Then I deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again.
Just send it. This is the professional thing to do. The ethical thing.
My fingers wouldn't move.
I closed the laptop and told myself I'd do it tomorrow. I didn't believe me.
The week crawled by with agonizing slowness. I saw my regular patients—the hedge fund manager, the anxious attorney, the tech executive who couldn't stop working long enough to notice his marriage was falling apart—and I listened, and I asked questions, and I did my job. But part of my mind was always somewhere else. Replaying Thursday's session. Analyzing every word, every pause, every moment, his mask had slipped and shown me something real.
I've been thinking about you.
I shouldn't have let him say that. Should have redirected immediately, reminded him of the professional nature of our relationship, shut it down before it became something I couldn't control. Instead, I'd sat there and let the words hang in the air,let myself feel the pull of them, let myself wonder what it would be like to say them back.
Unprofessional. Dangerous. Stupid.
I knew better. I'd been trained better. And yet here I was, counting the days until Thursday like a teenager waiting for a date.
Wednesday evening, I called Amber.
She answered on the third ring, her voice warm and slightly breathless. "Keira! Oh my God, it's been forever. Hold on, let me—" A muffled sound, a door closing. "Sorry, I was just putting Lily down. She's teething, and it's a nightmare. How are you?"
Amber Lewis had been my closest friend in grad school. We'd suffered through statistics together, celebrated our dissertations together, promised to stay in touch when we scattered to opposite coasts. She'd kept that promise better than I had. She called every few months, sent photos of her daughter, refused to let the friendship die, no matter how poor I was at maintaining it.
I didn't deserve her. But I needed to hear a normal voice tonight.
"I'm fine," I said. "Busy. You know how it is."
"I know how you say it is. Which usually means you're working too much and not having any fun." She paused. "Are you having any fun, Keira?"
"I went to a museum last weekend."
"Alone?"
"The art doesn't care if I'm alone."
"That's not the point, and you know it." Amber sighed, and I could picture her settling onto her couch, tucking her feet under her the way she always did. "When's the last time you went on a date?"
"I don't have time to date."
"Everyone has time to date. They just have to make it a priority."
"Maybe I don't want to make it a priority."
"Maybe you're scared."
I didn't answer. Amber knew me too well—knew the broad strokes of why I'd left Chicago, if not the details. She'd never pushed for more than I was willing to give, but she'd also never stopped gently suggesting that I couldn't run forever. That at some point, I'd have to let someone in.
"There's no one," I said. "Really. Just work."
"Mmm." She didn't sound convinced. "What about patients? Any interesting ones?"
I thought about Rodion. About his dark eyes and his lying name and the way he'd looked at me like I was the only real thing in his world.
"They're all interesting," I said. "That's the job."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Amber."
