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“I was upset. You were doing your job.” I turn my head away from him and fidget with the material of the couch pillow.
“Eve . . .” I don’t turn back. Just continue to tap at the pillow. “I wasn’t doing my job when I invited you over. I wasn’t treating you like a patient, and you weren’t treating me like your psychologist. It’s my fault these lines are blurred, but it’s not your fault. It’s called transference. Or in this case, because of the sexual nature of your feelings toward me, erotic transference. It’s very common for a patient to develop feelings for their therapist.”
With that, I snap my head back to him and shake my head. “I . . . what?”
“In psychotherapy, it’s classified as the unconscious redirection of feelings you associate for one person such as a parent to another, such as me, your therapist.” My mouth drops open as I pull in ragged breaths. “Basically, you’re replacing the emptiness in your life with me. I’m a figure you look up to. You’re replacing the void of losing the caring father, the person you gathered comfort from, with me. These feelings you have are normal, but I think we should talk about why you feel this way.”
“Who are you, Freud?”
“It was actually Freud who came up with the theory.”
“Of course it was,” I deadpan. “Listen, I was drunk. Then I was sad. It won’t happen again.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair and then nods. Neither of us speaks, and my stomach drops with each passing minute that we sit silent. I rub at my eyes as I stifle a yawn.
His eyes shoot up. “Tired? Didn’t sleep well again?” I shrug and he sighs. “What’s going on? Please. Talk to me.”
“I’m still having nightmares,” I blurt out before I can second guess telling him.
“Why didn’t you mention it earlier? Did something new happen that I should know about?”
I take a deep breath, and then exhale it slowly. “No, just the same exact nightmare as the night I spoke to you.”
“How long have these nightmares been occurring?”
“Since Richard died.”
His eyes widen at my admission. The look in them makes me sad. It’s as if he’s hurt by my not telling him. As though I betrayed him. And seeing it rips a hole in my chest. For some reason, I want to tell him everything now.
He casts his eyes downward and breathes in slowly, “Can you tell me about these dreams?”
“I have them all the time now. It’s as if the world is closing in. Sound fades, my vision becomes spotty, and I feel as though I’m hyperventilating. It’s like a nightmare where you’re running in the woods and you’re not sure who’s chasing you.”
“What do you remember about them?”
“Not much. They’re like a mirage. I can feel them. I can smell them. But just when I think I can touch them, they fade away into the haze of my mind.”
“And what is it you feel?”
“Scared. An unimaginable fear.”
“And smell?”
“Copper. Almost like blood.”
“And you’ve never had these dreams before?”
“Not that I remember.”
He places his mug down and reaches for his note pad, quickly jotting down his thoughts. When he looks up, there is a new clarity in his eyes. “Sometimes these nightmares are actually repressed memories, fighting to find their way out. In a case such as that, I typically would suggest a referral to my colleague who uses hypnosis techniques to retrieve the repressed memories. Is that something you would be interested in discussing?”
“No.” My answer comes out harsher than I intended, but he shakes his head with understanding.
“Okay, I understand. But if you change your mind, please let me know.”
I stand and stroll to the window, peering out to the city below. A stream of sunlight peeks through the shades, blinding me. I squint and lift my hands to cover my eyes. A cloud must pass because the room that was only seconds ago bathed in white light is dark again and I no longer need to squint.
When I turn back around, I notice Preston is watching me. He’s tense, his back upright, and a small line pinches between his brows. I have a desire to keep looking at him, to lose myself in the depths of his blues. He stands and makes his way over to where I am. He’s so close to me. His cologne infiltrates my senses—fresh and spicy, and an overwhelming need to bury my head in the crook of his neck and get lost in the smell weaves its way through me. It begs me to touch him, to feel his rough skin against my fingers. It’s overwhelming.
Blinding.
I can’t think.
My hand reaches out of its own accord across the space that separates us. His eyes flutter shut, and I swear the air around us changes. The tips of my fingers hover above the scruff on his jaw—
Boom!
The sound of a car backfiring or a gunshot rings outs in the distance and I’m suddenly frozen in place. My vision starts to flash, a black haze takes over, and then an image appears behind my closed lids.
An image of flesh.
Of crimson streams.
And brutal cries so sad they break my heart.
My chest pounds erratically. The hum surrounds me. Engulfs me. Suffocates me.
Two arms wrap around me.
Pull me close.
Whispers.
Light flutters across my hair.
“I’ve got you. I’m here. Breathe. Remember what I taught you. Inhale. Now count, one, two three, four, five, six, seven. Exhale.”
The air in my lungs leaves in sudden gasps.
“Slower. Slow. Inhale.”
Part of me calms. The flutter in my chest weakens as I continue to follow Preston’s directions. As I regulate my breathing, I realize that I’m calm now. Preston calmed it all. He made everything better.
“You’re doing great.”
His hands rub circles up my back as he lulls me into a peaceful state. Our breathing comes in tandem. Our bodies press close together. Goosebumps spread across my limbs and I lift my head to meet his gaze. His pupils are dilated, the blue almost completely gone. His breath tickles my lips.
“I have you.”
I lean closer, allowing the air he expels to fan my lips. Kiss me. Please, God, let him kiss me. I’m so close I can almost taste him. His eyes sweep over me. His nostrils flare and his eyes dilate as he assesses me. I can see he wants me.
Right now, in this room, he’s not looking at me as a doctor. He’s not looking at me as a
patient. No. Right now, he’s looking at me like a man in lust.
My eyes flutter shut and I close the distance. As my lips find his, my body moves backward. He breaks our connection.
Pushes me away.
I meet his gaze. His is now void. Closed off. The warmth is gone. The compassion no longer exists in his stare.
He walks away and ushers me back to the couch. By the time we make it, my panic has lessened, but now I’m cold from the distance in his eyes.
“Take a seat. I’ll get you something to drink. Do you want a cold compress?” he asks and I nod. My strength isn’t great enough to find words.
When he returns, his detachment has grown. He won’t even make eye contact as he regains his seat across from me. It feels as if I’m being broken apart but I don’t speak, afraid of the outcome.
“I am so sorry about what happened before. It is completely my fault that a line has been crossed.”
“Nothing happened. It’s okay,” I stammer out.
“It’s not okay. I crossed a line when I comforted you, and I think it would be best for your healing if I refer you to a colleague.”
“No, you can’t do that,” I beg.
“I can’t be your doctor anymore.” He won’t meet my eyes and it rips me to shreds.
“But why?” Confusion and then anger coil in my stomach as he continues to hide.
“Well, I . . .”
“I understand,” I mutter and then his eyes finally meet mine. They look sad and drained.
“No, you don’t, but please trust me. I think it will be for the best.”
I need to leave. I need to go before the anxiety takes over. If I leave now, nothing has happened.
“It’s my fault. I don’t need another doctor. I–I’ll put distance. It’s fine.” I stand and walk toward the door. If I leave now, he can’t end things. He can’t abandon me.
“Eve—”
“I’ll see you later, Doc.” I shut the door behind me and dash down the hall. If I don’t hear him say it, it’s not real.
