudged her.

I kept my face ecstatic as Amani shared the proposal, which involved their first-date restaurant and the ring dropped in a glass of champagne.

While Dom was my aspirationally nontraditional friend, Amani was the opposite. A stunningly pretty biracial woman, she’d been with her boyfriend for years and wanted to get married and have kids soon, even though she was only twenty-six. At thirty-three, I didn’t know what I wanted. Admittedly, I’d fantasized about a more traditional life with Ryan. After all, that was the way I’d been raised: in a conservative town,to Christian parents, where the path to partners and parenthood was so straightforward. But there was a reason I’d left.

Still, a weight sat in my stomach as I did my morning rounds. Why did it seem so easy for certain people to find their person?

Maybe because they don’t have disgusting, shameful secrets like you.The insidious thoughts rose like smoke.Ones that cause people to dump you instantly.

I tried to push them away as I approached Block D. Lonnie was again in the doorway. But this time he clearly had an erection.

“Lonnie, you can’t be here.” This wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone masturbating at work, but something about it being Lonnie disturbed me.

He pulled his eyes away and focused on me. “What?”

“You. Cannot. Be. Here.” I pointed to his groin. “Do I need to call someone?” I knew he hated being put on observation, which we did for patients acting sexual or aggressive.

He scoffed, straightening his glasses. The ghostly air of his past professorship came through. “No need for dramatics.”

“Then you need to leave.”

He raised both hands. “It’s not my fault. Look at what she’s wearing.”

I peered in the door. Jane Doe was sitting on her bed, facing the back of the room, wearing one of the standard-issue sports bras given to female clients. Her shirt was laid out neatly beside her like a nurse had been called away in the midst of dressing her. The nurses had to do everything for her: walk her into the shower and soap her up and rinse her. Sit her on the toilet every few hours so she wouldn’t soil her pants like she had the second day. Feed her with a spoon.

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