Confidential(54)

I held his gaze. Were we—he and I—going to do it? I couldn’t be imagining the current flowing between us.

“And you and Young, you’re not doing it, even though we’re seemingly making progress in therapy. So that’s why I thought it would be a good time to meet with you each individually. Explore the impasse.”

“Yes,” I said, “let’s explore that.”

He laughed. “You’re a funny one, Flora.”

“I am. But how do you mean it?”

“There’s just something about you that makes me smile. I suppress it during the sessions. It wouldn’t be appropriate then. But later, I’ll remember things you said.”

I felt myself beginning to glow, like I’d been on a dimmer that had just been turned up. “I remember things you said, too.”

“I talk a lot to Young. I thought he was the one who needed the help most, to be honest. I needed to get him reinvested in your marriage. What I didn’t realize then was that your investment was only surface deep.”

That was the thing with Michael—he was always right. I just hadn’t formulated it so concisely for myself until that second. “What do we do?”

“Either we raise your level of commitment to match Young’s or . . .” He let his voice trail off suggestively. He wasn’t going to say it, but we both knew what was happening. We both knew where I had to end up. “You deserve the best, Flora. Maybe that’s Young and maybe it’s not. But that’s what we’ll explore.” Our eyes met. “No rush.”

It wasn’t just one individual session but multiple (a foreshadowing of what delights were to come). He was ultimately coaching me in how to leave my husband for him, without either of us ever acknowledging what was going on in that room between us. We didn’t speak of what would follow after I ended things with Young, but we both knew that we’d come together. That there was no resisting for either of us. But it wasn’t overnight, that was for sure.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

Michael was back, a towel around his waist. He started to get dressed nearly silently, creeping around the room.

“Good morning,” I said, and he visibly startled, his belt halfway through the loops.

“Good morning. I wanted you to sleep in.”

“It wasn’t in the cards. I was having nightmares.” Untrue but effective: he came and sat on the edge of the bed, instantly tuned in to me. I was going to need to play the victim for a little while longer, because I had been. The mugging was real. But since it had brought us back together, it didn’t feel like a trauma; it felt like a blessing.

“I was surprised that you seemed so peaceful. I’d expected you to thrash around.”

I fingered his belt loops. “It must have been your presence.”

“I could go with you to the police station this morning if you want. Do you remember his face?”

“No. I didn’t see it.”

“He punched you in the jaw. That means he was in front of you.”

I had hoped he wouldn’t reenact it in his mind. “I must have been looking at his fist, then. It was all so fast.”

“So he was walking toward you and punched you, and then shoved you the other way? I’m trying to picture exactly how it happened.”

Why? Was that some weird sexual fantasy he’d never told me? “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry. It’s too fresh. But fresh is better for going to the police.”

“Would you push one of your clients like this?”

“You’re not a client.”

I wasn’t sure if that meant I was more precious or less. “I need your support, Michael. I’ve been through a trauma.”

“I know. I’m trying to support you. I want to keep you safe. He’s still out there.” He was quiet for a second. His hair glinted dark and wet. I wanted to grab him and fuck him senseless, but that wouldn’t fit the profile. I was a victim. “What if this wasn’t random?”

“Muggings happen all the time near the Rockridge BART station. I shouldn’t have been walking there at night.”

“But if it wasn’t random, he can get to you somewhere else. I mean, this attack was pretty vicious. Normally, they just shove you from behind and grab your things. And didn’t he only take your phone and some cash?”

“I think that’s all he took.” Now I was getting frightened. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the attack wasn’t random. I mean, who would target me? I didn’t have enemies.

Kate?

No, that was insane. Kate had been on the phone with me; I could hear her reaction.

Michael, trying to get rid of a problem. Trying to be done with me once and for all.

No, that’s totally nuts. Besides, if he had somehow orchestrated the mugging, why would he suggest that it wasn’t random?

Besides, all the guy did was shove me from behind. The vicious part was all me.

Why had Michael said that, though, about shoving from behind and grabbing? It was so specific and so accurate. Not the version I’d choked out last night through tears. The version that I was fast realizing didn’t fit the forensic evidence.

I definitely couldn’t go to the police.

“Give me time,” I said. “You always say that when you work with trauma survivors, you need to go at their pace.”