I almost don’t want to stop talking about Alfie. I have so many questions. Is he okay? What has he been doing? Who’s taking care of the office whilst I’m at home? But I say nothing. This is my time to shine, and I’m going to prioritize myself for once.
“Yeah, I have. Can we meet up to discuss it? I can come to you in about an hour?”
“Perfect. And Mia…were you planning on talking to Alfie? Just out of interest, of course.”
“No, I haven’t. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Okay, no problem. I’ll see you at my place in an hour.”
“See you then.”
???
The cool bite of early spring nips at my skin as I lock up the house. Another bouquet sat on the step, this time my favorite,peonies. I don’t know where Alfie got them from at this time of year, but acknowledging his persistence warms me.
I unlock the door again, placing the bouquet on the side table. I’ll put them in water later so I’m not late to meet with Lottie.
I’m going to take Lana’s advice and accept the job. I know in my heart that working under Lottie’s mentorship would be life-changing. And despite Alfie needing to sort his shit out, I have a strong feeling that that’s going to work out too. How do you tell a therapist that they should maybe speak to a therapist? Either way, I’m not running anymore. My life is here; I want to be here. Back in Texas, when everything went down in high school, I knew I had to leave. The scandal nearly broke me and my family.
But I should never have been the focus of the scandal. A teacher took advantage of me, groomed me, and then, when it all blew up, ran off to let me deal with the fallout. I was seventeen. This never should have happened.
I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Despite the speed bumps along the way, I’ve made a name for myself, literally, Dr. Sinclair. It still hasn’t really sunk in yet that everything I set out to do has come true. And now I’m going to have the best start to my career by working with one of the best psychologists in the country.
Locking up for a second time, I skip down the step, a renewed sense of vitality seeping through my aching bones. I feel lighter now. The last few days of moping were necessary, but now I’m itching to move again. The urge to hit the rink tomorrow morning is overwhelming. Would Alfie mind if I joined him? He’s been begging to meet me, so I think it will be fine.
Pulling out my phone, I send him a quick text.
Mia:Thank you for the flowers. Are you free to meet at the rink tomorrow morning? Usual time.
I see the three dots bubbling. My pulse quickens that he’s replying so quickly. This is a good sign. He’s keen, eager.
Alfie:Absolutely. I can drive us?
I think about my response. Close quarters with him might be too much. I want to hear what he has to say, but ultimately if it’s just an apology and we’re still broken up, I want my own escape route.
Mia:I’ll meet you there.
The dots appear again as I make my way to the driver-side door. It’s darker now, the evening light dwindling with the setting sun. I press the button to unlock my car, but something feels off. The hairs on my neck stand on end, and I get the sense that I’m not the only one out on this quiet street. I swipe my head from side to side, but I can’t see anyone. There’s just the Ford F-150 with the Dallas Cowboys bumper sticker that’s been around for a few months now. The thought of it comforts me. Like a little piece of home keeping an eye on me.
My phone vibrates, but before I can read the message, I hear the sound of hot, heavy breaths behind me. I spin on my heel, but before I can make out anything other than a tall, looming figure, everything goes black.
Chapter Thirty
Alfie
For the first time in five days, relief washes through me. First contact, completed. I knew peonies were her favorite. Thank you, Katie. Four days of nothing had broken me. It was Wednesday night now, and I haven’t seen Mia since Saturday. I feel incomplete, wrecked without her in my life. The office has been dead. No life at all. No flowers, no atmosphere.
I’d hired a temp to come in and do basic reception duties, but every time I look at Mia’s desk, it feels wrong to see him sitting there in her seat. But the numbness I feel at work is a relief to the abject devastation I feel at home alone. Her things are gone, the closet half empty, drawers cleared out. The scent of her lingers on her pillow and, through sheer masochism, I’ve held it to my chest each night so it feels like I’m still holding her. If I weren’t such a colossal dickhead, it could be her I’m holding instead.
I shoot through the final message to confirm that I’d meet her at the rink tomorrow morning. It will be a tight squeeze with The Morning Show, but I’ll make it work. Besides, after my conversation with Helen on Sunday about being a great man. I’ve made the decision not to renew my contract with the studio. My agent will be furious for sure, but the show isn’t aligningwith my values anymore. It’s using genuine concerns as the TV equivalent to clickbait, and it’s hurting my reputation more than it’s doing good. No matter how professional I am, the show still encourages me to amp up my response. The hosts, Dianne and Dennis, still make undercut comments meant to humiliate the individual as the audience laughs. It’s not right, and I don’t want to be a part of it anymore. On that, my dad is right, as much as I’m reluctant to admit it.
I spoke with my brother about my decision, and he agreed. Given that he plays for the Seattle Grizzlies, he’s well aware of the fickleness of fame and how one wrong move can put you on the front page with a headline relating to something you would rather keep to yourself. I don’t want what was supposed to be something to get my name out there, to turn my career into a laughingstock. I’ve done a good job of mitigating it so far, but there’s only so much time that can pass before what I’m doing turns into my fault, rather than what the studio executives request. My contract renewal being up for grabs in the next few months gives me the opportunity to bow out when the show is at a high, and it’s on my terms.
Teddy and I spoke for a few hours, and he asked for an update on Mia. I let him know she had texted, and we were meeting for a skate in the morning. She instigated the meetup and the location, which puts me more at ease than I was before she reached out. Given that she chose the place that I taught her how to skate has me feeling even more optimistic that we’ll reconcile. I just need to be patient. I tell my patients this all the time. You can’t force someone to forgive you. But you can be consistent with your changes and prove to them over and over that you’re not the same person you were when you hurt them. Second chances are hard to come by, especially when flitters of my memory come back to haunt me. The hurt look on her face as a tear rolled down her cheek. The flush of her neck and chestfrom embarrassment. God, I hope it wasn’t humiliation because I couldn’t bear it if I made her feel that way.
It’s eight p.m. now, and despite the warmth that spring brings in the daytime, the night is still as bitterly cold as winter. Placing a few logs into the wood-burning heater, I throw a match onto the firelighter. I sit back on the couch, ready to go over my notes from previous sessions. At the moment, my focus has been on my court-ordered patients. They’re always the most unpredictable and the ones in which I must keep my wits about. Sometimes they’re dangerous, usually always have a history of abuse, giving and receiving, and antisocial behavior. They’ll lie, cheat and steal to get to their goal. And I must anticipate those actions.
It works a little differently from my normal patients, with whom I have a doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. The court-ordered patients sign away that right when they step into my practice. The judge needs to be kept informed of my reports, including the respective attorneys. It’s why I could speak to the Judge about Nate following Mia and leaving her notes.
