Page 67 of The Plus One Pact

Should I tell him about the show? Maybe. It's not a dark secret. And I'm not hiding it, exactly, but I'm not sharing the truth either. It might be better if he doesn't know. Then he'll have to hide it from his family, too. Secrets are a burden. "Like I said, I'm not a good liar."

"But you are diplomatic," he says.

I suppose that's true. I have practice. I've been masking my feelings for a long time. And not just as a therapist. "You're one to talk."

His lips curl into a smile. "See, now we're getting somewhere." He motions to my expression. "There's something you think about me. Something you don't want to share."

"Not exactly," I say.

"What exactly?"

Maybe it is that. After all, I don't want to accuse him of dishonesty. But then I also don't think it's dishonesty. Not exactly. "You're a charming man."

"Why does that sound like an accusation?"

"You tell people what they want to hear," I say. "You play into their image of you. You let your mom see you as a playboy. You let me see you as a—"

"Hooker with a heart of gold?"

"A guy who wants more," I say. "Who wants something deeper. More honest."

"But I'm not that guy?" he asks.

"I don't know." I try to keep my statement as true as possible. "We don't know each other well. I imagine, you are that guy. A part of you is. A part of you wants more. That's true for all of us."

"But that's not specific to me," he says.

Right. I'm not speaking in generalities. I'm getting to know him. So I can better play his girlfriend. Not to play his therapist. "It seemed easy for you, to access that part of yourself—the one that wants more, wants to connect, wants to look for love—then to put it away. Like you had practice. Maybe I'm assuming that, because I know your job. Maybe it's me. I have my own baggage coloring my view of men."

"Should we talk about that?" he asks.

Eventually, probably. I'm sure it will come up if we really are playing intimacy games as part of a pre-wedding celebration of love. But I can't. Not right now. "Another time."

He nods, with understanding. "I am practiced. You're right."

"And that does make you seem…"

"Like a fuckboy?" he offers.

"Something more sophisticated, but, yes, like a guy who tells a woman what she wants to hear to get into her pants." It's not untrue, exactly. It's just the elements are in a different order.

"That's how Daniel sees me," he says. "Mom, too."

"I'm not sure," I say. "She seems protective of you. She doesn't like that I'm divorced."

He makes a hmm noise. "Did she ask about it?"

"A little," I say. "I didn't know what to tell her. What she'd see as an acceptable reason my marriage ended."

"Why did it end?"

There’s no way I’m sharing that with him. I don’t even talk about it with Meredith. I swallow hard and motion to the book. "Should we read a scene?"

His eyes stay on mine for a moment. He holds that gaze, giving me the opportunity to admit to something true, to at least admit I don't want to talk about it.

When I don't, he looks to the page and shifts into character.

He reads, "but, soft, what light through yonder window breaks. It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."