Get a grip, Cohen. Get. A. Grip.
Where were we? Oh right, the question.
“Why did you choose this job?” A predictable question. Stupid. Now I'm the one who sounds like I'm at an interview.
But my synapses can't put anything together that isn't the image of Sloane, naked and spread open for me on this desk.
“Because I like putting the pieces back together. I like seeing people do better, find a real connection…” she pauses, uncertain. “I like the order that comes after the chaos.”
“And the chaos?” If she only knew all the chaos I have inside right now…
“I avoid it.”
“Too bad. It has its own charm.” I make a small face with my mouth.
A beam of light catches her profile. I could laugh at the fact that I'm noticing a beam of light, if I weren't busy reminding myself that I need to pull it together and stop desperately wanting to screw my coach's daughter.
“Okay,” she says, recovering her CEO tone. “I’d say that as a simulation, we did better than expected. You showed listening, eye contact, no inappropriate jokes for at least…” she pretends to count, “ninety seconds.”
“Personal record.”
She doesn’t laugh.
She looks at me.
And for the first time, I can't read that look.
It’s as if she’s trying to figure out when, exactly, she lost control of the situation.
Perhaps at the exact moment I lost it.
“I think we can stop here,” she says softly—but she doesn’t move.
Her body remains tilted toward me, her crossed leg brushing mine.
The air gets thicker.
The candle on the corner of the desk flickers, casting golden reflections on her skin.
“Sloane,” I call her name.
She barely looks up, but can’t meet my gaze for more than a second.
“What is it?”
“Why are you always so tense after we finish a session?”
“I’m not tense.”
“Of course, you are. Your jaw is locked, your breath is shallow, and your hands are gripping that pen like it’s a weapon.”
She drops it immediately.
“See? Correct diagnosis,” I smile.
“You are unbearable.”
“Hmm… yeah, the truth can be sometimes.”
