Every Single Secret(16)

We managed an awkward handshake. His grip was firm, warm.

“I was hoping you didn’t stand me up because you were unhappy with something. Your accommodations, possibly. Something Dr. Teague said.” He grinned again. And there was that twisting sensation once more, deep in my gut. I felt breathless.

“Daphne?”

“Excuse me. No, everything is lovely. We just . . . we were so tired from the trip.”

“Feeling better now? More rested?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Would you like your dinner?”

“Oh, this will be fine.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Sit.” He gestured to a small table by the window. I sat and deposited my haul as he swung open the refrigerator and began pulling out an array of plastic containers. “We have a wonderful cook, Luca, but he goes home, back down to Dunfree, every night and doesn’t return until morning. So I’m afraid you’re left with me. No fear, however. I am well versed in the ways of the microwave.” He spooned leftovers onto a plate.

“You really don’t have to,” I protested.

“No, please, allow me. It’s a first, someone paying for one of my retreats but declining to meet with me. I have to admit, on one hand, it’s been making me feel like the last one chosen for the kickball team.”

I gulped.

“On the other . . .” He turned now and regarded me with a thoughtful expression. “It means we can be friends. I think I’ll rather enjoy running into someone this week who isn’t a client.” He put the plate in the microwave and punched a few buttons. He drew two wineglasses hanging from a rack above the counter toward him. “How about something to drink? How about a red?”

“Water’s fine,” I said.

“Problems with alcohol?”

I hesitated. “No. I just don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. And I’d like a glass myself.” He inspected a bottle on the counter. “They left us half.” He filled both glasses, then held his aloft. “I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free. Do you know the quote?” He looked hopeful. And even more like Mr. Al than I’d thought at first. It was the cowlick, just above his left eye. On Mr. Al, it had been endearing—made him look like a wide-eyed boy. It lent a certain charm to the doctor as well.

“No, sorry,” I said.

“It’s from Wuthering Heights. A classic.”

“It’s a good one. Evocative.” If a little bizarre for a toast. He clinked his glass on mine, and we drank the strong, mellow red. “When I looked at you, that’s immediately what came to mind. Heathcliff’s girl, making her way back to the old house, searching for her lost innocence. Her childhood love.”

The microwave beeped, and he pulled out the steaming plate.

“It’s just Heath, by the way. My fiancé’s name. Not Heathcliff.”

“Noted.” He set the food in front of me, along with utensils and a cloth napkin, then settled in the other chair. “So, shall we discuss the elephant in this shadowy kitchen?”

I blushed.

“Your distaste of psychotherapy.”

I concentrated on the scallops. “Trust me. You’re not missing much by not meeting with me. I’m kind of boring.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” He poured more wine. “In particular, I’m interested in why you don’t want to talk.”

“Therapy’s not my thing.”

“Ah.” He laced his fingers. “You’ve had a negative experience.”

“Not necessarily. It’s . . .” My eye fell on a toaster on the counter. The doctor and I looked like a Picasso painting on its gleaming surface.

And that was exactly what I wanted to say to the doctor. That the past was like the surface of a crazy mirror. When you spoke certain things aloud, when they left your mouth, they changed. The words became either oddly magnified—blown out of proportion—or squeezed down to nothing. Right could appear wrong, good could look like evil, depending on the spin. No one talked about their past without things getting distorted—and without consequences. There were always consequences.

“It’s complicated,” I finally said.

Cerny’s lips curled. “Ah, complicated. That magical word that has the power to end a conversation.”

“Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. It’s none of my business. But I couldn’t help but notice the . . .” He nodded at the hair band around my wrist. I realized it must stand out, especially to someone in his field. A tip-off to who I was.

I cleared my throat. “I read about it somewhere, a few years ago. I use it to bring me back to reality when I get . . . off track.” Maybe a smidge of self-revelation would satisfy his curiosity, prevent him from prodding any deeper. “I was a foster kid. Raised on a girls’ ranch in south Georgia from age eleven to eighteen. Not a great place, but not as bad as it could’ve been. There was a man—one of the housefathers—that I was close to. Long story short, he was a good guy, but he ended up going to jail. Felony drug possession and child endangerment.”

I felt short of breath, disoriented. Like some foreign entity had just taken over my body and unleashed a torrent of words in an unknown language.