An Anonymous Girl(35)

Clearly, I’ve guessed wrong. I have no idea what’s in store for me this evening, but it’s not going to be an intimate dinner with Dr. Shields.

I walk the nine steps to the entrance of the hotel and a bellman pulls open the door.

“Good evening, miss,” he says.

“Hi,” I say. My voice sounds timid, so I clear my throat. “Which way is the bar?”

“Past reception and all the way to the back,” he says.

I feel his eyes linger on me as I proceed through the entrance. I realize my dress rode up a bit when I got out of the Uber and I tug down the hem.

The lobby is mostly empty except for an older couple sitting on the leather couch by the fireplace. Behind the reception desk, a woman wearing glasses smiles at me and says, “Good evening.”

My heels sound too loud tapping against the ornate wood floor. I’m acutely conscious of my stride, and not just because I’m unaccustomed to wearing pumps.

I finally make it to the bar and pull open the heavy wooden door. It’s a good-size space, filled with a few dozen people. I squint as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I look around, wondering if Dr. Shields is waiting to greet me. I don’t see her, but I do spot a bunch of guys at a large table about halfway back.

Choose a seat at the bar close to them.

Are they working with Dr. Shields, too?

I check out the group as I draw closer. They appear to be in their late thirties. At first glance, they’re almost indistinguishable with their short haircuts and dark suits and crisp, collared shirts. They’ve got an air about them I’ve seen before: They’re a younger version of the dads who pay for the fancy bar mitzvahs and sweet-sixteen parties, the ones that cost as much as a nice wedding.

There are only a few empty high-back stools at the bar. I take one that’s about six feet away from the men.

When I slide onto it, I feel the warmth of the wood against my thighs, as if someone has just vacated it. I loop the handle of my purse on the hook beneath the counter, then shrug off my coat and put it on the back of my seat.

“Be with you in just a minute,” the bartender says as he muddles herbs for a craft cocktail.

Am I supposed to order a drink? Or is something else going to happen?

Even though I’m in a public place, anxiety swirls in my gut. I remind myself of what Dr. Shields said during my first visit to her office: You will be in complete control and can back out at any time.

I twist slightly in my seat, so I can glance around the room, searching for clues. But all I see are the monied customers drinking and talking, a stunning blonde leaning in across the table to point to an item on the bar menu to her date, a well-built guy with a slightly receding hairline in a blue shirt, typing away on his phone, and two smiling, middle-aged couples raising their glasses in a toast.

My phone vibrates in my hand, startling me.

Don’t be nervous. You look perfect. Order a drink.

My eyes jerk back up.

Where is she?

She has to be in one of the back booths, but my line of vision is obscured by the dim lighting and the other occupants of the bar.

I’ve been fiddling with the rings on my index finger. I put my hands in my lap. Then I look at the table full of guys again, wondering why Dr. Shields wanted to position me near them. My eyes run over each of the five men in turn. One meets my gaze. He leans over and whispers something to his friend, who laughs and turns to check me out. I twist back around, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

The bartender tilts toward me over the counter. “What can I get you?”

Normally I’d have a beer or a shot, but not in a place like this. “Red wine, please.”

He’s still waiting for something. I realize he’s expecting me to be more specific.

I cast back in my memory, then blurt, “Volnay,” hoping I pronounced it the same way the waiter did in the French restaurant a few nights ago.

“I’m afraid we don’t have that,” he says. “Would you care for a Gevry?”

“That’ll be fine,” I say. “Thank you.”

When the bartender delivers my glass, I grip it extra hard to disguise the fact that my hand is shaking.

Usually the warmth of alcohol relaxes me, but I still feel on edge as I scan the room again. I sense the presence of the man next to me before I see him out of the corner of my eye.

“Looks like you’re waiting for someone,” he says. It’s the guy from the table, the one who was whispering to his friend. “Mind if I keep you company until they show up?”

I quickly glance at my phone’s screen, but it’s blank.

“Um, sure,” I say.

He sets his drink down on the counter and takes the stool to my left. “I’m David.”

“Jessica.” My full name must have slipped out because I’m in Dr. Shields’s world now.

He rests an arm on the bar.

“So, Jessica, where are you from?”

I tell him the truth, not only because I don’t know what else to say, but because of Dr. Shields’s rules about honesty.

It hardly matters, though, because he just replies, “That’s cool,” and then launches into a story about how he moved here from Boston for a big job four years ago. I’m in the midst of feigning interest when my phone vibrates.

“Excuse me.” I grab it and see the text from Dr. Shields.