I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her.
Instead I said “Thank you, Piper” and hung up.
Now I’m sitting here staring at some report on my computer screen that I don’t give a shit about while my chest feels like someone’s performing surgery without anesthesia.
Fitting metaphor for a guy who sells facial prosthetics.
Better than the cat metaphor.
Fuck.
Would you forgive a fucking cat for stealing your fucking food?
Can’t believe I told her that bullshit. She saw right through it, of course, but gave me a pass anyway.
Until she learned the truth.
By now I’ve convinced myself it’s over. That I’ve finally fucked up beyond repair the one good thing in my life. That I’ll spend the rest of my days building prosthetics to help other people while my own chest cavity stays permanently hollowed out.
Dramatic?
Sure.
But I’ve got nothing to do except marinate in my own misery.
She just met my parents for fucks sake.
Fuck!
My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly knock over my coffee.
Cressida. Not Bree. I had Bree’s calls forwarded to her while Bree is out of office.
“Mr. Rossi, your 2 PM with the Singapore distributor has been moved to Thursday. And Dr. Morse had a cancellation. He can see you at 11 if you’d like.”
I didn’t request an appointment with Ethan Morse, my therapist. But Callahan knows me. Probably heard me pacing my penthouse at 3 AM through whatever security feeds he monitors and reached out to him.
“Book it,” I end the call and go back to staringat nothing.
Two hours later,I’m in Ethan Morse’s office on the Upper East Side.
“I lost her,” I say before I even sit down.
Ethan doesn’t react. Fifty-one years old, patient as a saint, refuses to let me hide behind intellectualization. He’s seen me through the worst years. Knows every ugly corner of my psyche.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Who?”
Right.
It’s been months since my last appointment.
He wouldn’t know about Bree.
“The woman I’ve been seeing,” I reply.
“You lost her?” he asks. “Or you drove her away?”
I shrug. “Same difference.”
