CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blue
Three days feel like a lifetime when you're counting every breath.
I sit in my car outside Red's building with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel, engine off, phone face down on the seat beside me like it might burn me if I look at it. I haven't texted him, driven by his building, or done anything he told me not to do.
Every night, I stare at my phone, wanting him to text me and give me credit for my strength, but it never comes. Around midnight, I take the sleeping pill Red had a messenger deliver after I left his place, then reread the note before I drift off.
Blue,
Take one each night until our next session. You need to be fully rested.
Dr. Mercer
No love. No Red. Nothing but clinical formality, but I always remind myself he has to care, or he wouldn't have sent them. So as much as I hate taking medication, I do it to obey him.
Each morning, I wake up, and the disappointment of the blank texts hits all over. Yet I somehow made it to today, where Red can no longer avoid me since we have our session.
I smooth my skirt, check my reflection in the mirror, then get out of the car. I make my way into his office, but the air feels different. It's quieter, tighter, like the space itself remembers what happened.
Red's door hangs open. He's seated behind his desk, posture straight, jacket on, tie neat. There's no coffee cup or looseness. The man who kissed me, invited me into his home, and looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour and destroy at the same time, is nowhere.
Still, the sight of him hits low and sharp.
He just wants a challenge.
His voice comes out even and controlled. "Blue, come in."
I step inside and close the door behind me, softer than usual. I take my seat on the couch, crossing my legs carefully.
He doesn't ask how I've been, comment on the gap between sessions, or soften. He's just like when I first met him, all clinical. He says, "I need to be very clear before we begin."
My stomach tightens. I nod, like a good patient.
He continues, "This session is either a legitimate therapy session, or it's our last."
The words land heavy and final. My insides shake. I blink once. "That's dramatic."
He nods. "It's necessary. What happened three nights ago crossed multiple boundaries. I take responsibility for my part in that. But it cannot continue."
My chest warms and aches at the same time.My part.He admits it. Even framed clinically, it matters.
I lean back, tilting my head. "So what... You're firing me?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "I'm giving you a choice. If you want to continue working with me, we do so professionally. That means no sexualized behavior. No testing boundaries. No contact outside sessions unless it's clinically appropriate."
"And if I don't want you only as a professional?" I ask softly.
His Adam's apple bobs. "Then I refer you to another therapist."
The threat slices me. I laugh quietly, because the alternative is crying. "You make it sound so simple."
He answers, "It isn't. But it's clear."
Silence stretches, but I let it. Silence makes people uncomfortable. It makeshimuncomfortable, even if he won't admit it.
I cross and uncross my legs, slower this time.
