"Don't give me your therapist/patient speech. Please. Not now," she begs.
I stay silent, cursing myself for getting into this situation with her. It's my fault. I crossed the line and kissed her.
She continues, "Are you inside yet?"
I step in front of her unit and answer, "Yes. Outside your door."
It whips open.
She keeps the phone to her ear, and a tiny smile appears, illuminating her wet cheeks, red eyes, and clumped lashes. She shyly greets, "Hi."
We stare at each other across the threshold. I don't move, afraid of what might happen if I go any further. My training is supposed to override instinct. I'm meant to reassess, redirect, call for backup, and choose distance over proximity when caring for my patient.
She's more than a patient.
She can't be.
My chest tightens.
"Hi," she says again, softer this time, like the word costs her something.
My hand lifts, then stalls in the air between us. I lower it slowly. "May I come in?" I ask, praying I sound professional.
"Of course you can. You're allowed to come here whenever you want. Even if I'm not here. Just come in and wait for me, and you'll make my day." She beams, and steps back.
My heart pounds harder as I process what she just said.
It's wrong.
I'm here to help her, then go home.
I cross the threshold and close the door behind me. Citrus and soap fill the air. The living room is magazine-ready, with multicolored blue pillows aligned, a thick, hardback fashion book on the coffee table, and a jar candle lit next to it.
She slides in front of me, and her black oversized sweater falls over her bare shoulder. The hem brushes the top of her thighs, skimming her bare legs.
"Blue, are you okay?" I firmly question. My gaze drifts to the black material hiding her pin marks, then I study her face.
She opens her mouth, then shuts it. She bites on her shaking lip and tilts her head. Her eyes fill with more tears. She blinks hard, then looks away. "I-I'm sorry, Dr. Mercer. I really did try."
I take a breath and ground myself in procedure. "Can you show me where you're hurt?"
She slowly meets my stare. Humiliation, shame, and darkness fill her expression. She steps closer and asks, "Do you want something to drink?"
"I want to make sure you're alright."
"Are you mad at me?"
I shake my head. "Mad? No. I'm concerned and want to make sure you're safe."
"I'm safe now that you're here." She blinks a few times, and a tear falls. She swipes at it and says, "Thank you."
I step closer and put my hand on her cheek. "Blue, can I see what you did?"
She takes a shaky breath. "It's okay. I didn't use the knife."
"I still want to see it. Can I? Please?" I plead, forcing myself not to rip her shirt up so I can assess the damage.
She hesitates, but finally asks, "Can you sit on the couch at least?"
