NICK
Uneasiness creptup the back of my neck as I lowered down into the same chair that I’d been sitting in for the past ten years across from Dr. Lavine. The first time I’d seen him, it was because I was about to turn thirty, and after having one too many women accuse me of having a ‘Peter Pan’ complex, I figured it was time to make sure that I was a functioning adult. I still wasn’t sure we’d answered that question, but I kept showing up.
For the first few years, we met once a week, but now we only met once a month or as needed. What we had discovered was that my unstable childhood had caused me to have trust and commitment issues. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to grow up; it was just that I never wanted anyone to have any say in my life. I didn’t want to answer to anyone or be responsible for anyone.
Having Bella had been a shock, and I’d had to alter my lifestyle drastically. I credited Dr. Lavine with helping me through the transition from a carefree single man to a responsible single father.
Whenever I sat in this chair, I was brutally honest, even if my truth didn’t paint me in the best light. I didn’t see the point in paying someone to do a job and then hindering their ability to do it because I was worried about how I might come off. Also, I would never waste either of our time.
Normally, I looked forward to seeing him. Today, I’d rather be in a dentist’s chair getting a root canal without anesthesia than be in this chair. Which probably meant it was exactly where I needed to be. Between keeping my mother at arm’s length and whatever was going on with myself and Skye, the last person I wanted to face was the man who would ask questions I was scared to face the answers to.
Dr. Lavine crossed his legs, glancing down at his notes as he pushed the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses up higher on his nose. The hem of his pants rode up, and I saw he was wearing socks with cherries on them. I stared at the cherries and tried to make my brain as blank as possible. I knew that Dr. Lavine wasn’t a mind-reader, but I felt vulnerable sitting across from him.
“Your fundraiser was last night, right? How did it go?”
“Good.” I always invited Dr. Lavine to the yearly event. He’d never attended but always gave a sizable donation to the charity. I wasn’t sure if he was just a homebody or if he didn’t feel it was appropriate to socialize with his clients outside of the office.
If it was that he found it unproper, I wondered how he’d feel about Skye and me spending the night together. Hell, I wasn’t even sure how I felt about it. I’d hoped it would take the edge off of my obsession with her, but if anything, it had only served to amplify it.
This morning, when I woke up to find that she’d already left, I picked up the pillow she’d slept on and pressed it to my face so I could smell her. Then, I’d taken the pillowcase off the bed and brought it home with me when I left the hotel because I wanted something—some proof of the night we’d shared.
“Congrats on the podcast. I heard you reached number one.”
“Thanks, yeah, we did.”
Getting guests on the show the past few weeks was a game changer. They definitely added a new dynamic, and the ratings were reflecting how much our audience was responding to the shift in format. I was happy to have hit my goal, but not as satisfied as I usually would be. For some reason, the things that used to seem so important to me just don’t anymore. I wasn’t sure if that was tied to my mother being terminally ill and living in my home or if it had to do with whatever was going on between myself and a certain night nurse.
“So how are things going with your mother?”
Here we go, I thought to myself. “Fine.”
Dr. Lavine nodded. It was the nod that he gave when he thought that I was hiding something. I knew all of the good doctor’s tics, just as I was sure he knew all of mine.
“So your mother—" Dr. Lavine looked down at his notes. “—Naomi, has she settled in, then?”
I shifted in my chair and rolled my head to the side to try and alleviate some of the tension I was feeling in my neck. “Seems to be.”
“How does it feel to have her under your roof, living with you?”
“Fine.”
“Are you two getting along?”
“Yes.” I could hear myself giving one-word answers, which I knew would only make him try to dig deeper. But I couldn’t stop myself.
As I sat in the chair, I felt like a rebellious teenager. I was there because I needed his help, but I was too stubborn or prideful to open up and ask for it. Talking about the past, my childhood, the women I date, or Bella was easy. They were personal, but not in a way that made me uncomfortable. Naomi and Skye were both topics of conversation that flooded me with anxiety. I had no idea how to deal with either of them.
“Have you two talked?” he asked in his patented soothing way.
It was the way a person would speak to a trapped animal. Which was exactly what I felt like. I felt like life had backed me into a corner, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out.
“Of course. She’s been living with me for a month now.”
“I’m sure you have spoken to each other, but have you talked? Have you had any conversations about your relationship, your father, or the past?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“You don’t think that there is anything to say to a mother who you’ve never known, who spent your entire life in prison, and is dying?”
