Try not to lose my sanity worrying about what you might unearth in your session. “I’ll go for a jog. Maybe a swim. Try to clear my head. But I’d like to pick you up from your therapy session. Bring you back to your place, or here, ideally.”
“You don’t have to… but it’d be nice to see you. You’ve been warned though, my therapist said this one could get pretty intense. You might walk in on me clucking like a chicken.”
I force a smile despite the growing unease. Will this be the session that unravels everything? “I’ll take my chances. Maybe I’ll learn your ‘safe’ word in case you start trying to peck at me.”
I cup her face, holding her gaze. “Are you worried about your session today?”
“No, why would I be worried about digging into the dark recesses of my psyche?” Her laugh is strained. “What could possibly go wrong?”
A million things, and not a damn one I can control. “Come on, Lucy. Open up to me.”
“Yes.” She sighs. “I’m terrified.”
“That’s why I’ll be waiting outside the clinic.”
And when she smiles at me like I’m the most important man in the world, I know it’s going to be okay.
I just need a little more time.
THIRTY-FOUR
Lucy
Finally, life seems to be getting itself into order. True to his word, JP was waiting outside the clinic for me last Sunday. Since then, I’ve had two more mind-blowing nights with him at his penthouse apartment, survived two rounds of hypnotherapy, and those weird dreams about demon dog appear to be subsiding.
Date number one: Rewind to last Sunday. JP swoops me up post-therapy session—still no memories—then we went back to his place for a swim. The pool was moreI seem to have misplaced my yacht hererather thanOh look, I have a pool. Then we went up to his penthouse and chilled out with a movie and takeout. Not exactly the fantasy date with a billionaire I imagined, but honestly, I loved it. Then he showed me his “downward dog” which involved me on all fours, so that was a nice surprise.
Date Two this week was like something you’d do after dating for months—basic but amazing. We strolled around Central Park, popped into my favorite comic shop, and grabbed hot dogs from a street cart. Then back to his for an advanced yoga session, namaste.
He wore a baseball cap out so people wouldn’t recognize him, which I found stupidly hot. When he crept up behind me while I was reading a latest edition comic and gave me a gentle spoon and kissed my shoulder, it was the most romantic moment of my life, to date, on earth.
I know it’s not equal—I’m going to his place all the time—but who’s the winner there? If I brought him back to my apartment, I’d be scared of what surprises Spider might leave in the bathroom.
Work’s been good too—we’ve made good progress on Project Tangra and I’ve managed to survive meetings with JP without screaming I’M FUCKING THE BOSS.
It’s a beautiful Saturday morning in New York and Spider is moving out today, so I get my living space back until the apartment sale goes through. Freedom at last.
I’ve been scrolling through house porn on the internet all morning, but this time, I’ll be vigorous in my checks.
I’m diving headfirst into what I like to call “therapy cleaning.” There’s something strangely calming about scrubbing away your problems, one dirty dish at a time.
Spider wanders into the kitchen area with a backpack and a guitar.
“Hey,” I greet him, guilt seeping into my voice. I drop the sponge in the sink. “Sorry about this. Where will you go?”
“Nah, don’t worry, it’s for the best. I actually found some digs on Fifth Avenue. For free, no less.” He grins, stuffing the last of his belongings into his bag.
I stare at him, mouth hanging open. “Seriously?”
“Some cool squatters are living there.”
I shake my head. Wow. Well, to each their own. “Is that all you have?” I ask, nodding to his pitifully scant backpack.
He shrugs. “I travel light.”
“Well, good luck then,” I say. “Sure I’ll see you around.”
We clasp each other in the world’s most awkward hug, then he heads for the door, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. The door clicks shut behind him and he’s gone. Just like that. My toilet-clogging saucepan-abusing roommate is a past memory.
