Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I’m also intensely aware that my behavior is anything but professional. That accepting him as a patient—which I’ve effectively already done by continuing this session—is morally wrong. And yet another thing I could get in trouble for with the medical board. Big trouble. But it’s like the universe wants me to right my wrongs.
Or… and I can’t help returning to this again. Or it’s not a coincidence he keeps popping up in my life. I squirm at that thought, at why he might be here besides truly wanting help. Except I started this all by following him.
“What do you think?” Gabriel asks.
A pause of silence. I haven’t been listening. Too lost in my own thoughts to hear a word he’s said in the last minute or two.
“I think…” I summon my inner therapist, think of the common phrases I’ve repeated to my patients over the years. “It’s likely you’re dealing with something that really digs at your subconscious.”
He tilts his head, gazing at me, and I start to panic that I’ve said the wrong thing, that my response to whatever he’s said is inappropriate.
But eventually, he nods. “Yeah, I think you’re probably right. My sister thinks I never really dealt with their loss, that it’s hitting me now, and that’s why I can’t sleep.”
I consider the smiles, the laughter, the happiness I’d witnessed. It was all a facade the entire time.
“That is definitely possible. What do you think?”
“I’m not sure.” He rubs at his face with one hand, a gesture that seems almost uncharacteristic for this man who usually seems so collected, so confident. It’s like a crack in his shell, and I want to peer into it—to understand what lies beneath so I can help. “I should’ve been with them that night. But I wasn’t. I…” A loaded silence follows. Another downcast look, flexing of his hands. I notice the glint of metal on his hand, his ring finger—a wedding ring. One I’ve never seen him wear before, and I’m certain I’ve looked. “I have a lot of guilt,” he concludes.
At that moment, my timer beeps. I want more than anything to grab it and shut it off and tell him to go on. But that’s not what a therapist would do. It’s what the twisted part of me wants to do, the part that is hardly acting professional. And I need to maintain at least a pretense of professionalism. He is a patient, after all.
“I guess we save the guilt for the next session.” Gabriel smiles, and it’s real—or at least it seems that way. Though again there’s that niggle—or maybe he’s been fooling me this whole time.
There are just too many maybes.
Maybe he’s really not happy.
Maybe he’s not okay.
Maybe he really does need professional help.
Maybe we have far more in common than I ever fathomed.
Maybe he knows who I am.
Or… maybe not.
“Yes, that sounds good. Gabriel, I’m so pleased that you’re seeking help. It was a pleasure to meet you today.” I stand and usher him to the door. I want to tell him to call immediately and make another appointment—that sooner would be better.
But I control myself.
“Hey, have we…” He hesitates in the doorway and turns, studying me with a furrowed brow. “Have we ever met before?”
I respond quickly. Too quickly. “No, I don’t think so.”
My heart races. Though I can’t help but feel oddly pleased that something about me is memorable to him.
Gabriel shrugs, steps through the doorway. “Something about you is familiar. I’m sure it will come to me.”
After he’s gone, I lean my forehead against the door. God, I hope not.
CHAPTER 15 Now
My leg bounces up and down.
It’s a nervous habit I developed in med school. Test anxiety. But I haven’t done it in years. Though my anxiety seems at an all-time high today. Of course, it hasn’t even been two years since my husband died, the man I’d thought was the love of my life. My forever. Yet my leg didn’t bounce once through the funeral. Nor once during the police questioning. And not when I opened my desk drawer and found another prescription pad missing. Yet while I watch the clock tick down one moment at a time, waiting for my second appointment with my special patient, my leg gets more exercise than it does on the treadmill at the gym. I’m not sure what that says about me as a wife or doctor.
I could still cancel. It’s not too late. I should’ve canceled already. Lord knows I thought about it enough this week. I’d even drafted an email to Sarah asking her to refer Gabriel to another therapist. But I couldn’t bring myself to hit send. Isn’t it the very least I can do to help the man get over his loss? He needs me. Sure, it’s unprofessional. Probably grounds for losing my medical license. No, definitely grounds. If I got caught…