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Frustration mounts. “I’m pretty much agitated right now. That counts for an emotion.”
“Your frustration and anger are manifestations of your selfish impatience. We’ve already covered this.”
“Isn’t caring for someone love in its own kind of way?”
“It depends on the root of the caring. Is this about her or you?”
I shift in my seat. “What do you mean?”
“Do you care because of how being with her makes you feel, or do you care about how she feels, regardless of yourself?”
“I don’t want her to be sad or unhappy.”
“How do you feel when she’s unhappy?”
“Frightened.”
“Why?”
“That it’ll slip away.”
“That what will slip away?”
“Her. This. What I’m feeling when she’s around.”
“Right.” She raises a brow. “So, this is about you.”
“I love my family, don’t I?”
“You hate your father, and your brother is your biggest enemy. You have a sense of responsibility toward your mother, and you experience feelings of injustice for your father’s behavior, but you lack the empathy that forms unconditional relationships with your family.”
“This woman—my woman—grew up in a dysfunctional family in a poor neighborhood. She’s been exposed to every circumstance you quoted for making a psychopath, yet she’s not like me. How come?”
“Max.” She sighs again. “It’s not a secret you can steal. Every person’s internal and external factors are unique. As I’ve told you before, I suspect in your case it’s a combination of your violent circumstances and genetic inheritance.”
“So,” I say with a wry smile, “you’re telling me I’ll never be able to love.”
“I think you do love in your own way, and I do believe you’ll be able to build a trusting and sharing relationship if you can manage to see things from your partner’s perspective.”
“But?”
“But in this case, your care is selfish. You said it yourself. She gives you what you don’t have. You’re opposites. You’re using her to balance yourself.”
Great. This helps a fucking lot, and it changes nothing.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Always a pleasure, Max.” Despite her strict no touching policy, she leans over and squeezes my hand. “I’m here when you need me.”
I stand. “I appreciate your time.”
“No, you don’t.” Her intelligent eyes meet mine. “You expect it. In fact, you insist.” Not unkindly, she adds, “Next time, try to be considerate to everyone else and make an appointment.”
She’s right, as always.
I’d give my life to give Zoe the love she deserves, but I am what I am.
I leave Dr. Bisset’s office still the same man, a man unable to reciprocate love.
Chapter 13
Zoe
As promised, Sylvie sends me a text, suggesting a brasserie in the old town.
Benoit drives me while the men from this morning follow again. With the yellow awning and red window frames, the brasserie looks like a typical French postcard. Before, I would’ve thought this a dream. Now I can only admire the image abstractly, a deeper part of me hating everything associated with this city.
Loud chatter greets me when I push the door open. The inside smells of coffee and beer. It’s busy. People sipping wine or espresso occupy the tables. Not one is free. It seems like a popular place to meet for drinks after work.
Benoit follows behind me and then overtakes to greet some of the customers. I spot Sylvie at the bar. She’s wearing a fitted powder-blue dress with a short jacket and ballerina flats. The ensemble is simple but stylish. It’s the kind of understated elegance Madame Page and Maxime’s mother favor. Noelle and Hadrienne, too. This is the French bourgeois style.
Benoit raises a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. The bartender smiles kindly when he notices me. He says something to Sylvie, who turns.
“There you are,” she says when I reach her, kissing my cheeks. She holds me at arm’s length to study my leggings and off-shoulder jersey. “You look gorgeous.”
I love this jersey. It has pirate sleeves and a drawstring in the hem for a puffy look. “Thank you.”
“Come.” She takes my hand and leads me to the back. “Let’s sit.”
The men at the table for which she’s headed get up when they see us, take their drinks, and leave.
“That’s very gentlemanly,” I say.
“Ha. Don’t you believe that. It’s only because they know who Papa is. Espresso?”
“Tea, please.”
She signals the bartender, making a C and a T with her hands. “So, what made you call?”
A man died saving my life. My kidnapper went after the attackers and killed them. Not only did I discover that said kidnapper is a mafia boss, but also that he deceived me when he held my brother’s life over my head. I threatened him with an icepick. He tied me up and punished me with multiple orgasms all day. My teacher and classmates think I’m a fake and hate me. I won’t even know where to begin. There’s no way I can answer her question honestly.
“It’s tough,” she says, covering my hand with hers, “but you can’t let it get to you.”
