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I still see Arthur in passing, but he doesn’t eat with me anymore. The first week and a half, he still takes me to my counseling appointments, but he only briefly replies when I try to initiate conversation, so the rides there and back are painfully awkward.
On the second Thursday after the kiss, he calls for a car service to take me.
It’s the final blow. After ranting to Dr. Walters about the man’s depravity for forty-five minutes, she quietly suggests I talk to him.
I’ve tried. More than once. He shuts down conversation.
She asks if I’ve directly brought up the kiss.
Of course I haven’t. That would be making myself completely vulnerable. I never do that—just like I never make a fuss or cause a scene.
Dr. Walters says I can accept Arthur’s decision without a fight, or I can take a difficult step. Do I really want to live the rest of my life not even trying to pursue my own happiness? Isn’t that what I’ve spent twenty-seven years doing—letting other people maneuver me into what they thought was best instead of what was actually right for me? Has all the progress I’ve made in the months since my father died meant nothing?
The questions make me cry because I know the answers. I know what I have to do.
But I’m terrified.
On the ride home, I rehearse scenarios for what I could say and how I should say it. When I arrive, Arthur is in his home office with the door closed.
I stand in the hallway for several minutes, occasionally raising my hand to knock, but I never do. It’s still work hours. Maybe he’s legitimately busy. Interrupting him during an important call or project is hardly the way to make my point.
Knowing in the back of my mind these rationalizations are primarily an excuse for delay, I finally turn and walk away without knocking.
I work later than normal, telling myself I should make up time but again finding a justification for not acting. Stella brings my dinner to the library. When she comes to pick up the tray and sees it’s mostly uneaten, she asks me if I’m feeling all right and if there’s anything she can do for me.
“I’m okay. I think.”
She glances toward the hallway. Opens her mouth like she’s going to say something. But doesn’t.
I know the feeling. “Is he okay?” I ask, the unspokenness of the whole thing driving me crazy.
She shakes her head, her eyes still slanted in the direction of Arthur’s office down the hall. “I don’t know that he is.”
I gulp. My annoyed frustration transforms into deep anxiety.
Arthur has as much baggage as I do. Maybe more since he’s had a lot more years to collect it. I’ve managed to not fall apart, but maybe he hasn’t.
And he’s hiding in his office where no one can help him.
“Maybe you could check on him,” Stella says softly. “I think he needs it.”
I might never have summoned the necessary courage without the sudden wave of fear and concern for him. The urgency pushes me to my feet. I sway slightly and hold on to the edge of the desk.
“I know he’s done it to himself,” Stella adds, her blue eyes very kind as they rest on my face. “But he needs you, dear.”
And that’s enough. Enough to compel me toward the door of the library and then down the hall to Arthur’s office.
I tap on the door before I can talk myself out of it.
There’s no answer from inside, so I knock again, louder this time.
“Go away, Stella.” The voice is muffled, gruff.
I open the door and step inside.
One wall of his office is lined with bookcases, and there’s a huge, antique desk in the middle of the floor. The only other furniture is a leather couch facing a fireplace.
It’s a cool, damp night, but the temperature in the house is comfortable. There’s certainly no reason for Arthur to have lit a fire. He’s on the couch now, leaning forward toward the blaze in the fireplace, a whiskey glass in one hand.
