It's a quiet comment, but I pick it apart all the same. Because she’s my patient. But also because of this tie I feel twined around my ankles when it comes to her. It doesn’t matter that she’s my client. I don’t want her hurting. I don’t want her swimming in sadness. I don’t want her feeling so alone that she feels like she only really has herself.
A mirthless laugh falls from her lips. “I don’t even have my parents.”
“They’re…?”
Her eyes go wide. “No, they’re not dead, but they live across the country and are very absent. Maybe I should’ve said that a little differently.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s alone—andfeeling lonely in her relationship.
I’m alone—with no one waiting for me at home.
My mind turns us into a math equation. Two plus two equals—me tasting her lips, her fingertips teasing the areas of my body that haven’t had attention in far too fucking long.
“I…didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear.”
Her eyes slip from mine. “How would you?”
She looks at me almost right away again, and it’s like her soul is beckoning me forward, a curled fingertip telling me to come just a little goddamn closer.
The worst part about it is that I fucking want to.
More than anything, I understand that she’s disconnected. Her parents aren’t physically or emotionally close to her. They’re not here to see her or help her through what she’s facing—with her accident or her relationship. Hell, maybe, they don’t even know what her current struggles are.
Which only leaves her fiancé.
And we already know how that’s going.
I push off my desk and round it, going to the same drawer I found that Band-Aid from two weeks ago. I find the cardstock I’m looking for, a small rectangular piece that includes my information. Specifically, my email address and phone number for those that need to get into contact with me.
I’ve only given them to other experts in the field. I’ve never actually handed one to a patient. I’ve always liked keeping my personal life separate from my professional work. What I’mabout to do, it’s not necessarily wrong. Doctorscangive their phone numbers out depending on different circumstances.
I’ve never deemed it necessary until now.
I tell myself that Emory should have someone to confide in, that she shouldn’t be moving through life out there with no one to turn to. Some wouldn’t consider that an emergency, not in the context of what a true crisis means in this line of work.
But to me…it is.
I pluck the card out of my drawer and hold it between my index and middle finger. “I’m offering you this in the event you find yourself alone and those thoughts and fears become too big for you to handle on your own.”
Her eyes flick to the white cardstock then back to me. “Isn’t it frowned upon to give your information out to a patient?”
“It’s a gray area,” I tell her, giving her a look that I hope she doesn’t recognize as desperation. Iwanther to have this, to take it and know that there is someone who will be there for her no matter the time of day;me.
“Dr. Cole…”
“Dawson,” I correct.
She exhales a breath, and I take a small step closer, flattening my palm on the desk beside us. Her hair is lightly windswept, a flurry of coppery auburn strands that I’d love to twist around my fingers.
“I don’t want you to get into trouble. I didn’t say all that stuff to guilt you into giving me your phone number. I said it because…” she pauses for a moment before saying, “I find it easy to open my heart to you. I’m not sure why, I just do.”
I crack the softest grin. Meanwhile, my fucking heart smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon. “It’s important you have someone to talk to, Emory.”
“I know. I just…”
I reach out, resting my palm along the outside of her arm and give it a reassuring squeeze. It’s as friendly as physical affection can get between us. “You deserve the gift of having a safe space to go to when you need it. When your fears get too big and the aftermath of your accident tries to push in and take over, I’ll be here.”
