Page 62 of Misery and Ecstasy

It’s ten minutes before Draven’s scheduled appointment time, and I’m still wondering if he’s going to show.

There hasn’t been one text exchanged or phone call made since I left him yesterday. Nothing to give me an idea of where his head is at or whether he’s coming or not. As a therapist, I expect a patient to call if they aren't going to make it. So if this were a normal situation, I’d assume he’s going to show.

But as an anxious girl who hasn’t fully crawled out of her freak-out over the fact that the guy she just slept withstillhasn’t called her, I don’t know what to think. Ihatebeing that girl. This shouldn’t affect me the way it is. But there is a reason I don’t sleep with very many guys—or meet very many guys to begin with—and this has a lot to do with it.

Despite their utter horror and worry over my unwantedlove interest, Marissa and Olivia helped me realize what I’ve been denying since the moment I woke up in his bed.

I like him, and I’m terrified he doesn’t like me back.

Somehow over the course of time since we first met, Draven has needled his way into my heart. He’s taken parts of it, small piece by small piece, threat by threat, suggestive glance by suggestive glance. Thescoundrelhasn’t stolen all of it yet, but, God, do I feel like he could.

It’s been a very unconventional wooing, but I don’t think he would have hooked me otherwise. I’m not the sunshine and rainbows type—neither is he from what I’ve learned about him. Maybe that’s why he’s been the one and only person to work their way in as far as he has.

Sitting in the chair in my office, I stare at the side of the couch he’s occupied each time he’s been in here, and I make a decision.

Draven has taken the initiative to be here, even when we didn’t have an appointment scheduled. My stomach flutters at this fact. It’s something I didn’t think about before.

I’ll give him until ten after six. That’s ten minutes after his appointment time. If he doesn’t show, I’ll take it as a sign that this has come to an end. I’ll allow myself to wallow in what could have been—and the heart-stopping sex that can be no more—for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, I will wake up a new person, having expelled Draven from my heart.

If he does show?

Well, that’s a bit more complicated. So much so, I feel like it requires a flow chart.

What would that look like?

Draven shows up.

Then what?

Option one: he’s here for therapy, but he doesn’t have any interest in me otherwise.

Option two: he’s here for therapy, and is interested in a casual fling.

Option three: he’s here for therapy, and he wants to possess my mind, body, and spirit until the final days of my life.

This is part of the reason why I’m afraid to open up to him. He will undoubtedly find out what a complete nutcase I am.

I guess if he does show up I should, at the very least, be proud of him for wanting to continue his therapy. If he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me on a more personal level, then I will tug on every bit of professionalism I still possess—the amount is questionable, at best—and bury my feelings.

The sound of my doorbell chime rings through my house, startling me in my seat. Jumping out of my chair, I’m thankful there aren’t any windows in my office facing the front of the house.

When I turn the corner and lock eyes on him, I’m annoyed that I can't tell what he’s thinking. But I’m also thoroughly turned on by the way he’s leaning against the door frame with one hand up against the house and the other down by his side. He seems nervous by the way he’s flexing his fingers. I catch their movement and feel the heat in my cheeks.

We don’t offer each other a smile in greeting, and he looks as annoyed by that as I am. Swallowing through my trepidation, I open the door and let him in.

“Hi.” I almost cringe at how uncharacteristic of me my small, meek voice is.

“Hey.” Draven practically whispers. It’s like he’s afraid to speak too loudly and scare me.

“Um, come on in?—”

“We need to talk?—”

We speak over one another, and before he can tell me he’s done with me—that I’ve fucked him up more than helped him in any way—I blurt out my innermost fears. The ones I had every intention of keeping locked tightly inside of me, as though not opening up to him about why I push him away would be the answer to our problem.

“I have trust issues, Draven. Major. Trust. Issues. When my dad left, his rejection and absence created a sickness inside of me that I’ve struggled to cope with ever since.”

When he tries to interrupt me, I put my hand up, stopping him.

---