I put my phone on the coffee table, staring at the blank screen, as if watching it hard enough will make it vibrate. I check that my sound is on, then let my mind wander.
Is he home now, pacing the way he was at his office window?
Is he thinking about me tearing up but refusing to break? Does he hear me saying, "I trust you more than anyone now."
My gut drops.
Is he thinking about the invisible line he keeps pretending matters more than the fact that he's the only thing between me and the cliff I used to live on?
Did I make the right choice and say the right things?
I tried to be honest and stay calm when the entire time, I wanted to get up, straddle him, and make him kiss me.
The longer the phone stays silent, the more the steady version of me begins to crack.
What if he's writing a "goodbye" message now?
What if he's sitting at his desk, filling out a referral form with my name on it?
A sour, burning panic climbs up my stomach, hot enough that I have to sit down. I hug a pillow to my chest and rock slightly in place, willing the phone to ding.
I review our text messages from last night.
Focus on five things,he wrote.
I get to four, but every time, the fifth turns into his face.
I pick up my phone again. I scroll slower, feeling every emotion he put into each line from last night.
There's anger, restraint, fear, and then his surrender. The memory of his groan caught in his throat settles in my stomach, and I can barely keep myself from texting or calling him.
Don't,I warn myself.
I pinch the phone between my palms, pressing it against my forehead to stop the ache building behind my eyes. This is the problem with being understood. Once you've tasted it, you can't survive without it. Red isn't just a therapist anymore. He's air. And people don't give up air. Not without fighting.
I go to my camera roll and open the photo of him I took at the restaurant. It's the one where his eyes locked onto me like he needed me more than he needed to breathe. I zoom in. His blown pupils, parted lips, and whole body taut were because ofme.I know it.
A tremor moves through me, electric and certain. I tell myself that he's not a man capable of walking away. He's the type who stands on a fault line, hoping it'll break. He may not admit it, butI saw it. I felt it. I captured it. He pushes the boundaries, and he'll blow it up for me.
Will he?
I set the phone down and take a slow breath, thinking through everything like I'm building a blueprint.
If he doesn't kick me to the curb, I have to be better. I can't be needy, sexual, or manipulative. Red thinks he's looking for ethics, for distance, and stability. So I'll have to give it to him.
The more I think about it, the more determined I am to become the version of myself he believes he can safely treat. Once he relaxes, he'll let his guard down. By then, he'll realize that keeping me is the only decision that doesn't tear my progress apart. Then I'll let him see the rest of me again. The part that wants him. The part he wants back.
I pick up my phone and stare at the message. I type his name, then stop.
What am I doing?
I have to be better than this.
I erase it. I can't message him yet. Not until I'm sure I know what he wants to hear.
The right words will tip him in my direction. The wrong ones will have him telling me goodbye.
So I rehearse it out loud. I stand in the middle of my living room, wearing only my sweater and underwear, stating, "Good evening, Dr. Mercer. I'm checking in as you asked. I'm safe today."
