He’d said his piece, and he was done.
Well, I wasn’t.
“Would you feel this way with another psychologist? Would you feel this protective if you were sitting across from Dr. Brecklebaum, the psychologist across town?” It was a loaded question on so many levels. I was practically begging the man to tell me he felt something for me. Something romantic. Something other than seeing me as a ticket to his freedom. Or, a roadblock, perhaps.
“Why are you so independent?” He asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
“One that’s as loaded as the one you just asked me.”
I shifted in my seat. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman being independent.”
“There certainly isn’t. I didn’t say that. But this one wears it like a shield of armor.”
A second slid by.
“Tell me about it.” He demanded.
“About what?” I deflected.
“About what’s in your past that’s made you think you can’t depend on anyone else.”
I felt the heat rising up my neck and I wasn’t sure if it was from the memories flooding back into my brain or from the intensity of his gaze.
He continued. “There isn’t a single personal picture in your office, in your home. No brothers, sisters, friends. Every material thing you possess is placed just so, how, and where you want it. Control. You’re gripping onto it with bloody fingertips. My question is why.”
I felt heat rush to my cheeks.
“Tell me about your childhood, Rose. Tell me about your family.”
“No.” I began fumbling with the papers on my desk, anything to do with my hands. “Don’t do this. Don’t turn the tables. This is aboutyou.We’re here because of you.”
“I’m willing to bet your organization caddy in your fancy BMW that I’m not the only one with trauma in this room.”
“Maybe so, but this appointment isn’t for me, it’s for you.”
“The difference is, though, that you know everything about me. But I don’t know anything about you. I’m an open book. You’re locked up tighter than the corners of your bedsheets.”
I huffed. “This is how this works, Phoenix. I’m the doctor, you’re the patient. Not me. If you can’t accept that, there’s the door.” My back was straight, my hands clenched on my desk. I took a silent deep breath.You are in control, you are in control, you are the one in control. Focus, focus, focus.
“Tell me, Rose.”
“Tell youwhat?”
“Your childhood.”
We held each other’s gaze until—at last—the dam inside me gave way, and everything I’d buried came rushing to the surface.
“I’m a foster kid, alright? An orphan.” I blurted. “There. Is that what you want? You feel better now?” Tears threatened to sting my eyes. I pushed them away.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
He just looked at me with a quiet, unflinching empathy—like hesawme, not with pity, but with something far deeper.
“My dad, who I never met, left my mom when she was pregnant and died in federal prison where he was locked up for a slew of things including drug trafficking and third-degree assault. Nice, huh? My mom died in a car accident after dropping me off at daycare one day. I was put into the system and tossed around from house to house like a freaking hot potato. It was horrific. That’s my childhood.”
My desk phone buzzed.
