Confidential(2)

“Oh?”

“For the big reveal.” His face was disconcertingly blank. “What’s the best way to go public?”

The American Psychological Association says that former clients and their therapists must wait two years after the termination of therapy before they can become romantically involved. Today marked two years from when Young and I had our last session with Dr. Baylor, when we “processed” my decision to end the marriage.

In my mind, Michael and I had taken the moral path. Our first sexual contact had taken place after Young and I split up. I hadn’t cheated. It was a shame that the APA was so rigid, that it failed to recognize different circumstances. Sure, the rule existed to protect vulnerable clients, and I understood that. But I hadn’t been vulnerable; I’d been fully capable of making a clearheaded decision and protecting myself. Ironically, the APA and its well-meaning bureaucrats had been the only real threat to my mental health. It was rough, keeping a love this big underground.

“We can’t go public the second the time elapses,” he said. “It would look suspicious.”

“To whom? Who’s looking?”

“Young, maybe. He could report me.”

I scoffed. “Young lives in Pacific Heights. We haven’t spoken since we finalized the divorce. You know that.”

“Don’t underestimate a man scorned. It’s hard to lose a woman like you.”

I felt a flush of pleasure that Michael thought so, though I highly doubted Young would agree. He was likely relieved when I ended it. He could tell his parents that we’d done counseling and, more important, that he’d done all he could but that I wasn’t willing to continue. I was sure he had told them that. Then he began to date immediately, according to the one friend we still had in common. I’d bet he never had any problems getting it up for all those girls from Tinder.

The flush of pleasure vacated my body instantly, and I felt a wave of self-consciousness. I shouldn’t have started this conversation with Michael in the shower. Far better would have been with full makeup on, with my lips accentuated and my nose deemphasized.

It wasn’t like I’d ever had trouble being noticed by men or being regarded as fuckable. Not until late-period Young. And Michael had just fucked me, vigorously.

But he didn’t want to be seen in public with me. That’s what he was saying. He wanted to keep me his dirty secret.

I’d waited two years! Two years!

Michael could see that I was getting worked up, so he started soaping me. At his caresses, the adrenaline started to abate. I felt soothed, like a cat being pet in a sunlit corner.

“I’ve risked everything for you,” he said. “That’s why I just need for us to take it slowly. You know how I feel about my career.”

His hand moved between my legs, and my head lolled back almost involuntarily. What that man could do to me.





CHAPTER 2





LUCINDA


I was hurrying down College Avenue, my fluffy dishwater-blonde hair flying behind me, dodging the myriad pedestrians who were darting into their chosen eateries, from the lowbrow crepe place to the small-plate French bistro with sixteen-dollar cocktails. Every third storefront was a restaurant; therapists populated every fifth building. Discreetly, a bit set back from the main street, sometimes around a courtyard, with bronze plaques full of names followed by initials: MSW, MFT, PhD, PsyD.

Michael Baylor was a PsyD, meaning he had his doctorate in clinical psychology. And he was mine. Only until 6:50, though, and it was already 6:04.

Stupid, stupid. Every missed minute cost money I barely had, money that could never be replaced because the San Francisco Bay Area was a leaky sieve and I worked as a proofreader for a small press in Berkeley. I was twenty-six, an introvert with four roommates. You could say things were not going particularly well.

Truthfully, though, it wasn’t really the money I was upset about. It was that I didn’t want to miss a minute with Dr. Baylor.

Christine had caught me on my way out the door, and I’d always been the worst at telling people no, I really have to go. I hated interrupting. I just stood there, trapped in the conversation like a fly in amber, waiting and listening for a substantial-enough pause. The right-size opening never seemed to come. I never wanted to hurt anyone by giving the impression that what he or she was saying wasn’t crucial or fascinating.

Dr. Baylor had pointed out that this was a toxic pattern for me: I was always aggrandizing others, thinking their time was more valuable, their desires and preferences worthier of satisfaction and their feelings more important. I knew he was right, and I didn’t want to admit that my lateness was because I’d done it again with Christine, who was a terrible boss and an even worse person.

I punched in the code that opened the outer door to his building and raced up to the second floor. Bursting into the small waiting room with no receptionist, two chairs, and a side table with a fan of Psychology Today magazines, I felt ungainly. I had that feeling a lot, since I’m more than six feet tall, which makes it hard to be as inconspicuous as I’d like to be. Dr. Baylor says I should embrace my height, that when you also factored in my “almost incidental beauty” (another way of saying I should brush my hair more?), I could own any room I went in. It was hard to believe that, though he looked so sincere, but it’s even harder to believe he’d lie.