“Lana, I’m not going to tell you the size of his appendage.”
She laughs, her head throwing back, and I screenshot when it freezes, sending her the image in revenge. “The fact that you said appendage just means the guy is packing. Don’t worry, I can picture it.”
“Please don’t picture it.”
“He’s swinging it round like a baseball bat stepping up to the plate.”
“Please stop.” I grin.
“Okay, so what’s the real problem?”
“He’s my boss, Lana. I’ve been in this situation before, and I’m nervous to lean into it. He works in the industry I’m trying to get a job in. He has sway, influence. It’s a lot of trust to put in someone. If we keep it to a one-night thing, then maybe this won’t massively backfire on me.”
She nods, her voice softening as she hums an acknowledgement.
“You’re totally valid for having those concerns. What happened with Mr. Dick Cheese in your hometown was awful. I can’t even imagine the trust issues you must have because of it. But the truth is, Alfie is what, six years older than you? That’s not that much. Also, you’re a grown adult now. You’re not a gullible kid that doesn’t know better. Alfie has never given you a reason not to trust him, right?”
I think back to anything where I thought Alfie’s behavior concerned me. Even when we were not in a good place, it wasn’t controlling; he was just an idiot. And even him following patients around seems to stem from some feeling of responsibility over them. He worries about people he cares about. He worries about me. My chest dips like I’ve just missed the last step on the stairs. I’ve made a serious error in judgment here. I thought with all the therapy I’d had that I’d moved on from what Carter did. But in reality, he’s still controlling me after all this time.
I need to find Alfie and talk to him. I need to tell him how I really feel.
Alfie
After Mia left for her Wednesday afternoon classes, I kicked myself for not confirming our usual dinner plans. I’ve been trying to give her space since our conversation on Sunday, but I’m finding it nearly impossible to stay away from her. I’d fought these feelings for so long, closing myself off to the idea of a relationship just as my father told me to do after my patient hurt themselves. But now it’s like eight years of pent-up emotion is spilling to the surface.
I should be tempering these emotions but I’m thinking about her all the time. I’m wishing she were here when she’s in class. I’m cooking enough food for two, just in case she wants to come over. I’m keeping the fire on in case she pops round, and she’s cold. But she hasn’t talked to me in three days about anything other than work. What if she doesn’t want this? What if Sunday was my one chance with her and I pushed her too hard?
As if he knows I’m thinking about her, Nate asks, “Where does Mia go on Wednesday afternoons?”
“We’re not here to talk about Mia, Nate. We’re here to talk about you.”
I don’t like that he asks questions about her, and the conversation I had with Austin pops into my head. Fuck, how had I forgotten about the notes? Oh right, because Mia kissed me at the bar and then asked me to fix the ache inside her. Now I’ve been daydreaming ever since.
“Do you have all your dangerous court-mandated patients on a Wednesday afternoon to keep her away from them?” He laughs.
I wait a moment, not reacting like I know he wants.
Once his smile falters, I ask, “Do you think you’re dangerous, Nate?”
“The judge said so, didn't he?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the couch. His face is pinched and he’s suddenly fascinated with the pattern of my throw pillow.
“He said he wanted you to unlearn certain behaviors, but he never outright called you dangerous in his report.”
“Well, it was implied then.”
I shrug, “Maybe. What behaviors do you think he was referring to?”
He looks down at his hands. The air crackling between us. I like to use silence as a tool to get people to talk. Sometimes itworks; sometimes it doesn’t. But Nate is a talker. He doesn’t like long silences, and he’ll often try to fill them, which usually leads to him saying more than he would like.
“I like people to do as I say,” he eventually says.
“You see yourself as a leader?”
“Yes. Exactly.” His eyes return to mine now.
“And when is that a problem?”
“With women, they don’t like being led nowadays. It’s all about being a girl boss or some shit. Makes you think life would have been better back in the fifties or something.” His eyes narrow, a sneer playing at his lips like he’s desperately wanting me to react.
