Page 32 of The Therapist

I need more fresh air. A bigger open space. I head for the foot-trodden trail.

Dune grass gives way to a half-mile strip of sandy beach. Gray-green ocean foams white as it crashes along the shoreline, the salty brine a delight when inhaled. I kick my sandals off and sink my feet into the cool sand.

Cliffs to the left rise up from the water, the top peppered with majestic pines. At the water’s edge, the sound of the sea is deafening. Discourse swirls round deep in my gut, warring with the fascination and allure I gave into last night. I close my eyes as cold salt water engulfs my feet and ankles. It has been too long since I’ve felt this connected, this grounded to the outdoors.

“Breathtaking.” The voice comes nearly against my ear, over the sound of the waves, startling me. Sliding my eyes left, I see Cooper standing slightly behind me. He’s not looking at the scenic vista—his eyes are trained on me.

An uncomfortable pang of unease at the lusty thoughts running rampant in my head blooms in my belly alongside the blush creeping up my neck. I turn to face him. He reaches out and brushes an errant curl from across my forehead back in place. My heart hiccups against my breastbone. His bright eyes are stormy as his mouth opens.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

Goosebumps erupt in the wake of the finger he trails down my arm, despite the heat. Four measly words and everything cements from potential fantasy into fact. He did watch me. Irelease the breath stuck in my lungs and turn back to the line where the sky meets sea. Away from the heat of his intense eyes. My momentary lapse in judgement, an unethical—potentially career-ending—moment actually happened. I had hoped he hadn’t been watching as I fell asleep that night—almost.

After I came, I was spent, mentally and physically. The adrenaline of my actions drained. The rashness of my choice hit me and I laid in that bed, full of shame and unease.

My heart burns in my chest,What have I done?on repeat in my brain. In a panic, I chance a look at him, but am surprised to see he’s gone.

My body is suddenly heavy like a cement block, I can’t force my legs to work. Feet buried in the wet sand—stuck. Craning my head over my shoulder, Cooper’s retreating form heads back to the inn in the dark.

Alone on the beach, a chill sweeps down my spine.

What have I done?

What have I done?

What have I done?

Fifteen

Present

The last of the group shuffles out of the therapy room, leaving behind the lingering scent of coffee and the faint hum of overlapping voices from the hallway. I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. It was a good session—productive, even. For once, the weight of everyone else’s emotions doesn’t feel quite so suffocating.

I gather my notes, ready to head back to my office when I catch Aubry lingering near the door. She leans against the frame, looking small beneath her oversized sweater. Her eyes flick between my notes and my face as if she’s trying to decide whether to ask something.

“Dr. Richardson,” she calls out, her voice edged with something unreadable. “You got a sec?”

“Of course,” I say, slipping my pen into my pocket.

She waves me over to the reception desk, where a tablet screen glows in front of her. “Tell me I’m not losing my mind,” she mutters, tapping the glass. “Look at this.”

I step closer, following her gaze to the article open on the screen. The headline is some sensationalist garbage—“Peeping Tom Convicted”—but it’s the image beside it that sends my stomach plummeting to my feet.

Cooper.

His mugshot stares back at me. My vision tunnels for a second, and I have to steady myself against the edge of the desk. Even in his mugshot he is handsome.

Aubry doesn’t notice my reaction. She just huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “You recognize him, right?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “What do you mean?”

She turns the screen toward me, zooming in on the picture as if I haven’t already burned every detail into my memory. “That’s the guy. The journalist who covered the puppy adoption event last year.” She laughs again, incredulous. “Can you believe it? He volunteered here, Dr. R. He held puppies. He took pictures! Of you! He interviewed people. He was here.”

The memory slams into me like a freight train—him asking polite questions, holding a notepad, a camera slung around his neck. A friendly smile. An unforgettable face in a sea of others.

“That’s…strange,” I manage, my voice light, casual. My pulse thrums in my ears.

Aubry scoffs. “It’s crazy, right?” She shakes her head, already moving on, closing out the article with a flick of her fingers. “Anyway, just thought you’d get a kick out of that. See you tomorrow?”

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