Goodnight Beautiful(45)

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I mean Christopher Zucker. I didn’t know who David Foster Wallace was, so I looked him up. Literary hero to men? Are you kidding me? He stalked and abused his wife, and what, nobody cares?”

“I know,” Sam says. “It’s weird.”

“I can’t tell you how hard it was sometimes, keeping my mouth shut up here.”

“I can only imagine,” he says. “But then something changed your mind . . .”

“I happened to see him recently, having lunch with his girlfriend.” It wasn’t entirely coincidental, of course. Rather, I found him under the About Me page on his company’s website, which led me to his Instagram account, which then led me to the model girlfriend’s, populated almost entirely with photographs she took of herself (I’m aware they’re called selfies, a word I refuse to use). It was here that she announced she was meeting Christopher for a date—#datewiththeboy #chestnutcafe—posing in six different outfits, asking everyone to help her decide what to wear. She chose the clingy black jumpsuit, not my first choice.

“He seemed vulnerable,” I tell Sam. “Something in his expression when he looked at her. Like he was forcing himself to endure her.” I know I should stop, but I can’t help myself. “He’s been doing this his whole life. Feeling the pressure to date the most beautiful girl in the room. He needs to be told that this is a hopeless endeavor. Did you know that research shows that when two good-looking people get together, they have a high chance of a rocky marriage? Researchers at Harvard did a study on it.”

“Is that right?”

“You want to see the study?”

“You have it?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

In the library, I locate the purple binder where I’ve been filing the notes I keep on our patients. I finger through the tabs until I get to Christopher’s. “Look,” I say, returning to the room and handing Sam the six-page study. “They looked at the top twenty actresses on IMDb and found that a high percentage had unhappy marriages. And those considered to be the best-looking guys in high school had higher rates of divorce than the average guys.”

“This is fascinating,” he murmurs.

“I knew you’d get it,” I say. “I think this all has to do with Christopher’s father.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Move over,” I say, perching at the foot of his bed. He slides his casts to the side, making room for me. “Christopher’s father was insecure and vain, which he played out by scrutinizing his son’s physicality,” I say. “Christopher then grows up and exclusively dates women who are very attractive, but who he finds shallow and uninteresting. Why does he continue to do this? Because they validate the idea that he’s physically attractive, and therefore valuable in the eyes of his father.”

“Nice work, Albert. That’s exactly right.”

I open my eyes wide. “It is?”

“Yes. You’re astute. It’s where I was leading Christopher, to that understanding about his father.”

“Wow.” I’m proud of myself, and confused. “Why didn’t you save time and tell him that’s what was happening with him?”

“He had to get there himself, and that’s delicate,” Sam says, handing me the study and returning to his meal. “It takes time. Like a good story.”

“Well, you had me hooked from the first page,” I say. “In fact, I learned a lot from you.”

“Oh?”

I cross my legs, nervous. “Yes, about how we’re shaped by our childhood. I knew that, I suppose, but the way you talked about it—and not just downstairs, but in the papers you’ve published, your lectures. Let’s just say you’ve opened my eyes in a new way.”

Sam stops chewing and something changes in his expression. “When did you see my lectures?”

My face flames. “I googled you, after you came to see the space,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “Needed to make sure you weren’t on the Most Wanted list. I saw the two lectures you gave, on YouTube. I was impressed.”

He smiles and finishes his steak. “Well, that’s nice of you to say.” He sets his napkin next to his empty plate. “And thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

I stand, reluctant to leave, and take the tray from his lap. “You comfortable?” I ask, setting it on the cart. “You like your room?”

“Very much,” he says, settling back on his pillows. “Except for that wallpaper. I don’t know what kind of drugs the designer was on, but man, that shade of yellow is giving me a headache.” I fish the pills from the pocket of my blue apron. Sam’s right. The wallpaper is quite dismal. I should have recognized that myself. “And one more thing Albert?” Sam says, as I count out two pills. “I’m sorry for how I acted the other night.”

I pause. “You’re what?”

“I’m sorry. You’ve been good to me, and you’re right, I was rude to you. I’m working on being a good guy, and I don’t always succeed. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“It’s . . . it’s okay,” I stammer.

“No, it’s not. And it’s permissible to have feelings about what I did. I can handle it.”