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And when she waits for me to respond, completely at ease with the silence, I look at the clock on her wall behind her, determined to count down the minutes until I can go home.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I say, unable to bear her scrutinizing gaze any longer.
“That’s fine. We have time. But I would really like to get to know you better, which means you will have to open up to me eventually. Is that something you can do, Nathan?” she asks patiently, her kind, whiskey eyes only increasing my nervous state.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumble.
“Yes, you are. But being physically in a space doesn’t necessarily mean that you are present. And for this to work,I will need you to be present so we can have a meaningful dialogue. Are you open to that?”
What is it with women needing to ask so many questions lately?
First Lottie.
Now her.
“You think talking shit out will fix me?” I scoff.
“That all depends. Do you believe yourself to be broken?”
I bite my inner cheek.
“Everyone is broken, Doc. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have a little damage. Some just carry the baggage better than others.”
Her kind smile widens as if pleased with my answer.
“This is true. And you’re right. Some baggage is harder to carry. That’s where I come in. To lighten the load.”
You’ll need a fucking Mack truck to carry my load of shit.
But again, I keep that thought to myself.
“Since this is our first meeting, how about we start slow until we gradually get down to the crux of why your defense mechanism is hostility? How does that sound?”
“You think I get angry because it’s a defense mechanism?” I ask in confusion, wrinkling my forehead.
“I don’t know you well enough to give you a definite yes or no to that question. But it has been my professional experience that when good men react with hostility rather than use verbal discord to diffuse a tense situation, it’s usually born from their accumulated trauma. I’ve seen it many times with war veterans. Their PTSD comes to them in waves, and sometimes when they find themselves in hostile situations, it triggers them to react with violence, rather than make a full assessment on how best to separate themselves from said situation.”
“Yeah, well, I’m no soldier. I never went to war,” I mutter despondently.
“Soldiers aren’t the only survivors of war. Many people fight battles every day, within their very homes.”
Yeah, I’m not touching that with a stick.
Instead, I focus on something else she said about me.
“How do you know I’m a good man?” I arch a brow. “You never met me before. For all you know, I could be some psycho serial killer.”
To this, she laughs.
“Oh, I’m quite positive that you’re not.”
“How do you know? I could be,” I grumble.
“Anyone who would protect a stranger from any type of sexual assault, knowing he could later suffer damming consequences in his own personal and professional life, is neither a serial killer nor a bad man.”
“How…” I stammer, my eyes open so wide that I’m surprised they don’t fall out of their sockets.
“This might be our first meeting, Nathan, but one thing you should know about me is that I’m very good at my job. I’m meticulous about doing my homework with any new client. And take a very keen interest in their lives. That’s just something you will have to get used to. But I’m hopeful that soon, you’ll be more forthcoming with your own life experiences instead of me having to seek them out.”
