The Play (Briar U, #3)(47)

“It’s windy out there,” he mutters, dragging one hand through his hair.

“It’s supposed to thunderstorm tonight.”

“Good. It’s mid-October—how is it still so hot out there?”

“Global warming,” I supply.

“Yeah, it’s a real problem.”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. We’re discussing the climate. And he’s not looking at me, but at his Timberland boots. The ease and humor that normally flows between us is nowhere to be found.

When Hunter takes his designated seat on the loveseat, he doesn’t lie down like he usually does. His big, muscular body remains seated—and tense. “Whatever, let’s do this.”

I grit my teeth. “You could sound a little more enthused.”

“So could you,” he shoots back.

I shove the chip bag on my nightstand. Fine. I guess this is how it is. I flip open the binder I’m using for the project and turn to the latest blank log.

After having done this a handful of times, I think I’m solidly in the Narcissistic Personality Disorder camp. “Dick Smith” fits all the diagnostic criteria from the DSM-5. But the problem with an NPD diagnosis is that narcissists customarily don’t know they’re narcissists, meaning that any analysis is only as useful as the info coming in. And the fact that narcissists have a tendency to rewrite events in their minds makes the whole process even more challenging.

This means the therapist needs to ask the right questions. Weed out important tidbits and search for any emerging patterns, such as the patient describing an interaction that doesn’t match their reaction to it. And don’t get me started on treatment. I mean, if a narcissist can’t recognize he’s a narcissist, how on earth do you treat his narcissism?

Ugh. I’m not super thrilled with this one. I would prefer something more straightforward, like an anxiety disorder. At least those suffering from anxiety tend to be aware they have a problem.

“So why do you think you’re in therapy?” I ask my fake patient.

“I told you, my wife wanted me to go.”

“So you don’t think you need therapy.”

“Nope.” Hunter crosses his ankles and gazes up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There doesn’t need to be something wrong with you, or anybody, for you to benefit from therapy.”

“People who see shrinks are weak. Only reason I’m doing this is to keep my marriage together.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

He scoffs. “Because no one in my family gets divorced. Divorce is another sign of weakness. An indication of your inability to work hard enough to achieve a goal.”

“The goal here being, saving your marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Because if you get divorced, you’ll look bad in front of your family and colleagues?”

“No, because I love my wife. I want to keep everything together for her and my son.”

“Your son?”

Oh my God. Plot twist! I’ve been waiting weeks for a curveball like this.

Instantly, my pen is poised over my paper, ready to take copious notes. “This is the first time you mentioned a son.”

“I had no reason to. The problems in my marriage have nothing to do with him.”

“Yes, but it would still be fruitful for me to get a better sense of your family unit,” I point out. “I need to know all the facts.”

Hunter watches me through slitted eyes. “I see. So knowing all the facts is important?”

I tense at the jab, which is obviously directed at me, Demi, and not the fake Dr. Davis. “When the facts are true or relevant to the discussion, then yes. When someone is stirring up trouble for no reason, then no.”

“For no reason?” The muscles in his jaw harden. “Whatever. Fine. You want to hear about my son? I’ll tell you about my son. He’s a little prick.”

I’m taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “Why do you say that?”

“The kid’s a snitch. If it weren’t for him, my wife would have no idea about that goddamn affair with my assistant. He’s the one who told her.”

“I see.”

“He showed up at my office one day over summer break. He came by to say hello and caught me banging my secretary on the desk.” Disgust twists Hunter’s features. “Did he try to get an explanation from me? Ask what his mother may have done to drive me to such extreme actions? Absolutely not. Instead he took off, ran home, and told his mother what he saw.”

There is something scarily…realistic about this story.

Hunter’s visible resentment tells me this is more than play-acting. “How old was he?”

“Fourteen. A fourteen-year-old punk who thought he was a man, the big hero who was gonna rescue his mom. Joke’s on him, though. Kathryn didn’t care. Of course she wasn’t going to leave me. Look at me—rich, attractive. She can’t do any better than me. My son thought he was doing the right thing, but as it turns out, nobody gave a shit about his opinion.”

Hunter angrily shakes his head. “And it scarred the kid, because it turns out his mom already knew about that affair, and the previous affairs before it, and she begged him to just look the other way because his father was such a good man and a good dad and a good provider. When he tried to argue, she called him a troublemaker and made him feel like he’d done something wrong by telling her the truth. And so years later, when he saw something else he knew might hurt another woman, he wanted to keep his mouth shut.” He’s glaring at me now. “And it took a fucking lot for him to say anything. He asked his friends if he should, if they would want to know, and in the back of his mind a little voice was saying don’t get involved, it’s only gonna blow up in your face again, and look what happened—it fucking did.”