Confidential(60)

“Maybe it should be. We can work through this transference you’re having.”

“Come again?”

Now the heat was in his face. He was feeling something, that was clear. “Transference. You’re relating to me like a past figure in your life. You’re projecting thoughts, feelings, and hopes onto me. That’s why sometimes you get mad at me. It’s why you’re thinking that I could be the potential father of your child when you know so little about me.”

I shook my head. “No. I get mad at you because sometimes you’re really infuriating.”

He almost smiled. “I could say the same about you.”

Our eyes met, and it was still there. That warmth. The tingle. The chemistry. “This is my last session with you. I’ve decided. The only question is, will you let me get to know you more so we can see if whatever this is translates to the real world?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“I want to vet you as the potential father of my child. Does that scream ‘date’ to you?”

“You just decided you want to be a mother. You just allowed yourself to see that your own parents were largely incapable of love. You need time to process and to grieve—”

“Pregnancy is forty weeks. And it’s not like I’ll conceive instantly. There’s time. I’m going to work hard to emotionally prepare myself for all the changes. That’s what the sabbatical is about. That’s what seeing you outside of this room is about.”

He creaked backward in his chair. “I can’t date a former client for two years. If I do, I can lose my license.”

“I told you, it’s not dating. Does your handbook outlaw sperm donation to a former client?”

“It can’t cover all contingencies. There has to be room for sound clinical judgment.”

“I’ll protect your identity and your livelihood. I have an excellent attorney on retainer who’ll draw up paperwork to indemnify you. It’ll ensure that I’m not able to sue you or file any complaints against you. Not that I would ever try to do those things, but I’d want you to feel comfortable.”

He stared up at the ceiling as if something were written there. A way out of this, maybe. Or a way in. I had the feeling that Dr. Michael had chosen this line of work because he liked complications. He liked challenges. He liked to be tied up so he could Houdini his arms free.

“Professional guidelines exist for a reason,” he said. “They exist because the people who come to see me, who place their trust in me, are vulnerable. I need to be careful not to abuse the power they’ve given me.”

“Look at me. Do I look vulnerable to you?”

“It’s not about how you look. You’re in crisis.”

“In transition. And trust me, any power I give you, I can take back. I just did. I make my own decisions like a big girl. I’ve been doing it my entire life.” I stood up. “This was my last session.” I stepped toward the door. “I’ve made my choice. Now you need to make yours.”





CHAPTER 47





LUCINDA


The room was dark, lit only by pillar candles. Sandalwood, by the smell of them. The sound machines were on full blast: two of them inside the office, one in the waiting room, and another in the hall. All precautions were being taken so that no one could hear me. I’d discovered that I could get loud.

We were on the couch, and my legs were in the air, with Michael’s mouth in between them. He lifted his head. “Talk to me.”

I moaned.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to keep going.” I was naked and glistening with sweat. I thought, just for a second, about the other women who sat on that couch. Did other women lie on it, too?

No, I was the only one. I had to be.

“I want to hear your voice,” he said. “Tell me ‘there.’ Or ‘no, not there. Over here.’ Pull my hair. Show me. Faster. Slower.”

“Or just right.”

He smiled, resting his head against my thigh. “Yeah, sometimes it’s just right.”

“Will you let me return the favor tonight?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.” Another grin. “I’ve got a headache.”

It wasn’t that I liked giving blow jobs or anything, but I couldn’t tell Michael what I really wanted: for things to stop seeming so one-sided. For this to become mutual, something we could continue outside the office. But Michael said this was my time, not his. What about our time?

“Get back to work, then,” I said.

He did, and so did I. I gave directions, through my hand in his hair. A caress, a yank, a push against the back of his head. Deeper, I needed it deeper. Then I was screaming.

He laughed as he came up for air. “Shh,” he said. “I’ve got neighbors.”

It was past midnight. Even the cleaning people had gone home. But I didn’t bother telling him that; I was finished.

I rolled over sideways as I waited to get my breath back. He was spooning me, but it wasn’t a large couch, so I had to squeeze in tight against the pillows. Hard to believe this was the same couch where I’d be sitting on Wednesday night, talking about Cassie and her mother. About Adam and me.