CHAPTER TEN
Red
All night, I drift in and out of something that feels more like drowning than rest. Waves of Blue's voice drag me under. Flashes of her eyes pierce through every boundary I try to resurrect, the echo of her sayingtext me an appointment time or text me goodbyeshredding whatever is left of my resolve.
When my alarm buzzes, my heart slams hard enough that my ribs ache. I sit up, grab my phone from the nightstand, and before I can think better of it, I look at my phone.
There's a message from her. My hairs rise on my arms. I open the notification.
Blue: Good morning, Dr. Mercer. I wanted to check in. I'm safe today. Thank you for our honest conversation yesterday.
Relief hits me, taking me by surprise. It's another inappropriate response I shouldn't have, yet it soothes something raw inside me. I re-read it several times, focusing on,I'm safe today. Thank you again for our honest conversation yesterday.
My thumb lingers over the screen longer than it should. The steadiness of her words burrows into me, loosening a knot in my chest. I search for something manipulative or seductive, but it's strikingly appropriate. And for a woman like Blue, who deals with obsessive behavior, I understand the restraint it's taking her to not harass me.
She's trying for me.
I drag my hand down my face and push myself off the bed, feeling the weight of what I already know has settled like concrete on my shoulders.
I can't say goodbye to her. I knew it when she walked out of my office with that quiet devastation in her eyes. The moment she told me I was the only one she trusted, I was doomed to forgo ethics. And when she walked away, the thought of never seeing her again made my chest feel like it was cracking.
Reading her message in the glow of the morning, seeing how hard she's trying, it's undeniable. I don't want to lose Blue, which puts me in a really bad spot.
The shame lands deep and heavy. I stare at her message once more, then walk to the kitchen, set my phone down, and brace my hands on the counter. The sunlight hits the sink, glinting off the steel, and I stare at my own distorted reflection.
I scold, "You're her therapist.'
The words sound thin, useless.
I add, "You owe her ethics. Boundaries. Safety."
Silence answers me.
I combat it with an excuse mixed with truth. I owe her consistency. If I let her go now, everything she's opened up about will fracture. I know it clinically and intuitively.
Sending her to a stranger now would shatter her. But that isn't why my chest hurts when I imagine terminating my role as her therapist. It hurts becauseIdon't want to let her go. The more I see her, the more I realize there's a part of me that's dark, human, and guilty. It wants to keep her for reasons that have nothing to do with her well-being.
I close my eyes, hating the truth. It makes me unfit, compromised, and dangerous for her. Yet I can't stop the darkness prying to life inside me.
I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the countertop until my knuckles burn. I should walk away. It's what the ethical guidelines say. It's what my training drilled into me. It's what every supervisor I've ever had would order me to do.
So why can't I?
She won't go to therapy with anyone else.
Liar. I'll find a way to make her go.
The thought of Blue sitting in someone else's office, breaking open her trauma, exposing her secrets, letting another man hear the things she told me, makes something violent twist in my gut.
The truth hits me harder, and I wince.
I could get her a female therapist.
No. She's mine to help.
The realization steals my breath.
I pick up my phone and lie to her.
