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)
“So, what brings you in today?”
Rebecca goes still, as though bracing herself. “Um… It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“I’ve heard everything, Rebecca. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you.”
She nods slowly and sits a little straighter. “Okay. Well, I kind of have like a bad history with men. Um, my dad was never really around. My roommate thinks that’s why.” She flicks her gaze to me—green eyes, flecks of amber in them—as though looking for confirmation that this is why she has this problem.
“Tell me more.”
“Okay. I just… I always have a boyfriend. And I like that.” Her voice speeds up a notch. “I mean, I like being with someone. But my roommate told me—she told me maybe I should take a break. But I don’t want to take a break. And then she said that that’s not normal. Not not seeing someone sometimes. Or at least between…” She stops and takes a moment to collect herself, smoothing a hand over her hair. “And when I’m with someone, I want to really be with them. I don’t understand doing things halfway. Like, what’s the point of casual dating if you know you want to be with him? If you’re spending all your time together, why would you not just live together? And if you’re living together, I mean, isn’t that a sign? And why do—why do men get scared at that point? I mean, if they ask me to move in with them…” Her voice trails off, and I wait, letting her think.
“And then sometimes they just break it off, and that’s not okay,” she continues. “I mean, if you love someone, you don’t just break up with them. My last boyfriend, this guy named Collin, he said I should think about if I liked the way my first name sounded with his last name—he said that after two dates. Two dates!” She looks at me now, so wrapped up in her story she’s forgotten to hold back. Left the shyness behind. “So I think that means he’s serious, and then one day he just texts me that he needs space. So I showed up at his job, which is perfectly reasonable, if you ask me. But he got…” Another pause. Another deep breath. Her hands lower to the couch cushions at her side, French-tipped nails scraping the fabric. “I mean, he called me crazy. He got a restraining order. I didn’t deserve that. He’s the one who said I should try out his last name. He was the crazy one, not me. He got all afraid of commitment and just…” Again, her voice trails off.
I feel my own heart pounding for her.
“But I can’t give up on him.”
“What do you mean?” I have a dozen questions scribbled down, but I’m not sure where to start. She’s not the first patient I’ve had who’s hurting from a broken heart. But something is different here. I want to let her continue talking, continue explaining.
“So, I can’t go within a certain distance of him. But… but I know we’re supposed to be together.”
Unease tingles through me. I shift, tilting my head, urging her with silence to go on.
“So I created a fake Instagram account and followed him. And sometimes I—” She stops. “This all stays between us, right?”
“Yes. What you say here is confidential.”
“Okay, good.” She takes a breath. “I follow him sometimes, too. I know I shouldn’t. But what if… what if he needs me? Like he went to the bar with his brother last weekend, and I know sometimes they drink too much. I had to make sure he got home safely. And I just want to know where he’s going. You know?” She looks at me imploringly, like I’ll tell her this is all normal.
But it’s not normal.
In fact, her behavior is incredibly abnormal. The sort of thing that may indicate neglect and abuse in childhood. That may point toward undiagnosed PTSD or possibly even borderline personality disorder. Her affect alone is cause for concern—the quiet, shy girl who suddenly became the passionate, fervent young woman looking for approval in front of me.
And worse…
My own actions flash through my head. Following Gabriel. Stalking him on social media. Sitting outside his work for hours waiting for him to emerge. Searching for his wife’s and child’s graves.
Not to mention I’m his goddamned therapist.
How is what I’m doing any different than what Rebecca here is doing?
It’s not.
“I even pretended I was someone else and messaged him. Just to see what he’d do. He told me he needed space, that he didn’t have time to date. And I wanted to see if that was true or if he was lying to me.”
I look up from my notes. Her voice has changed—anguish coming through the frustration.
I think about how when Gabriel told me he was on a dating app, I went home and spent hours swiping, to see if I could find him. Thankfully, I didn’t. And I’ve since found Robert, who fills a void I hadn’t realized needed filling. Yet I’d started down the same rabbit hole as Rebecca, hadn’t I? It’s not the same thing, exactly. Gabriel is not an ex-boyfriend I was stalking.