Because I spaced out my clients, I was able to complete all their log notes in between sessions, so now all I have to do is check for referrals and my work email. Opening my laptop, I blow out a tense breath. I’d be absolutely lying to myself if I said I didn’t think about Dr. Richardson’s reply.Ifhe even replied, that is.
I pull up my work email first, and there it is, in irritating black-and-white with enough healthy dose of holier-than-thou energy and professionalism to make my teeth grind.
Ms. Johnson,
In our communications, it would be preferable for you to address me asDr.Richardson.
I am available on Friday between the hours of 6p and 7p. I will go over your notes. No need to bring the DSM-V. In case you weren't aware, I helped to add to the new edition, so maybe I can teach you a few things instead of you always trying to school me in thisinsufferablyprofessional way of yours.
As for the incredibly thoughtful, andlovelythreat to go to the board, well, that’s your prerogative.Isn’t it?
I'll see you in court.
WarmestRegards,
'DOCTOR' Alexander Richardson, MD.
I feel my face heat up immediately. I didn’t take out the“un”like I’d thought…
"Oooohh, this freaking man!"I blurt out loudly.
Bending over my laptop, I roll my eyes and reply simply, stating that I'd be there Friday at six sharp. Mr. Richardson ishow I greet him, nothing more, nothing less, because he needs to be knocked down a peg or two. I sign my name, no titles, regards,warmor otherwise, included. Even though, yeah...it's unprofessional…I do it anyway, feeling absolutely no shame. I'm too tired and hurt to care about being embarrassed or politically correct.
I pop an extra strength Tylenol, wincing against the throbbing pain in my body. I shut down the office and head home for the day to fix dinner: a simple chicken salad. I spend time calling Chris and Jerome on the way home on a group call and verify that when the time comes that they’d be able to help move my things.
I consider myself so grateful that I had the sense to not combine finances with Brandon, as it would have made this sticky situation worse.
Back at home, I breathe a sigh of relief at Brandon’s absence. Thanking God that I may not be beaten or degraded tonight, I make dinner quickly because I'm starving. A half-hour later, I'm finally done, and I sit at the glass dining room table with a whimper, feeling my back smart. Thinking about taking a long warm bath when I'm done, I eat my salad.
Bumpy must like it because I crave it so much.
I'm lost in my head, wondering when Bumpy is going to decide to give me an actual bump, when the front door opens, and Brandon saunters in drunk. I put my fork down, appetite gone.
Oh no.Wiping my mouth, I stand up and take my half-eaten plate to the sink. Feeling his eyes on me, my skin prickles with trepidation and discontent.
"Hey," he says in an aloof tone.
Glancing over, I ignore Brandon's greeting, knowing that he probably won't remember this interaction at all considering how drunk he currently looks. Flicking my eyes down his disheveledstate, I note his blonde hair is mused, and his shirt is buttoned up haphazardly.
I tighten my lips. He's probably cheating, which is why he thinksIam. It's projection at its finest and an old-as-time textbook abuser trait.
My efforts to ignore him are in vain. Brandon comes up behind me, smelling godawful, and presses his lips to the back of my hair. "Hey, baby," he murmurs into my ear, softening his voice.
Not able to help myself, I recoil, wrinkling my nose at the stench of body odor and alcohol rolling off him in waves. My nose twitches, forcing me to pause in the action of rinsing my hands, smelling something different on him this time. The alcohol isalmostenough to mask it, but not quite. I turn off the faucet.
Was he with another woman?
I sting with betrayal, even though I was so sure at this point that he couldn't have done anything else to hurt me. But I'm done with him. Tightening my lips, I turn to dry my hands on a hand towel, keeping quiet and trying to ignore him hovering.
Out of my periphery, I see him look at me with a sad looking expression on his face, but nothing in me is able to meet his eye.
“I’msorry,Sarah Beara. I won’t hit you anymore! Can you just love me, please?” he says, leaning into me. His arm bands around my shoulders, snagging my hair and making my eyes water anew with the small prick of pain that is just a mere layer on top of the other hurts.
I grit my teeth and maneuver myself from under his arm, turning and walking to the living room.
Sitting on the sofa, I reach over for the remote on the table. “There’s chicken salad for you if you want some,” I say in a light tone.
It isn't until I'm mindlessly flipping through the various apps on the television for something to watch that I realize I'mhesitating to pick a show based off what he might think about it. My heart beat ramps up, stealing my breath and making my chest tight.
