Page 5 of The Last Session

“I think that’s probably unlikely. But whatever the case, you can’t be here.”

Femi, one of the nurses, strode by, watching us openly. Lonnie pushed off the door, gliding in the opposite direction. I exhaled, relieved he hadn’t dug his heels in.

It smelled ripe in here: stale sheets tinged with metallic sweat. Three of the beds were filled with sleeping women, their bedding gently rising and falling. The meds and boredom meant many people were sleeping at any given time, despite the noise pouring in from the hallway.

At the back of the room, Jane Doe was on her side facing the wall. When I skirted the bed, I found her eyes wide open and staring. It made my stomach dip with eerie unreality, like I was looking at a doll or mannequin.

Her pale face was bare of makeup, her hair greasy, but she was conventionally attractive: big green eyes, sharp cheekbones, full mouth. I found my hand going automatically to the back of my head. She had the same thick copper hair as me.

That was weird. Had Diane assigned her to me because we looked kind of similar?

Of course not. It was just a coincidence. I wasn’t the only redhead in the world.

But it was more than that. Beyond the similar features, she looked—shefelt—familiar. Crouching down, I studied her. Where had I seen her before? Maybe a party?

Her eyes stayed trained on the wall behind me. I followed her gaze to the scribbled-over wall, where bubble letters spelled outEAT SHIT. One hand was curled by her side, bandages covering several fingers, which jarred me back into my role.

“Hi there,” I said in a soft voice. “My name’s Thea. I’m the social worker who will be working with you. Diane told me you just got here today. If you need anything, you can let me know.”

No response.

“In the meantime, if there’s anything you want to tell me, I’ll leave this… shit.” The word popped out, unbidden, as I realized I hadn’t brought paperora pen. “I’ll come back with some writing supplies.”

“Be careful.” The sharp words came from the next bed. Another patient, Shana, propped herself up on one elbow. “I don’t trust thatbitch one bit. And you’re giving her a pen? She might stab me in my sleep.”

“No one’s going to stab you,” I said.

Her forehead creased, but then she just rolled her eyes. Her head dropped to her pillow. “Whatever. Maybe she’ll get you first.”

3

“She looks like me.” I dropped the take-out bag on the glass coffee table, the rich, spicy scent of pad see ew and fried rice making my stomach growl. “People are calling her Hot Thea.”

“Seriously?” Dom was half in the fridge, rummaging for IPAs. “They said that in front of you?”

“Well, not to my face.” I settled on the couch, unboxing the spring rolls. It felt like a relief to spill to Dom, whom I’d barely seen over the last few weeks. She’d texted that afternoon, asking if I was down to reschedule takeout-and-TV for that night.Last Chance Love, a reality show where undateables went through a dating boot camp before being paired with their “perfect match,” had been our favorite show all through grad school.

“I overheard this patient say it to someone.” I dug into my noodles. “Lydia. To her credit, I don’t think she knew I was right behind her.”

“Was Lydia the one who asked when you last got laid?” Dom settled next to me.

“Yes! Same person.” That had been an interesting art therapy session. She and Ace had proceeded to discuss how old they thought I was, and whether or not I’d want dinner first. My chest warmed that Dom remembered. Early in the job, she’d convinced me to stay when I’d felt completely overwhelmed.

“You know more than you think,” Dom had said then. “And you’re naturally caring. You listen. You want to help.”

It had been encouraging, even though it was also easy for her to say. Dom’s wealthy parents had connected her to the sex therapist she now worked for. An inpatient unit was laughably different from chatting with clients about their love lives.

“Well, I thinkyou’rethe Hot Thea.” She opened her beer and took a deep gulp. “But maybe you can have some kind of gladiator-style competition to see who comes out on top.”

“I’m down.”

“Of course you’re down. You’dwin. It’s always the nice ones who’re the most vicious.”

I chuckled. I’d missed this, our easy banter. Dom and I had connected over a group project early in grad school. She was a second-career therapist, like me, but she’d come from the fashion world and was herself model-like: tall, long-limbed, with a pushed-back crop of short blond hair and a dazzling smile. When she found out I was new to the city, she’d planned various nearby outings in between classes: getting classic New York–style pizza, visiting a hole-in-the-wall bookstore, downing a pickleback at a dim-lit pub. For a short time, I’d had a crush on her. While I’d always identified as straight, it had made me giddy to wonder if her attention went beyond friendliness. But I’d soon realized that many people felt this way—Dom was charismatic and flirty, and had quickly started dating several women and a nonbinary student in our program.

To my surprise, Dom had continued our friendship even after the semester ended. Our second year, she’d asked if I wanted to move into a two-bedroom she’d found. I’d jumped at the chance, even though the rent was more than I could afford.

“Anyway.” I speared a shrimp. “It’s still driving me nuts. I could swear I know her from somewhere.”

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