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Adam takes a few nervous paces across the tiled floor, his hands in his pockets. He takes out his phone and sends a quick text.
I’m only doing this for you x, he writes.
The reply comes back immediately. You’re doing it for yourself. It’ll be worth it. x
Then a follow up. But thank you. x
He smiles. He imagines seeing Romilly later, recanting the story about how it went. This is the same place she goes to, the same counselor. He never imagined himself at therapy, yet here he is.
To try and control his nervous pacing, he sits down on one of the chairs, crossing his legs and arms in front of him, first one way, then the other. He fidgets with his phone, clicking on social media sites he should be avoiding.
Reports of Maggie Clarke’s death have been polarized. “Good riddance.” “Saves the taxpayer money.” Versus shouts of vengeance, of making her pay. His own thoughts are more complicated. He’s glad she’s gone, that she can’t do harm to anyone anymore. But it bothers Adam that Cole got his wish—that she will be one of the twenty.
At least nobody will have to go through a trial. He worries about Jamie. He hears him pacing late at night, muffled sobs at three AM. Adam knows it’s not healthy for him to still be at work and is glad he will be back himself on Monday. There’s only so long he can bear to be at home, watching daytime television and waiting for Romilly to get back from work.
The noise of a door pulls him away from his phone, and he turns to look. A woman walks out toward him, her high heels clicking. She holds her hand out and smiles.
“Adam?”
“Yes.” He shakes it.
“Come through. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
She gestures for him to go ahead, and he walks through the door into the darkened corridor, then toward the square block of light. He steps into a plain office. White walls, a bookshelf on one side and a desk on the other. There are two chairs facing each other in the middle of a brightly patterned rug.
The woman closes the door behind him. She’s dressed in a gray suit, a basic white shirt underneath. Prim and proper. Simple silver jewelry on her hands, her brown hair tied tightly back in a bun. He guesses her age at mid-forties, maybe older.
“Please, take a seat,” she says, pointing toward the chair, and he does.
“It’s quiet,” he says, making conversation to fill the silence.
“My colleagues are out today,” she replies. “No other patients. We won’t be disturbed.”
She picks up a clipboard from the desk and passes it to him with a pen. “Just a simple form. Personal details for our records.”
“Sure,” he replies. He writes in his name, his address.
“You seem nervous,” she says. She’s watching him as he fills in the form.
“Yes.” Telephone number, date of birth.
“I won’t bite.” He looks up, she’s smiling. He manages a small smile back.
Emergency contact details. Dr. Romilly Cole, he writes, feeling the warmth grow. Relationship. He thinks for a second. What should he write? More than ex-wife. More than girlfriend. It’s hard to put into words what’s happening between them now. Spouse, he writes. Maybe they will be again.
“Is this a conflict of interest?” he asks. “My wife is a patient of yours.”
She shrugs. “Let’s have a preliminary chat, and then we’ll see. I can always refer you to one of my colleagues if we both think that’s best.” She folds her hands in her lap. “So what brings you here today?”
He hasn’t finished filling in the form, but now rests it on his knees.
“I have a phobia of needles,” he replies.
She nods. “And?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have gone to see a hypnotist about that. And yet, here you are, in front of a psychotherapist. In front of me.”
