Page 167 of Letters From A Stalker

Her laugh follows me toward the kitchen.

Dinner is pasta, garlic bread and enough salad to preserve the illusion that either of us gives a shit about vegetables tonight. Mara pours herself wine and me sparkling water because I am riding, then waits until we have both eaten enough that her questions won’t feel like an ambush.

“How’s therapy?”

I glance at her over my fork. “Annoying.”

“Good, means it’s working.”

“That is an incredibly unsympathetic response.” I murmur because I hate when she’s being this perceptive. And being right.

“You spent years charging people to experience exactly this. I’m enjoying the symmetry.”

I smirk at that. “Bennett seems competent.”

“Wow, that sounded physically painful for you to admit.”

“It was.”

She takes another bite before her expression becomes more serious. “Anything from the Board?”

“The Attorney General’s investigator finished the formal interview last week. My attorney got notice Friday that the file is moving back toward the Board once they finish reviewing the records.”

“And then?”

“Complaint Review Committee.” I say.

Mara’s fork slows. “You have to appear?”

“Most likely. We’re expecting the notice within a few weeks.”

“Do you think they’ll revoke your license?” The question lands differently than Bennett asking the same thing.

Mara knows what the work means to me.

I take a sip of water before I reply. “They can.”

Her face tightens.

“They can suspend it, restrict it, condition it, require supervision or retraining. My attorney refuses to predict anything because sexual conduct with a current patient is one of the things the Board takes exactly as seriously as it should.” I rub my thumb against the condensation on my glass. “I self-reported, I stopped practicing immediately, I’ve cooperated with everything they asked for and there’s no prior discipline, so maybe that matters when they decide what comes next. Maybe it doesn’t.”

“You want to go back.” It isn’t a question.

The admission comes easily. “Yeah.” “I miss working.”

I miss the office more than I expected. Not simply the room or the rhythm of my schedule, but the point of it. Sitting with someone while they finally say something they have been carrying alone. Watching the moment a person realizes a pattern isn’t a personality flaw carved permanently into them. The ordinary sessions nobody would ever write about because nothing dramatic happens and somebody still leaves an hour later a little more capable of living inside their own life.

I was good at it. That’s not arrogance, it is one of the few facts about myself I still trust. I was good at my job, and then with one patient I allowed wanting her to become more important than the responsibility I had to her.

“If they let me practice again,” I tell Mara, “it won’t be the way I did before. I know that.”

She watches me quietly. “You’d accept supervision?”

“Yes.”

“Restrictions?”

“Yes.” Each one comes more adamant than the previous one.