I leaned forward, trying to angle my body just enough to catch a glimpse of the paper. He responded without haste, crossing his legs smoothly so the pad lifted higher, shielding it from my sight. The movement was deliberate.
He pushed his glasses up with his middle finger.
And smiled.
Oh, this was bad.
Worse than the crush I’d had on my English teacher. Worse than the time I’d sent a Valentine’s Day card to my science teacher, convinced admiration was the same as affection.
I closed my eyes as shame struck hard.
The professor at university.
The fleeting moments in his classroom, my dorm room, or his car.
The rejection.
The whispering.
The stream of students who followed after, curious, hungry, watching—the ones who had heard about my reputation.
“What did my parents tell you?” I asked flatly, opening my eyes and forcing my voice to remain level.
“Not much. I only met them over the weekend,” he said smoothly.“I’m fully booked, which is why our sessions are out of office hours and held here.”
“How much experience do you have with sexual dysfunction?” I asked bluntly.
“We deal with such matters, but it’s usually within the context of couples.”
“What about women?” I pressed.“I couldn’t find much in books or scholarly publications. Everything seems geared towards men.” I paused, the bitterness slipping through despite myself.“Or abnormal women.”
He shifted the notepad onto his thigh. Not that it mattered—I still couldn’t see a thing he’d written.
“This is a safe space,” he said, and I almost scoffed.“You’re twenty-three years old. Unless you’re a danger to yourself or others, everything stays between us.”
“Well, I don’t feel comfortable with you taking notes,” I said, my tone sulky despite my effort to sound composed.“And you won’t ever tell my parents what I say?”
He lifted the pad, closed it decisively, and placed it on the armrest, setting the silver pen neatly on top.
“I would never discuss our sessions with your parents,” he said.
His eyes were fixed on me now, sharp and unwavering. A muscle twitched along his jaw. He was serious.
“They said you had some difficulty regulating yourself,” he added when I didn’t respond.
I crossed my arms and nodded.
“All I want from this is to be able to control my urges,” I said, resignation settling in.“I want my life back.”
The words came out quieter than I intended. I hugged myself tighter, my arms digging in as I tried to self-soothe.
He relaxed then and nodded once, as if we’d reached an understanding.
“Do you want to start from the beginning? Share only what you feel comfortable with,” he said, uncrossing his legs.
I tried to keep my eyes on his face.
I really tried.
