Hudson(8)

But all it took was the look in Stacy’s eyes, the devastation she felt at my supposed rejection to remind me that my entertainment came at the price of others’ emotions.

“There was a rush,” I answer honestly. “Then it was over, and until now I hadn’t given it a second thought.” Even without the reminder of the consequences of the game, I would have abandoned any notion to play again when I went to the symposium. That brief spark with Celia had been completely obscured by the charge that jolted through me at the sight of Alayna Withers.

Alberts clears his throat and I look to find he’s studying me. He narrows his eyes. “Then you aren’t concerned that you’ll be pulled back into the game?”

I let out a huff. I’m always concerned I’ll be pulled back into the game. But am I worried that Celia will pull me back? “No, I’m not.”

“Do you plan to see her again?”

My eyes widen when, for a second, I think that “her” refers to the brunette that’s plaguing my thoughts.

But that’s not who Alberts means.

“No, I don’t plan to see Celia again.” She’d like me to. She asks me over and over. I see her enough at family events as it is. Her presence isn’t a temptation to me as my therapist believes, but seeing her is still not a good idea. She’s a painful reminder of all the wrongs I’ve done in my life. Of all the wrongs I’ve done to her.

I resume my pacing, hoping not to go down that path of conversation today, not wanting to revisit my past.

“Hudson, sit down.”

I’m surprised he hasn’t requested this before. I sit, crossing my ankle over my bouncing knee. “Sorry. I have a lot on my plate at the moment.” I take a quiet but deep breath that does nothing to relieve me.

Dr. Alberts leans back, a distinct contradiction to my own tense posture. “I don’t sense that your anxiety has to do with your meeting with Celia. Is there something else you aren’t telling me?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to bring up my strange reaction to Alayna Withers, but I’m again lost on how I’d phrase it. “It’s nothing. Work is stressful.” Work is always stressful.

Too late I realize I’ve opened the door to an old argument.

“I hate to beat a dead horse, Hudson, but if we met in my office instead of here, you’d have a chance to escape that stress, if even for a short time.”

I throw him a glare. “If I had to meet in your office, I’d never pull myself away.”

“That’s a problem, Hudson. I’ve tolerated it for the past two years, but I feel we’re at a point in your therapy that this will no longer work. If you want to continue with your recovery, you need to make it your priority. You must decide that pulling yourself away is more important, that your mental health is more important than the work you leave behind.”

I feel my jaw twitch. I agree that my therapy is at a standstill. He’s likely right that to progress further, I’d need to rearrange my current priority list. However, that’s not going to happen. I have no desire to pull myself away. I don’t believe that I am more important than the work I leave behind. I don’t believe that I am more important than anything. And while working with Alberts has kept me from ruining other people’s lives, it hasn’t given my own life any more dimension than it had. I still haven’t found a way to fill the emptiness that resides inside. At least the game was enough to distract me from that. Now I’m ever aware of my hollowness, of my inability to feel more than a dull hum of emotion.

In the past, when the topic to meet in his office instead of mine has come up, I’ve persuaded him to leave things the way they are. Today, I sense he won’t let it go. And I’m not sure that I want to fight him any longer. I have the tools I need to continue on as I have without seeing him any longer. Could he fix me if I gave in? If I made more of the effort that he suggests I haven’t before? I don’t know. That’s what I must decide. Either I play it his way, or I don’t need him. I’m not ready to give a firm answer.

“Touché,” I say. “I concede that this arrangement is no longer working. Perhaps we should end our relationship altogether.” It’s a manipulation technique, I know. Like a child pouting. If I don’t get to play my way, I won’t play at all.

But my psychologist is too good to fall for my tricks. “If that’s what you want to do. You know this only works if you’re a willing participant.”

Part of me wants to cut him out of my life and move on, but I’m not comfortable with impulse-driven decisions. “I need to think about it.”

“Do that. If you decide you want to meet with me again—in my office—than call my secretary and make an appointment.” He stands, our session clearly over even though we still have another thirty minutes on the clock.

I suppose there’s no point in continuing if I have no real interest in progress.

I get to my feet and shake his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I hope I see you again,” he says, the twinkle in his eye more of the look a grandfather would share with his grandson than a psychologist with his patient. He’s fond of me. I wonder what he could possibly see in me to feel that way.

Maybe I haven’t given him the chance I should.

Though I’m more concerned that if I did give him the chance, he’d still be unable to help me.