Confidential(53)

“Start talking,” I say.





BEFORE





CHAPTER 42





FLORA


I listened at the door as Michael was in the shower. I wished I could hear him singing. Sometimes he did, and then I knew he was happy to have me here, in his bed. But maybe he wasn’t singing this morning out of respect for me and what I’d been through in last night’s attack.

It hadn’t occurred to me when I bashed myself in the face that I was putting myself in the same category as his clients, but it was rather brilliant. Now I needed him just like they did. I was vulnerable, just as they were. Whatever they were offering him, I could, too. I was finally able to compete. I would win.

I smiled to myself as I rolled over. At some point, I’d get him to upgrade these sheets. The thread count was way too low, practically burlap. Or I’d just move in here and bring my own sheets. They’d become ours. Everything would.

Last night, after he picked me up and brought me back here—brought me home—he was so solicitous. He set me up in bed with a tray and some food and an ice pack. He nursed me with great tenderness, never even making a move toward sex. Before we fell asleep, I pulled him toward me so that he could cradle me from behind. “Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked. “Nothing hurts?”

“No,” I said. For the first time in weeks, nothing hurt.

I didn’t like how I’d gotten here, the manipulation of it. But once we were back on track, everything would be aboveboard. No more lies. I’d tell people about him only with his full consent. If we needed to stay secret longer, that was a small price to pay for knowing that eventually, we’d be free and open and legitimate. Michael thought we’d become unhealthy, but we could get healthy again, together.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

Last night, Michael demonstrated that. It reminded me of our first individual therapy session.

I’m not a natural type in general, but for that meeting, I was truly over the top. I bought a new outfit. I left work early so I could take an extended bubble bath, layering fragrances from body lotion to oil to perfume, but only a little of each so that the effect was subtle and wafting yet unmistakable. My makeup was nearly an hour of artistry. I blew my hair straight and then worked just a hint of a wave back into it. Good thing Young was working late, so that I could undo it all before he’d get home that night. If he’d seen me, the jig would have been up.

Did I feel guilty about my feelings for Michael, for the ways I was contemplating betraying Young? Of course I did. But not just then. I was too wound up.

I was nearly panting with anticipation as I sat in the waiting room. Why so many Psychology Today issues? I’d never remembered to ask why he didn’t have a subscription to anything else. Or why so many of the issues were about sociopaths, narcissists, and those who love them.

His door opened, and he and the previous client were laughing as they said goodbye. It was clear they liked each other a lot, which made sense. Who wouldn’t like Michael? The woman was pretty, I couldn’t help noticing, in a simplified way, in her athleisure with no makeup.

I felt a second’s despair, like maybe that was what he was into and I’d gone in the wrong direction. I’d misread him during the sessions with Young. He wasn’t attracted to me at all. He thought I tried too hard, which was practically the biggest insult there was. And in my case, it was true. I had tried way too hard.

She’s his client, I reminded myself, not his girlfriend.

Oh, right. He could have a girlfriend. Somehow that hadn’t occurred to me before. He wore no ring, and my Google-stalking hadn’t suggested a wife, but it was possible he was with someone. It was possible his interest in me was purely professional.

“Flora!” He gave me a warm smile. I was pretty sure he was happy to see me, but then, he’d been jovial with Athleisure, too. “Come on in.”

“Hi.” My smile was wan. I followed him inside and arranged myself on the couch. My skirt was short. Too obvious? Should I have worn some yoga pants?

“How do you feel about being here?” he asked. He’d resettled in his chair and looked entirely in his element.

My stomach plummeted. If he were into me, he wouldn’t look quite so comfortable. He was wearing a rumpled plaid shirt and some corduroys, for fuck’s sake. He hadn’t tried at all. He might not even have remembered it was our first day alone until he got to work and looked at his schedule.

Somehow, in my mind, it had been so different. He’d been in a state of expectation all week, like I had.

“I feel fine.” Now my smile was tight.

“You seem a little nervous. I get it. You’re used to having Young here with you, and the risk is distributed.”

“Risk?”

“Figure of speech. What I mean is, you’re not in the hot seat the whole time.” The way he looked at me when he said “hot seat” . . . was I imagining that? “This is tough stuff we’re talking about. Sex and intimacy. It goes to the core of who we are as people.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.” I looked up at him admiringly from under my false eyelashes.

“In my experience, a staggering number of people don’t think of it at all. We’re either doing it or we’re not doing it.”