Every Single Secret(4)

Heath swiveled to face the guy. “Busy, man. Working. I’ve got a new thing.”

I kept my back to them and let out a whoosh of breath, half listening to Heath describe the warehouses on the outskirts of Cabbagetown that he was developing into condos. Heath didn’t bother to introduce us, rightly sensing I was in no mood to chat up strangers, and for that, I was grateful. I signaled the bartender. He braced his arms against the bar’s edge, and in a low voice I made my request. He raised his eyebrows at my credit card but took it. When he moved back down the bar, Heath was sending the guy in the suit on his way.

“So the therapist,” he said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bartender was talking to the girl with beige lipstick. Her gaze slid over to me once, then back to him.

“He’s based near Dunfree, up on the mountain. It’s an old mansion that he uses as a relationship-research lab and retreat center,” Heath said. “He’s one of the best in his field, been leading these retreats for over a decade. He observes how couples interact—he studies their body language, their conversation, all with hidden cameras in their suites.”

“Seriously?”

“He gets amazing results, apparently. And he’ll be able to observe me while I sleep. It’s like a total break from reality up there. Very intense—they don’t let you have cell phones or computers.”

I just shook my head.

“People from all over the world want to see Dr. Cerny. Baskens is really hard to get into.”

“But you did.”

“A guy in the office told me about him, and he must’ve put in a good word, because I called today and got the green light.”

I cleared my throat. “You know, you could just talk to me.”

He smiled gently. “Interesting you should say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I told you all about my past, but you keep yours hidden, it would throw off our balance. The perfect, precarious balance that’s made this thing work so well. Don’t you agree?”

I didn’t answer. It was the first time Heath had ever referred to my past—and with such confidence that I wouldn’t want to talk about it, even if he opened up about his. It was a new feeling—like he was indulging my insecurities, like he was a parent whose child was convinced there was a monster hiding under the bed.

“I wouldn’t put this on you anyway, Daphne. Dr. Cerny’s a professional. He’s done everything—couples’ therapy, relationship research, dream therapy too. He does this thing called EMDR. Eye Movement . . . um, something something? It’s a technique they use to help people remember past events. Childhood trauma.”

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck; I rolled the cashews inside my palm.

“I’d like to go there,” he said. “To the Baskens Institute, to meet with him. But”—he hesitated—“it’s seven days.”

My skin goosepimpled. “What’s seven days?”

The whole bar broke into a round of barking in response to the game playing over our heads, and I leaned closer to Heath.

“The retreat,” he said louder. “Dr. Cerny’s retreat for couples. It starts Monday morning and ends Sunday. When I called, he suggested we should register for it. That it might be a really good idea, for the both of us.”

“But if it’s you that wants therapy, why do we need a couples’ retreat?”

“He suggested since we’re going to be married, whatever I had to deal with involved you too—”

“But it doesn’t,” I blurted. “And, frankly, I don’t buy that the only solution to what we’re dealing with is a weeklong couples’ getaway. How much is this thing, anyway? I’m sure it’s not cheap. I mean, think about it. This guy’s a salesman. He’s selling a product.”

“That’s a cynical way to look at it.”

“Heath. You don’t need to sit in some airless office and talk for seven days straight so some arrogant, money-hungry PhD can tell you why you’re having nightmares. I mean, there’s a billion-dollar self-help-book industry out there, probably scores of books on why we dream what we dream. And not that you want to hear this, but you could just take a knockout pill to help you sleep better. I mean, they’re not going to make you turn in your man card for taking a fucking Ambien.”

I was babbling now, but he only watched me, his eyes patient. The look filled me with more fear than everything he’d just said.

“Look—” I started again.

He put out a hand. “Listen to me for a second. Dr. Cerny said if you weren’t comfortable meeting with him, that it would be fine. You could still come up, be with me when I’m not in sessions, spend time around the institute. The house is really old, and I hear the grounds are beautiful. You could just rest. Relax. Would a week off kill you?”

“No.” I sounded petulant even to myself.

“He said there was a possibility you could offer some insight into the nightmares, too, if you were open.” He looked down at his drink. “If you don’t want to, that’s your choice, of course. But, Daphne, here’s what I’m saying. Whether you go with me or not, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

This was the point where he was supposed to say he was kidding—that all this therapy talk was just a huge joke, and really what he wanted to do was go home with me so we could make love and then fall asleep in each other’s arms. But he wasn’t saying that. He was just staring down at that stupid business card lying between us like it was some kind of magic key, given to him by a fairy godmother. The promise of a better life. I already felt like I was being left behind.