Chapter 8 #2
She keeps going, her tone still soft, but her honesty sharp enough to draw blood.
"You don't talk to me like I'm a case file.
You don't get impatient when I spiral, or punish me when I push, or lazy when I pretend I'm fine.
You don't let me hide. You make me say the things I've never said out loud.
Isn't that worth more than some stupid invisible line? "
Her gaze flickers away for a moment, like she's gathering courage. She softly adds, "You make me better, Dr. Mercer."
The words hit me in the sternum. "Blue..." I stop, not sure what to say.
She lifts her eyes back to mine. "You think you're failing me. But you're the only person who hasn't."
My breath stutters. Hearing her say she's never trusted anyone, and knowing how much she resists help as much as she begs for it, undoes something inside me I'd been barely holding together.
Her voice drops. It's not seductive or pleading. There's a brutal honesty I didn't know existed within her. "I don't trust people. I don't let people close. Not friends. Not coworkers. Not men who pretend to care. I don't even trust hotline workers when I'm scared. But I trust you."
I swallow. Hard.
Is she manipulating me again?
I assess her, realizing there's no game, angle, or sexual undertone in her voice. It's pure vulnerability, unvarnished and unarmored. And it terrifies me more than last night ever could.
I try again, gentler this time. "Blue, trusting me doesn't mean I'm the right therapist for you anymore."
She counters again, "Doesn't it? You're the only person I've ever told the truth to. The real truth. Even the ugly parts."
She straightens slightly, and for the first time, I see something new. It's fear. She chokes up and shakes her head. "If you abandon me after I've told you my most intimate secrets, then how am I supposed to ever trust anyone again? How can I look myself in the mirror?"
My chest tightens. "I'm not abandoning you. I'm trying to make sure you get appropriate care."
Her eyes sharpen to pain. "You think sending me to a stranger will magically fix the damage you think you caused? You think another therapist will understand the patterns you took two sessions to figure out? You think I'll tell them any of the things I only told you?"
I open my mouth, but she isn't done.
"You think replacing you keeps me safe. It won't. It'll make me worse. And deep down, you know that your ethical invisible line is bullshit and if you don't keep treating me, I'll never get the help I need. And then what?" she asks, the last part hanging in the air between us.
Each word is steady. Rational. More grounded than she's ever sounded.
I came prepared for a tantrum full of her crisis performance. Instead, she's giving me her self-awareness.
I'm not prepared for this.
I declare, "Blue, you were manipulative last night. You intentionally escalated things."
She agrees instantly, "I did. Because I thought you were already pulling away. Every time someone pulls away, I break. I panic. I do drastic things. I know that about myself."
Her frankness steals my breath.
"I'm not proud of what I did. But you think it means you can't help me. I think it means I can be honest with you in ways I can't be with anyone else. That's the difference between a therapist I can work with and one I can't." Her eyes glisten, not with tears but with clarity.
Silence stretches between us, thick as fog.
Then she hits me with another bullet. She declares, "I don't need you to want me. I don't need you to blur lines or get close or do anything inappropriate if you don't want to. I'm tired of men not wanting me."
"It's not that I don't want you," I blurt out.
Fuck. Why did I say that?
She swallows hard. Instead of replying to my inappropriate comments, she holds my gaze with haunting steadiness. "The only thing I need is for you to not to give up on me. The rest is just semantics and excuses."
My voice leaves me on an exhale. "Blue—"
"I'm willing to change. I'm willing to admit what I did was wrong. We can rebuild trust and boundaries. But I can't do that with someone new. It's you or no one, Dr. Mercer. I refuse to see anyone else."
The room feels too small and emotionally charged. It's dangerous in a new way.
She finally leans back in her seat, hands folded neatly in her lap, and says, "I'm not asking you to break rules to keep me. I'm asking you not to punish both of us because you're scared of last night."
The words gut me. She's right. I am scared, but not of her. I'm afraid of myself, what she does to me, and who she makes me want to be. And that person is a man who needs to desecrate every virginous cell in her body and then again in a hundred different ways.
She pins her hurt gaze on me. "You didn't hurt me last night, Red. But leaving? That would destroy me."
Her statement hangs in the air, pulsing quietly, steadily, and unmistakably alive.
Leaving would hurt her.
It shouldn't hit as hard as it does. I'm the clinician and supposed to be objective. My role is to weigh her statements against her history, her patterns, her attachment wounds. Using that information, I should protect her from dependency. I shouldn't allow her to be dependent on me.
Something about the way she said it rings true. It slices clean through every defense I tried to build this morning. I inhale slowly, keeping my voice even. "You're asking me to ignore what happened last night."
She shakes her head gently. "I'm asking you not to erase everything else because of one night."
"We crossed a line," I remind her.
"An invisible one that stopped me from harming myself," she claims.
"It was wrong," I state.
"Would cutting myself have made it right?" she questions.
I sigh. "No."
"Am I unfixable?" she asks.
My heart stutters. "Absolutely not."
"Okay. Then I had a bad episode, you helped me address it, and you're not allowed to abandon me," she declares.
My jaw tightens. I fight my internal demons.
She leans forward slightly, not enough to invade my space, just enough to make sure I hear her.
She pins her blues on me, murmuring, "You think being my therapist means being perfect.
But that's not what I need. I'm not perfect.
I'll never respond to someone who is, so I need you to show up and be imperfect at times, even when it's hard.
Especially when it's hard." She drills her gaze into mine.
A burn spreads across my chest. It lands too deep. I can't form a sentence to analyze whether she's right or wrong.
She rises. "I'm trusting you, but I can't make you do anything. You're a man with his own choices. But please don't make the mistake of thinking replacing yourself is the same as helping me."
I sit there, frozen between guilt and responsibility, ethics and emotional truth, what I should do and what might actually help her. I run a hand along my jaw. "I need time to think."
She nods immediately, as if she expected this. A haunted expression appears on her face. "I know. Text me tonight with an appointment time, or text me goodbye. I promise I won't bother you ever again if you toss me aside."
Before I can respond, she leaves, her scent trailing behind her, and a blue and red strand of her hair on the chair.