Every Single Secret(18)

I sighed. “I know. Okay? I know that.” I laid my head against his back. Let my hand travel around to his chest, then abdomen. “The door was open, and I was curious.”

He made a reproving sound. “What if they stumbled upon that room and decided to watch us? Watch you?”

“You mean to tell me, if you saw an open door with a wall of surveillance monitors, you wouldn’t feel the slightest bit intrigued? You’re telling me you would walk on past without even a peek?”

“I wouldn’t watch,” he said, so fiercely I pressed my lips together.

I wasn’t about to tell him about running into Dr. Cerny. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be thrilled about me sharing a bottle of wine with the guy he was about to spend a week of intensive therapy with. Anyway, I was tired of whispering. So there was another secret. I guessed I could add it to the one I was keeping about reaching out to his ex-girlfriend.

A sharp knock startled me. When I opened our door, there was no one there, just an intricately scrolled silver tray at my feet, laid with an elaborate collection of china, crystal, and silver. The sharp scent of coffee and fresh-baked somethings that rose from it made my mouth water. I must’ve just missed Luca, the phantom, non-English-speaking cook.

A note sat to one corner, heavy cream stationery. I popped on my glasses and read it aloud to Heath while he laid out the meal.

8 a.m. Breakfast (room)

9 a.m.–9:50 a.m. Heath Beck session (sunroom)

10 a.m.–10:50 a.m. Heath Beck reading assignment (Dr. Cerny In Session)

11 a.m.–11:50 a.m. Heath Beck assessments (Dr. Cerny In Session)

12:30 p.m. Lunch (room)

1:30 p.m.–2:30 p.m. Free block (cameras off)

3 p.m.–3:50 p.m. Heath Beck session with Dr. Cerny (sunroom)

4 p.m.–4:50 p.m. Heath Beck writing assignment (Dr. Cerny In Session)

5 p.m.–5:50 p.m. Heath Beck meditation (Dr. Cerny In Session)

6 p.m.–7 p.m. Free block (cameras on)

7 p.m. Dinner (room)

8 p.m.–10 p.m. Free block (cameras on)

10 p.m.–12 a.m. Free block (cameras off)

I tossed the note on the bed. “According to this, you’ve essentially signed up for six hours of daily therapy.”

“It’s not all therapy.” He tucked into the scrambled eggs. “There are personality tests. Reading and journaling. Meditating.”

“Free blocks,” I couldn’t resist adding.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he said mildly, cutting a sausage in half.

“You’ve never meditated a second in your life.”

“That you know of.”

I sat opposite him and poured a cup of coffee. There was nothing to say in response to that. He was right. There were probably a thousand details I didn’t know about him, a wealth of information that I had chosen to give up in exchange for peace of mind.

He put down his fork. “Come on, Daph, it’s not like I’m looking forward to this. But I’m doing what I have to do to get my head straight. So we can have a normal life.”

“We did have a normal life,” I said.

We bought overpriced organic goat cheese and Jerusalem artichokes and weird-colored olives with the lofty intention of trying new recipes but let them all go bad in the fridge in favor of takeout pizza. We watched terrible movies on Sunday afternoons and actually enjoyed them. We made love almost every night.

We had a normal life—until you flipped out.

After we finished, he went into the bathroom. I followed him, leaned against the door frame while he turned on the shower and peeled off his underwear.

“I just wish we could’ve stayed home and taken care of this in Atlanta,” I said.

“There’s no one like Dr. Cerny in Atlanta. He’s going to help me, Daph, I really have a feeling. He’s going to help me figure out my past—and we’re going to be better for it.”

He turned to face the stream of water. Ran his fingers through his dark hair. He looked fantastic. Delicious. I wished we could skip the morning’s schedule. No, I wished we could get in the Nissan and drive back down the mountain. Get a cabin of our own—one without big, dark, cobwebby furniture and velvet-fringed draperies. We could open a couple of bottles of wine and sit in a hot tub staring at the mountains and wearing each other out all week long.

Solve our problems the old-fashioned way. With sex.



Downstairs we met Dr. Cerny, who, in tweed pants and an expensive-looking black cashmere sweater, looked a little bit like an old duke hanging out at his genteel, slightly tattered countryside castle. When he entered the foyer at the same time we did, I couldn’t help but wonder if there were also cameras that tracked our movement through the house. The sensation of being watched never seemed to leave me.

“Daphne Amos,” I blurted, my hand shooting out at Dr. Cerny like an arrow. “Nice to meet you.”

He clasped my hand, his eyebrows raised. “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Amos. Matthew Cerny.”

His eyes twinkled, our secret obviously giving him some mischievous delight. I appreciated his playing along with my charade, but something about it unsettled me. Like the way he’d noticed the band on my wrist last night, picked up on my snack foraging. The odd toast that seemed directed at me.

That old saying ran through my head: He’s got your number.