I brought him home that day, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’ll often wake up to that one white paw resting on my arm, as though we’ve got each other no matter what.
And right now, as usual, I could probably take a little bit of George’s attitude. If George were a person, he’d definitely stand up for himself. He’d go after what he wanted and accept nothing less.
And now I’m hoping to aim as high as my dog. Nice.
Yet no matter the day I’ve had, it’s always a balm being back in my apartment. I don’t think I’ll ever stop appreciating the sanctity of having my own space. I spent my entire childhood sharing a room with my brother, even when I was in high school, all teenage angst to his middle school awkwardness. My parents never thought it was strange, even though it clearly was, so we both just muddled through it. And then it took graduating from college and grad school for me to finally have enough income to not have roommates. Being able to build a life where I get to introvert alone is one of the greatest advantages to aging.
But before I can try and focus on that sentiment instead of the ruins of my day, my reverie is broken by a loud banging right below me. George hops up and barks at the floor, as though that’ll solve anything.
It stops for a moment before starting back up again. And then it falls into the same rhythm for at least ten minutes—banging, followed by seeming silence, only to resume once more.
Normally, I would just wait it out. So what if it’s after hours and you’re not supposed to do anything particularly noisy after 6:00 p.m.?
But watching George get more and more anxious makes me want to take action. He can’t help but be confused and upset by this intrusion on his space. Maybe today I’m bolstered by my conversation with Ari. I feel the urge to ask for what I want instead of blithely waiting for the circumstance to change. Against all my normal judgment, I stand up and walk the one flight down until I’m standing in front of Esther’s old apartment’s door.
I knock. Softly at first and then, with a bit more determination, slightly harder.
But my burst of confidence is short lived when the door swings open and I see who’s on the other side.
Because staring back is a face that Iknowis not happy to see me.
Chapter 4
“You,” the face says, squinting at me as though he’s trying to come to terms with my presence right outside his home.
I’m at a loss for words. This man, Eli Whitman, was sort of a client of mine because of his ex-girlfriend Sarah. I’ve only ever met either of them over Zoom. I usually insist on being in person, but Sarah was referred to me by a friend from college, so I didn’t want to say no, even though she was in the UK. Sarah was so mortified to even be talking to a couples counselor that she thought the idea of someone on a different continent was actually a plus.
Our sessions started with just her, and they didn’t last more than a few weeks. She was practically a textbook case—a calm, quiet woman in her midthirties who wanted to ignore all the relationship red flags because she was ready to settle down. But she was admittedly unhappy. They’d moved in together after dating for around two years, and instead of resolving cracks, it exacerbated them. She started therapy because, she said, she wanted to fix their problems. But my hunch from the start, once she started describing herself and him, was always that they were the wrong fit.
That hunch was easily confirmed once Eli joined a session. He was loud in all the ways she was quiet. Compelling, but bombastic. Without seemingly meaning to, he took all the air in the room. He rushed and spoke without thinking, which led to him getting worked up and saying things he probably didn’t mean just because his defensive ego took over.
I’m someone whose entire life has been defined by retaining control in untenable situations; few things irk me like someone who has the privilege to react without thinking. So maybe it was my own biases (every therapist has them), but I found his inherent acceptance of his own intelligence and charm annoying, even if I should blame society for probably consistently pointing it out his entire life—the way it always goes with men.
I begrudgingly could see why Sarah found him attractive—he had that cocky, boyish thing that so many women like. Sarcasm combined with charisma is potent for some people. And she was reserved in all the ways he wasn’t, so I can imagine a part of her thought having someone to take charge was appealing.
But it was never going to be enough—he’s the kind of man whothoughthe was really in it, when in reality he only thought that because she’d been too afraid to verbalize all the ways the relationship wasn’t working for her. He had no idea what was coming, because he’d taken charge like she’d wanted, and then realized too late it wasn’t right for her.
She’d asked me to help her end it during a therapy session, because she was afraid that he would try to talk her out of it. Which he did. And when she didn’t back down, he resorted to blaming me.
I get that sometimes that’s easier when you’ve been blindsided. But I certainly didn’t let him get away with his distraction tactic, andthatdidn’t go over well either. I stood in the firing line for Sarah because it was the best thing for her, my client, in that moment. But I got all the brunt of his shocked (and once again unthinking) reaction.
It was unpleasant at best. Thankfully, I haven’t seen either of them or thought about them for months.
And now he’s ... my neighbor?
Shit.
Beyond that terrible ending, in general it’s just strange having someone in front of you who you’ve only ever seen virtually. It’s as though their textures become reality and you have to square this versionwith the one inside your head. His hair is a little darker and curlier than I remember. He’s broader. Taller than I expected. The lines on his face more apparent. And ... okay ... he’s more attractive in person somehow. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t photograph as typically handsome, but somehow in person it all works. I guess that’s one thing I’ve underestimated about him.
But he’s looking atmelike I’m the least attractive thing on earth. I’m a slug, a combatant, a bad smell left to waft into the ether.
I need to keep this conversation in the neighbor category andnotlet it spiral.
“You’re making ... noise?” I finally say, and I cringe at how it comes out as a question.
I hate that I always do this. I soften; I shrink myself; I give in just to make things less unpleasant for everyone. And especially, in front of this man that I know resents me, my determination to stand up has been instantly replaced by my typical people-pleasing.
“You,” he repeats, his British accent making him sound even more clipped, his expression now sitting somewhere in the center of a Venn diagram of stunned, annoyed, and intrigued. “You’re Nora Fischer. You’re my therapist.”
