And that’s a battle you need to fight.
“And Conner?” Her question is obviously meant to force me to verbalize the difference between him and Matt.
“He’s the exact opposite.” My leg starts to bounce, acting on its own nervousness. “Conner’s openly honest, from what I can tell at least.” I laugh, thinking about how agreeable Matt was to pretty much everything I ever suggested over the course of our six-month relationship – my longest since Shane. “And he is pretty much the definition of challenging.” I bite back a groan thinking about his physical teasing. The feel of his fingertips tracing over my cock dances against my skin like a phantom pain, just like it has for the last week. But at least I’m usually in the shower when it does – much easier to take care of then.
“Challenges you?” She tips her head to the side inquisitively.
I look back at the clock, hoping for my time to be near an end. No such luck. I’ve got ten minutes left. “He wants to get to know me.”
She gasps audibly. It’s uncanny how she can convey her sarcastic disbelief through an inhale. “And did you turn him into the authorities? He’s clearly certifiable,” she jokes, but then quickly recovers. “I shouldn’t joke around like that. I’m sorry.” All professionalism returns. “But to be honest, Dylan, what he’s asking for isn’t all that outlandish.” Dr. Baker closes up her files that have sat on her lap, open and untouched since the session started. “Even after only two hours with you, I can tell that you’ve got a lot to offer. I’m actually quite surprised to see that you don’t think the same thing of yourself.” All too abruptly, she gets up from her seat and walks over to her desk. She pulls what looks like a prescription pad out from her top drawer and scratches out something very quickly. “Here,” she hands me the piece of paper, “no questions asked. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself doing a lot of existing and not a whole lot of living.”
Her kind eyes smile at me as she escorts me to the door. “I’m not saying to give him everything you are, but start small. See what he has to offer. You might be surprised.”
I smile back at her, folding the small rectangle of paper in my hand as I walk out of the office. After I make an appointment for the following week with the receptionist, I start back toward the office.
When I get back to work, I pull the prescription out of my pocket, chuckling as I read it over.
Go for itis scrolled across the main part and in the box where the dosage is usually listed, it reads,now.
The phone rings once before he picks it up. “One week,” his words mingle together with a hearty laugh. “Not bad. Figured it would take at least two for you to call, if you did at all.” Conner’s humor-filled voice forces a smile to curl at my mouth as I kick my legs up on my coffee table when I get home later that night.
“Does last week count?” I’ll admit, my question seems out-of-the-blue, but it’s important, nonetheless.
“What?” The vision of his coffee-colored eyes squinting in confusion forces me to relax.
Muting the television drowns out all the ambient noise. Conner’s voice and the background noise of weights clanking and gym members chatting fill the background of our conversation. “Does our date last week count in your little three-date-challenge?”
The other noises fade away, the sound of his hand covering the mouthpiece overriding them. “Hold on,” he adds quickly as I hear a barrage of sounds filter through the line. Treadmills pound in the background; television newscasters report the latest stories; women make grunting noises in the name of self-defense. Finally, a door slams shut and we’re alone, albeit telephonically.
“It counts as far as I’m concerned.” I can hear the smile in his words; I can envision the smug, confident look taking over his face. “Under one condition.”
Already feeling like I’m giving in, I can only hope this term is one with which I can deal. “Okay.” Skepticism colors my response.
“You have to make the plans and it has to be more than just a meal.”
“That’s actually two conditions.” We both laugh as the tension evaporates. He doesn’t say anything after the laughter subsides and I consider his idea. My weekend plans run through my head and I actually have the perfect idea. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at nine. Wear work-out clothes.”
“What exactly do you have planned?”
“Well, Mr. I-need-to-get-to-know-you-better,” I joke, “you’re just going to have to wait and see. Now, are you going to give me directions to your place, or do I have to google you, after all?”
After giving me directions, Rachel’s voice fills in the background. I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying, but I know that Conner’s attention is needed. “I gotta run. I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Okay.”
I’m ready to end the call just as Conner says, “I’m glad you called,” before hanging up.
To be honest, I’m glad I called, too. The thought of finally moving forward in my life is simultaneously exhilarating and scary. It’s unrealistic to say after two therapy sessions and one date with a man to whom I’m ridiculously attracted that I’m healed. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of giving it a try.
Excitement wakes me up on Saturday morning for my date with Conner. It’s more than just the idea of seeing him that has me all anxious, though. Knowing he’s going to see part of who I really am only adds to the giddy nervousness. Conner’s apartment building is a simple three-story brownstone. Nothing is all that special about the exterior. It’s clean and modern – the front porch looks like it’s in desperate need of an update – but other than that, the building actually reminds me a lot of Conner; sturdy, a little rough around the edges, but probably comfortable and relaxed on the inside.
He told me to call when I got here, not wanting me to have to deal with parking, but since there’s a spot out front, I park, deciding to do the right thing and actually pick him up properly. A little old lady is walking out of the door as I jog up the steps. As I hold the door open for her, she wobbles under my arm. “Thank you very much, young man.” Her voice is soft and her eyes are kind. “Here, let me help you the rest of the way.” She nods, smiling brightly as she clutches her purse under her arm.
There’s a stack of phone books dumped in the corner of the foyer, so I use one to prop open the door as I escort her the rest of the way down the stairs. The handrail nearly comes out of the concrete as she leans her weak, can’t-be-more-than-ninety-pound frame, against it. She places her wrinkled hand in mine shakily and we slowly walk down the crumbling steps together. “Thank you again,” she pauses, waiting for me to add my name.
“Dylan,” I tell her.
She pats the top of my hand before releasing it. “Mrs. Keating, but you can call me Cindy.” As she tries to readjust her glasses, her purse drops to the ground. I hand it back to her as she says, “Well, thank you, Dylan. Are you here for that pretty new girl? What’s her name, Raquel or Randy, something like that?” Her expectant face lifts up to scan mine.
