Goodnight Beautiful(18)

A new patient.

*

The cold air from the cracked window strikes me as soon as I open the door and head through the boxes toward the happy-face rug I ordered from Urban Outfitters. It was probably unnecessary, as Sam has no interest in what happens to this room, but then I read the description—Happy vibes all through your space with this plush smiley face area rug—and how could I not buy it to cover the vent?

“What kind of things did it make you aware of?” Sam is asking.

“How powerful I am.” Female with an accent. French. Possibly Italian. “You would think it’d be the opposite, right?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

“I was seventeen years old, sleeping with the forty-year-old father I babysat for. He’s the one expected to wield the power in that dynamic, but I could have made him do anything.” Strong cheekbones, short brown hair. A French Natalie Portman. I do this sometimes, imagine what they look like and who’d play them in the movie based only on their voice. It usually takes me at least three sessions (I’m still deciding between Emma Thompson and Frances McDormand for Numb Nancy), but with this one it’s immediate. Dark Natalie Portman, Black Swan. “And now it’s second nature to me.”

“What is, exactly?” Sam asks.

“Manipulating men to do whatever I want,” she says. “You could call it my superpower. I should pitch it to Marvel, right? Put me in a red bodysuit and watch me find the weakness in men.”

“I can already see the movie poster,” Sam says.

They share a hearty chuckle, and I notice how relaxed he sounds. In fact, I’d say he’s more relaxed than he’s been in days.

“I can’t imagine being with someone who I couldn’t control,” she says. “Men, at least. Women are an entirely different story.”

“Are you currently seeing anyone?” he asks.

“A few people,” she says. “But most of my time is for Chandler.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a laugh. Chandler? “He’s the real reason I wanted to start therapy.”

“Tell me about him,” Sam says.

She sighs. “I met him at the end of summer, at an opening in New York. The guy I was with is kind of a bore, and I noticed Chandler standing near the bar. He’s insanely sexy. You know, in that way older guys are?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Sam says. “How old is he?”

“Forty-one.” She snickers. “Sorry if you’re offended by me saying forty-one is old.”

“I’m not, but thank you,” Sam says.

“Anyway, I went over and talked to him. Asked if he was enjoying the show. And my god, the way he looked at me . . .” She stops there.

“How did he look at you?”

“He drank me up. He was utterly unabashed about it, too.” Her voice is distant, and I imagine her on the sofa, languid, her eyes on the backyard. “I still masturbate to the thought of it.”

I cringe, wondering what he must make of this girl.

“His wife came over then and introduced herself. She’d curated the show, and we chatted a few minutes. He kept his eyes on me all night, and before I left I wrote my name and number in the guest book near the door.”

“And?”

“He texted me within the hour and came over that night.” She laughs softly. “Honest to god, best night of my life.”

“Do I sense a but coming . . .”

“Two days later I showed up for my studio class at the university, and he’s the professor. I had no idea, and neither one of us acknowledged it, but at the end of the class he asked me to stay behind.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“Not one word. He locked the door and pushed me to the floor,” she says. “It’s now a ritual, at the end of every class. There’s four other students in that studio class, and I can’t even begin to tell you how incredible the tension is between us during that hour.” It’s silent then, and I picture Sam, in his chair, waiting for her to speak. “Are you appalled, Doctor?”

“Appalled?”

“Yes. An impressionable twenty-four-year-old woman, sleeping with her older, married professor. Certainly breaks a lot of rules.”

“What do you think about that aspect of your relationship?”

“I think it’s an incredible turn-on,” she says. “In fact, nothing turns me on more than crossing a boundary with a man.”

“That’s something I would like to explore further,” Sam says. “But unfortunately, we’re nearly out of time.” I look at the clock: 2:44. Her appointment must have started at two. I take the notebook I’d hidden in one of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes and add her name to the list—“The French Girl”—as Sam shifts in his chair below me. “I’m curious how today felt for you,” he says. “You said in your message you’ve never gone to therapy before. I like to check in and see—”

“It felt great,” she says. “You’re worth every cent.”

“Would you like to make another appointment for later this week?”

“You want me to come twice a week?”