“I can see that,” I reply coarsely. I don’t mind people pushing their limits, but he’s gotten drunk alone, knowing we had things to discuss. He’s a psychologist, for God’s sake.
“Did you get the job?”
“Yeah, I got the job.”
“Congratulations, Dr. Sinclair. I’m so proud of you,” he mumbles, taking another swig of the amber liquid.
“I wish you hadn’t left.”
“Get used to it, Mia. That’s what this job is. You miss everything—birthdays, anniversaries, dinners. You don’t have time because the patient comes first. They always need to come first.”
“You’re allowed to come first too, you know. Not all the time, but sometimes. Your patients need you to be healthy too.”
“I was healthy before you.”
His words hit me like a sledgehammer. He thinks I make him sick?
He sees my face and scoffs at me, or himself, I don’t know.
“You’re a distraction, Mia. One that I can’t afford. My patients can’t afford it,” he slurs. I’ve never seen him so out of control.
“You’re not your father, Alfie. You can have a life and a career. You know this.”
He shakes his head. “Helen’s in the hospital because I’ve been playing house with you. I’ve been pretending that I can have it all. And I can’t. Neither can you. Do you think you’ll have time for me when you start working with Lottie? You won’t.”
“I make time for people I love,” I spit.
“I’m not risking the lives of my patients.” His voice, despite being slurred, has a certainty to it.
No, no, no.
This is not happening. The floor sways beneath my feet as my body fights against the flip-flop of my warring emotions. Happy, sad, devastated, confused, fucking furious.
“We can talk in the morning. We’re not making any decisions tonight,” I say weakly.
“We’re not talking in the morning. I have to see my patient. Aren’t you listening?” He sneers. “You’re going to ruin me.”
My heart wrenches. The pain is insurmountable. In his drunken stupor I’ve learned he’s capable of being purposefully callous and cruel. In his inebriated state, the truth really does come out. At least I get closure. At least this time, I know where I stand, and I’m not waiting like an idiot for someone to come back to me.
“I’ll get my things. Goodbye, Alfie.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alfie
Fuck me sideways, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover.
I woke up on my couch about twenty minutes ago, and I have yet to find the courage to move. My head is halfway hanging off the edge, and I’m afraid that any sudden movement may induce a stomach revolt whereby all the whiskey I drank last night makes a sudden reappearance. I bravely glance at the bottle. Yep, only a third left from a fresh bottle. I was trying to do some real damage, and it looks like I succeeded.
I need to get my head on straight and find out what happened last night. I know Helen is in the hospital. I should have gone to see her yesterday. She is my patient still, even if she was ready to finish up. Now more than ever, she’ll need me. I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary in our session, only that she was happy to be moving on. And that is the price that someone else will pay for my negligence.
I push my fingers through my hair, testing out a small amount of movement whilst I rack my brain for our last conversation.
I don’t think I’ll be needing regular sessions anymore.
Was her blatant happiness a cry for help that I missed? It wouldn’t be the first time that a patient had tried to tie up loose ends before attempting or succeeding at ending their own life. Often, they’ll be extra happy for those around them, as if to prove that nothing is wrong so no one will stand in their way.
I slide my head so it’s fully on the couch now, and I can feel my blood sloshing around, no longer arguing with the gravitational pull that my dumb ass attempted to defy.
