15. Greer
Greer
I see Rav the third Tuesday of every month. Unless I have an emergency surgery, or my dad needs something, I’m punctual and I don’t reschedule.
I thought about rescheduling this session—mostly because I can still feel Beckett’s hands and eyes—his tongue—on me.
We haven’t spoken since, other than a simple thank-you text I sent, that he followed up with a simple anytime .
Just a simple word, but I can imagine the way he’d say it—the lazy grin he’d toss my way, the shadow of the dimple.
It’s not a simple thing, whatever happened between us, and I think that scares me.
I’ve been sitting silently on Rav’s couch for ten minutes. I’m not trying to lie this time—he says most of the lies I tell are things I don’t even realize, because it’s not as if I set out to keep things from him. When I do feel like speaking, he says I’m honest to a fault. But there are these other things, and I think they must exist outside the confines of my lines—my cage—and that’s usually where the lies start.
He usually waits for me to start, but today, he speaks first. “Congratulations on the honour. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend.”
I offer a tight smile. “You didn’t miss much.”
Amusement flashes behind his eyes when he taps his pen three times against his clipboard. “No? Nothing?”
I narrow my eyes. Rav stares back at me like he knows something I don’t, or like he’s waiting for me to spill some big proverbial secret about the night. I roll my shoulders back and tip my chin up, even though my skin heats and my heart stumbles the way it’s started to whenever I think about the closet.
Beckett on his knees.
But there’s no way he knows I let Beckett Davis go down on me in a hallway closet. He’s a psychiatrist, he’s not clairvoyant.
“Nothing noteworthy.” I shrug.
His hand stills, and he pockets the pen, leans forward, and looks at me with this air of maddening patience.
I can tell he’s going to wait today—that I won’t win—so I roll my eyes and say, “I’m sure word has reached your ears that Beckett accompanied me.”
Triumph flashes in his eyes. He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?”
“A girl can have friends.” I tip my chin up, hoping he can’t see the blush rising on my cheeks, or somehow detect the way my stomach tightens.
“There would be nothing wrong if you told me you were interested in someone. It doesn’t mean you aren’t putting yourself first. It wouldn’t make you a failure,” Rav says slowly, like he’s explaining something to an infant.
“I’m not interested in him,” I answer firmly, resolutely, but the way my heart dips and my thighs clench at the thought of Beckett probably say something else.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And I doubt you would tell me even if you were. But maybe you can tell me how the gala went? How did you feel about the award?”
I push back against the worn leather of the couch, setting my shoulders in a haughty line. “You know as well as I do, it’s a made-up award.”
“You might be right about that. But you still received the award for your work.” He smiles encouragingly, but I say nothing, and in an uncharacteristic display, he drops back against the couch, raising his hands. “It seems like you’re feeling particularly difficult today, Dr. Roberts, and we both know the more I push, the more you push back. So, why don’t you just tell me about your evening?”
He’s right—I am being particularly difficult, and I’m not entirely sure why.
I pucker my lips and give a tiny shake of my head. “It was fine. Until someone dropped a tray of champagne when I was accepting the award, and it sounded so much like a car window shattering, I sprinted off the stage and had a panic attack in a closet.”
He cocks his head. “Did you take your meds?”
“I didn’t bring them. I didn’t think—it was stupid. I should have had them.” I look away, like he’s a parent and I’ve disappointed him.
“And what did you do without them?”
“Beckett—we breathed together. He told me about everything that was real in the room. Umbrellas. Coats. Boxes. Him. That there was no water.” I can feel his hands—wide and splayed across my calves, thumbs rubbing these small, soothing circles. And I can see him, on his knees in front of me—chocolate hair mussed, green eyes staring up at me in the dim light, and the stretch of his shoulders under his suit. Unwavering.
I don’t particularly like the way it makes me feel—like maybe I could waver, that there’s a version of me who would drop to her knees, too, and cut out whatever piece of her he asked for, so I blink up at Rav, smiling blandly before continuing. “And then he went down on me and gave me an orgasm so I could relax.”
Rav doesn’t blink. He just nods. “Quick thinking. That’s certainly one way to produce dopamine and serotonin. Surefire relaxation.”
“Maybe you can change your prescribing habits.”
He doesn’t bite.
“And did you tell him about the car accident? All of it?”
I arch an eyebrow. Rav stares back at me, like it was a legitimate question. It’s not. It’s not the type of thing I tell people. “Did I tell him our father was so inebriated when he got behind the wheel with his two teenage daughters that he drove us off a bridge and the car flipped over and over and over until it landed upside down in the water? That it shattered my ribs and fractured my sister’s skull and practically destroyed her pancreas? No. I didn’t tell him that.”
He opens his palm. “And why not?”
“It’s not exactly friendly dinner conversation.”
“You weren’t having dinner,” Rav states, matter-of-fact.
I tip my head. “Oh? And what was I supposed to say? Yes, right there—keep doing that with your tongue. By the way, did you know my father almost killed me?”
“I can see this is a useless avenue for us to pursue today.” He raises his hands again, and I feel triumphant until he continues. “Have you thought about what you want to do after your fellowship?”
“I imagine I’ll keep stealing organs.” I want my words to come out dry, irreverent even, but my voice cracks horribly. The edges of my vision blur, and I slap at my cheeks, trying to stop the tears before they escape out into the world.
I think Rav shakes his head softly, that the blurred version of him might lean forward, rest his elbows on his knees, and sound impossibly sad when he speaks. “Greer...”
“What?” I sniff.
“After all this time—all this work we’ve done—is that really what you think? That it’s stealing?”
“Sometimes.” I put my hands under my legs so I don’t tear up the seams of his leather couch. “But other times, I think it’s wonderful and lovely and the best thing I could ever do with my life.”
His eyes cut to the clock, propped up on a stack of psychiatry texts on the table, angled towards him. “I know we don’t do homework. But between now and our next session, I want you to think about both of those things—the sometimes and the other times—and we can spend ten minutes on each at the start of our time together.”
I say nothing, and he continues. “You might feel like someone stole from you, you might feel this innate need to protect what’s left, but sometimes the best thing we can do is open ourselves up. All those spaces that you think are empty could be full again.”
I smile, like I’m thinking about it. But I don’t have the heart to tell him that even though there’s nothing empty inside me, because your liver is actually this beautiful organ that can heal and regrow, I’m not sure when it was going about the business of healing itself, it ever bothered to heal me, too.