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)
A flush works its way up my face. I tilt my head down at the phone, then smile back up at her. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
She laughs. “Who would I tell?”
“I don’t know.” The words come out fast, flustered. “I joined a dating app. I’m talking to someone.” I’ve never sought Sarah’s approval before. Never expected it or wanted it. I pay her to do her job, she does it well, and we exchange pleasantries appropriate for the relationship we have. But her face lights up, and I’m relieved.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I love dating apps. That’s how I met Matthew. I don’t tell people that, usually. They can be so judgmental about meeting people online. But I think everyone does it these days. People just don’t like admitting it.”
“Oh.” I find myself nodding. “It’s my first time, but this guy is really interesting.”
“Tell me about him.” Sarah perches on the edge of the chair closest to my desk, and suddenly I’m back in college, telling my roommate about you. Except you’re dead, and I’m talking about a guy I’ve never met—to my assistant, of all people. But this is good. I need to do this, need to move on.
“Well, I don’t know much. His name is Robert, and he’s a doctor—”
Sarah squeals, and it makes me laugh—laugh. I tell her what little I know, warming up to the topic. He’s an oncologist and works in a clinic. He likes tea, hates coffee, but I won’t hold it against him—and a myriad of other random facts we’ve managed to share in our dozens of messages.
“So, do you have a date planned?” Sarah asks five minutes later.
The high of talking about Robert, about our messages, leaves me in a single exhale.
“No. Not yet.” My gaze travels back to my phone, the screen dark, waiting for my finger to touch the glass and awaken it.
“Do you want to?”
I think about that a long moment, and I’m about to say yes—I’m sure I am—when a buzzer sounds from the outer room and Sarah leaps from the chair.
“Oh, shoot. I have the outer office locked because I was eating lunch. Your twelve o’clock must be here.” She’s gone in the next moment, and I’m left alone, staring at my phone. Thinking about whether I want to meet Robert—to see the real person behind the messages—or if maybe there’s something magical in the idea of him. If maybe that’s enough for now.
“Rebecca Jordan is here.” Sarah stands at the door again, but she looks as though she has a secret this time. “New patient.”
“Okay.” I tilt my head. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She grins. “I just wanted to say, you should meet him.” She winks and disappears.
A second later, a tall, slim woman is ushered in.
“Ms. Jordan?” I rise and cross the room, extending my hand. “Welcome.”
She smiles back, and I can’t help but notice she’s gorgeous—not just run-of-the-mill pretty but stunning. Probably perfectly symmetrical. High cheekbones and a narrow jaw, heart-shaped lips. A faint blush to her cheeks. The sort of face you imagine someone will “discover” someday, and soon you’ll see her peeking out of a magazine as the face of some brand. In fact, I’m not so certain I haven’t seen her on a page already. There’s a vague familiarity to her. Her hair is long and blond and so smooth she surely has had it treated with something. It extends almost to her rear. And though her insurance info shows she’s twenty-three, she looks no older than someone in high school.
“Thanks. I’m a little nervous.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking everywhere but at me—not wanting eye contact, it seems. Hopefully, by the end of the session, I can help her feel comfortable enough to look at me.
“That’s normal. I think most of my patients feel nervous when they first come in. Thankfully, by our second session, they’re usually pretty relaxed. I think you will be, too.” I observe her a moment as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She tries to decide what to do with her hands before hugging them around her tiny midsection. Rebecca wears joggers and a strappy tank top, so she must have a jacket on the coat hook outside. It’s not nearly warm enough to go without. I realize, suddenly, she’s struck a chord with me—some maternal instinct to cover her up. To tell her it will all be okay. Usually I’m better at staying objective.
“I have a few questions I ask everyone at their first appointment, and then we can talk about whatever you like. Okay?”
She nods quickly, eyes still anywhere but on mine. I run through my list of questions, taking notes as I go. Minimal family support. She’s in college but only part-time. Works at a coffee shop. No real friends, just a roommate she gets along with somewhat. Eventually, I get around to the most important question: