I drop the phone onto the mattress like it burns, even though I can't contact her right now anyway. It lands face down with a soft thump. Ipress the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors burst behind the pressure.
Enough.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet. I move through the routine because routine is the only thing solid, so I go for a run, then come back and get in the scalding shower.
Water pounds my shoulders while steam clouds the mirror. I scrub my skin until it pinks, trying to wash away the phantom press of her body against mine, and the way she arched into me like she needed to disappear inside my chest.
It doesn't work. The memory stays, stubborn and hot.
Frustrated, I get out, towel off, and dress in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt. I knot my tie with quick, practiced movements, then stare at my reflection.
The man in the mirror looks composed with combed hair, a clean-shaven jaw, and steady eyes.
It's all a lie, but appearances matter when I'm about to walk back into a life I almost torched.
I grab my keys and my wallet. I get to the door and pause. For one stupid second, I half expect Blue to step out of the hallway, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of my old T-shirts, smiling that crooked smile that always makes my stomach drop.
Get a grip,I scold myself.
I fling open the door, step out, and lock the door behind me. The hallway air is cooler, stale with the scent of yesterday's takeout from someone's apartment. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement and the small burn in my thighs to ground me.
Outside, the morning is crisp, the kind of morning that pretends it's winter for a few hours before the sun reminds you it's in charge. I find my car, start the engine, and the radio blares a hard rock tune. I turn it off, needing silence.
The drive to the office is muscle memory. I pass the same buildings and stoplights as always, but everything feels off. My hands stay steady on the wheel, but my mind keeps circling back to Blue, and her hitched breath when I had her up against the wall.
I grip the wheel tighter. The building finally comes into view. I park in my usual spot, kill the engine, and sit there for a long moment.
The lot is half empty. Early patients haven't started arriving yet. I can still turn around, drive somewhere else, and disappear for a day. But hiding is what got me here in the first place.
I get out, lock the car, and walk toward the entrance. I push the door open, and the antiseptic, lavender lobby flares in my nostrils.
I take the elevator up, walk down the hall, and step into my personal office. The lights are on, and the magazines fanned neatly on the side tables. Shirley sits behind the reception desk, her silver hair pulled into a low bun, phone pressed to her ear, mid-sentence.
She looks over, and her eyes widen, then narrow. She says, "I'll call you right back, darling." She hangs up and furrows her forehead.
I stand just inside the doorway, the soft click of the latch behind me sounding louder than it should.
She keeps her fingers curled around the phone like she's not sure whether to pick it up again or throw it. She dryly greets, "Dr. Mercer."
Three steps bring me to the edge of the reception desk. I use my authoritative voice. "Morning, Shirley."
She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes flick over me like she's looking for cracks in my armor. And she finds them. I can tell by the way her mouth tightens.
She finally asks, "Why are you here?"
I stand taller. "Because this is my practice and I have patients to help."
She lets out a short breath that isn't quite a laugh. "You think you can just walk back in as if nothing happened? Like I didn't watch you kiss that girl—your patient—in broad daylight?"
My pulse ticks up. "I know what you saw. I'm not denying it."
"Then why are you acting like it doesn't matter?" Her voice rises half an octave, the maternal edge sharpening into something closer to hurt. "You're a psychologist, Red. You know better. She's a patient. Was a patient. And you let her?—"
"I didn't let her do anything." The words come out harder than I mean them to. I lower my voice. "It was mutual. It was wrong. I know that. But I'm here to fix what I can."
Shirley leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Fix it how? By pretending the last month didn't happen? I spent all day yesterday calling people, explaining that Dr. Mercer is on personal leave and that they need to find another therapist. I've had mothers crying on the phone because their teenage daughter was finally opening up, and now she's lost her safe place. And you want me to just undo it?"
Her words sting, but I remind myself I need to get my life back. So I nod. "Yes. Get the appointments back on the books. Today. Tell them I'm back and I'm seeing patients as scheduled."
