I drop the pens in my hand, and they bounce on the antique wood and leather. My reorganization efforts turned what was a neat workspace into a haphazard mess.
I’m going stir crazy. Although I’ve never felt like this before, the sudden impulse to get out of this building and into some fresh air overwhelms me.I should walk part of the way to my appointment and burn off this pent-up energy. Maybe that’ll help.
Then I remember that one of the places I’m going today is self-defense, and maybe I should wait until I have some skills in my back pocket before I start roaming the streets while I’m beingwatched.
I grab the note off my desk for one last glance before folding it back up and hiding it as I carefully re-reorganize everything on the surface of my desk for the next fifteen minutes. Lining up pens and making sure the blotter is perfectly even helps the knot constricting my chest to loosen.
Everything is going to be fine, I tell myself as I take a deep breath.
Ten minutes later, I punch the address into my phone from the business card Chadwick shoved in my hand, and slip into my white espadrille wedges that will need to be put away after Labor Day. Then I make my way out through the kitchen to my private entrance to the building, and sneak out to the alley to avoid the line forming on the front walk.
As I hail a cab and slide into the back seat, I have a foreboding feeling.
This week is changing everything. Even me.
Nineteen
Scarlett
What in the actual fuck?
The question repeats in my brain over and over as I sit on the comfortable sofa in the bright library-like office on the ground floor of a townhouse in Chelsea that has been turned into a therapy center. I stare at the woman seated in the chair across from me, who has two fingers curled around a stylus, and the other hand supporting a tablet on which she’s making notes about me for our session.
The woman who just finished introducing herselfas a sex therapist.
What in theactualfuck?
“Ex—excuse me? What did you say your specialty is?”
“Sex therapy. That is why you’re here, correct? Because you’re having some issues with desire and inhibitions?”
My mouth hangs open so wide that I would actually catch flies if they were buzzing about the room. I blink twice, trying to compose myself, but I obviously fail as her expression grows more and more concerned.
“Ms. Priest, I’m getting the impression that you are surprised by my profession. Didn’t Mr. LaSalle explain the nature of the appointment to you? Because he was very adamant that you needed to be seen as soon as possible before you lost the nerve to talk about your issues.”
I inhale deeply through my nose and release the breath through my mouth, like they taught in that yoga class I got too busy to keep attending. “You might say there’s been a bit of a miscommunication, Dr.Grand. I ... I thought this was couples counseling ...”
“I do offer couples sessions, but I insist on meeting with each individual alone first. I generally find that partners may need a safe space to express their concerns without judgment first, but if you’d prefer to have Mr. LaSalle present—”
“No.” I interrupt her, throwing up a palm in a gesture that absolutely saysstop right fucking there. “I don’t want him here. As a matter of fact ...” I try to figure out how to say what I’m thinking without insulting the silver-haired woman across from me.
“You didn’t know what you were walking into. Did you?” she asks with interest, as opposed to judgment, in her tone.
“Not even a little bit.”
She flips the cover of the iPad shut and slides it onto the coffee table between us. “I discourage surprising someone with this type of discussion, so that’s problematic.” She crosses one ankle over a knee and leans back in her chair, her eyes on me. “As I see it, you have two options—walk out of here and forget this happened, except for that part where you need to discuss it with Mr. LaSalle ...”
“Or?” I prompt when she goes quiet.
“Stay and talk to me about the relationship you’re in, and how you happened to find yourself on my couch without knowing your boyfriend thought you needed to talk to a sex therapist.”
Humiliation burns through me, along with the greasy, oily feeling of shame. Right after that is a raging inferno of anger and betrayal. I can keep it inside ... or I can vent to someone who’s already being paid to listen. My choice is easier than one might think.
“This is all confidential, right? You can’t tell Chadwick anything I say?”
“Of course, Ms. Priest. Nothing said in this room will ever leave its four walls. And I promise, they won’t talk.”
“Good, because I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and I’m so pissed right now, I don’t even know what to say to him. He springssex therapyon me?Who does that?”