AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
Can Things Get Any Worse?
Charlotte
As a therapist, I know all the tricks to deal with stress, pressure, and deep-seated anger. But I also know that sometimes it’s all just rubbish. Sometimes, no matter how much deep breathing I do, or walking, or using my own therapeutic techniques on myself, I stay stressed out and pissed off, like right now.
I got off the subway at an earlier stop than usual. I wanted to walk along the river, hoping to get my mood down from a raging ten on the scale to something a little more normal or even a simmering, festering level. But as I walk into my building, I’m still as frustrated and angry as I was when Stephen walked out on me. He left me financially responsible for a therapy practice and a condo in one of the upscale buildings on the Upper East Side.
I make my way to the elevator, trying to focus on the gigantic glass of wine I’m going to pour when I get into my apartment to help soothe my angry soul. No, drinking is not a good way to deal with difficult feelings. But in the privacy of my own condo, which I live in alone because Stephen left me, who will know?
I push the button for the elevator, grateful that Stephen and I never actually tied the knot. We talked about it but never went anywhere with it. Perhaps the fact that he never bought me a ring and wasn’t willing to set a date should have been a clue that he and I weren’t meant to be. That is another revelation to prove that Charlotte Everling is clueless about boyfriends and business partners. Aside from the financial difficulties Stephen left me, he has also made me question my ability to assess and understand people. How can I be a good therapist if I can’t see indifference toward me right in front of my eyes? I thought he loved me. I believed our calm, quaint life was proof of a deep connection. As it turned out, he wasn’t connected to me at all, except perhaps in his desire to reach his own goals. He quickly tossed me aside when another woman who was younger and more affluent offered him his own practice and space in her penthouse on the Upper West Side.
The elevator dings, pulling me out of my reverie and reminding me to chill. I take a long, deep breath and stand in front of the door, ready to get into the car and straight up to my condo. I can almost taste the wine I plan to have. Maybe I’ll drink it in my tub filled with bubbles.
The door slides open, and I step forward to get into the car, but immediately I’m pushed back by a barrel of a man exiting. His hands grip my arms as his momentum pushes me back.
My momentary calm bubble bursts. “Hey, watch where you’re going.”
He stiffens, and his hands release me like I have cooties.
His blue eyes stare down at me in annoyance. “Elevator manners dictate that you let the people out of the car before you get into the car. If anybody needs to be watching where they’re going, it’s you, ma’am.”
Why is he calling me ma’am? Is he from the South, or is he being snarky? He doesn’t sound like he’s from the South. On the other hand, he doesn’t sound like he’s from New York either. I feel like I’ve seen him in the building before, but I can’t place when or with whom. Does he live here? He is tall, broad, and handsome enough that he may have found himself a sugar mama like Stephen.
“You came barreling out of there so fast that even if I was standing a distance away, you would’ve run me over,” I say, even though I know he’s right.
The therapist in me tells me to relax. I’m the one being obnoxious here. But I’m frustrated and angry, and while this man isn’t Stephen, he will do as a substitute for walking over me like I’m not here. Like I’m invisible. That’s how Stephen ultimately made me feel. Like I was invisible.
“Listen, lady,” he starts, and that did sound like something someone from New York would say. The door behind him slides shut. Then I hear the car rise back up in the building.
I let out an exasperated breath. “Now look what you made happen. I’ve missed the elevator.”
He stares down at me, and I can see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Are you going to stomp your foot, put your hands on your hips, and blame me for everything wrong in your entitled, privileged life?”
God, he is infuriating. He is the worst type of man. But, of course, his good looks probably mean he can get away with being a jerk. Good-looking people are always able to get away with being rude.
Yes, I know I’m being the jerk here, but still. Surely, he can tell I’m in a bad mood; perhaps a little kindness could go a long way. So he bends over and picks up a dropped magazine when he tries to keep from knocking me down. It isn’t a magazine; it’s a medical journal with a cover picture of an older woman looking very sophisticated and beautiful, despite probably being in her seventies. The tagline on the photo says, “New Advancement in Neck Lifts. “My gaze shoots up to his. “You’re a plastic surgeon?”
Once again, he looks at me like I’m completely unhinged, which I quite possibly am.
“I’m Dr. Oliver Wolfe,” he says by way of an answer.
Before I can think, I shove my fists onto my hips and glare at him, ignoring his attempt to not laugh at me. “Men like you are why I have a job.”
His eyes flash with confusion and then amusement. “If that’s true, you’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t thanking you. Men like you make all the young women I work with have a distorted view of beauty. They see all the glamorous women that you Franken-fix into your opinion of beauty, and then when my clients look in the mirror, all they see is what is wrong with them.”
“Franken-fix?” he asks, arching one brow.
“Yes. You make women think that they are only valued if their noses are just right or their breasts are perky globes…which, hello…you can’t have big breasts that don’t sag. I’ll tell you something, Dr. Wolfe. Real women don’t look like that, and you should be ashamed of yourself for making them feel inferior, for ruining their self-esteem, because they can’t live up to your Frankensteined-nipped-and-tucked women.”
His eyes take a long gaze from my face down my body and back up again, making me shiver, which annoys me. Then his gaze returns to my face, he looks at me for a long moment, and I shift because it’s unsettling. He’s studying me.
“So you believe that a woman who does something to change her body so she can feel pretty or confident is doing a disservice to other women?”
I look up at him, glad he understands what I’m telling him. “Yes, that’s right.”
