Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Blue
The elevator doors close, and the second they do, the breath I've been holding collapses out of me like I've been strangled. My knees wobble. My spine trembles. The whole carefully composed facade I held together in front of Red evaporates in an instant.
He said he needed time to think.
It's the most dangerous phrase in the world. People don't think their way back to you. They think their way out.
By the time I reach the lobby, my fingers are shaking. The security guard gives me a polite nod. I pretend to walk toward the exit like a normal person, but I know there's nothing normal about me. I'm one decision away from losing my cool.
He can't abandon me.
What if I never see him again?
I can't let that happen.
I push through the glass doors and step outside into the light. The sun throws long shadows across the sidewalk. The cold air slaps my cheeks and wakes up every terrified nerve under my skin.
I walk around the corner of the building and tuck myself into a shadow. It's quiet and hidden. Perfect for no one noticing me.
My heartbeat thuds inside my throat. I shouldn't be doing this. Normal patients don't wait outside their therapist's office to see what he does after a session.
But then again, nothing about us is normal.
And I'm not losing him.
I keep replaying the moment I left.
Text me tonight with an appointment time, or text me goodbye.
I shouldn't have said it. It was impulsive and not what I planned. It was me ripping open every wound I've ever had and dumping them into his hands.
He listened to me. Really listened. But I don't know if I shook him enough to make him not cut me off.
He tried to be professional, yet all it did was put fire in my veins. Everything turned clear. He's scared, but not of me. He wants to keep me. It was written all over his face, and I don't know if I convinced him I was worth the risk.
My breath hitches. I'm scared too, so fear drives me to lurk in the shadows and wait.
A couple of hours drag by like decades. People leave the building in unpredictable waves. Since it's Sunday, there isn't much activity, which only makes it more boring.
Each door creak shoots cold straight through my belly. Twice, I think about walking back inside to see if his light is still on, and he's still in his office, but I stay put. There's no way I missed him.
Why aren't you leaving, Red?
He said he needed to think.
Does he think in his office?
Is he inside, thinking about what he's allowed to do versus what he wants to do? Or is he convincing himself to ditch me?
My pulse quickens, imagining both situations. The longer I wait, the more desperation hits me.
I need to know if he's keeping me.
Finally, the door opens, and he appears.
Red steps outside looking exhausted in that beautiful, tense way he carries everything.
His shoulders are slightly bowed, like he's been holding up the entire world and someone just gave him permission to set it down for a minute.
He rubs a hand over his jaw, and I almost melt behind the pillar.
God, he looks tired.
He's so hot.
He crosses the street toward the parking lot. For a second, he pauses, glancing around like some part of him feels me watching.
I hold my breath so tightly, I get dizzy.
Don't get into a car.
Please.
Red passes the lot, and the decision almost knocks the wind out of me. I stay tucked behind the corner of the brick wall as he steps onto the sidewalk, slipping his hands into his pockets.
The city shifts into late afternoon. The sky bruises purple, and people move in clusters or alone.
Red moves through it like someone who doesn't want to be noticed.
His pace is steady but not rushed, shoulders tight, gaze fixed forward as if he's trying to outrun the weight of everything we said today.
I wait ten seconds before trailing after him, keeping enough distance that he'd never catch my reflection in a window or feel the shape of someone behind him.
The city noise helps. Cars rattle, people chatter, dogs bark, and music leaks out of open bar doors.
Red doesn't look back once. He doesn't even check his phone.
He walks, jaw set, as though his thoughts are so loud, he doesn't have room for anything else.
I match his pace block for block, breathing when he inhales, stopping when he pauses at lights, hiding my face whenever he turns a corner.
People bump into me, but I don't flinch.
My focus stays glued to him and his frame, his stride, and that small, heavy slouch in his shoulders that tells me today hit him harder than he'll ever admit.
He turns down a quieter street, the kind with wide sidewalks. He still doesn't look behind him, trusting the world too much.
It makes me ache. A man like him shouldn't walk alone with a mind that heavy. And I know I caused it.
When he finally reaches his building, he steps inside without looking back.
I wait a moment, then step into the lobby and go to the mailboxes. I read the names on the boxes until I see his.
423
I say it over and over until it's lodged in my brain, never to be forgotten.
My chest swells. I debate about going to his floor but decide to play it safe. I can't give him a reason to tell me goodbye. But if he does, then I'll make my move and plead my case until he understands.
I don't want him.
I need him.
All the things I've told myself since I left his office, I reiterate.
He won't choose goodbye. He can't.
He told me today I wasn't unfixable.
It's not that I don't want you, his voice says in my head.
I smile, the warm feeling bursting throughout me.
He does want me.
Choosing the safer option, I touch his mailbox, tracing the numbers and whispering, "I know where to find you, lover."
Then I stroll home, lighter than I've felt in years. By the time I step inside my apartment, my heart is still racing from the thrill of following Red through the city and knowing his condo number.
Within minutes, my apartment feels smaller than normal. It's too quiet. I drop my bag and pace from the kitchen to the couch, replaying today's session in pieces. All I keep hearing is his voice. It's not that I don't want you.
I stop in the middle of the living room, pressing my fingertips to my lips as if I can seal that sentence inside me forever.
He didn't even try to take it back or pretend it wasn't true.
It was raw and shaken. And it wasn't a therapist trying to manage a patient.
It was a man confessing something he isn't supposed to want.
He wants me.
I put my phone on the coffee table, staring at the blank screen, as if watching it hard enough will make it vibrate. I check that my sound is on, then let my mind wander.
Is he home now, pacing the way he was at his office window?
Is he thinking about me tearing up but refusing to break? Does he hear me saying, "I trust you more than anyone now."
My gut drops.
Is he thinking about the invisible line he keeps pretending matters more than the fact that he's the only thing between me and the cliff I used to live on?
Did I make the right choice and say the right things?
I tried to be honest and stay calm when the entire time, I wanted to get up, straddle him, and make him kiss me.
The longer the phone stays silent, the more the steady version of me begins to crack.
What if he's writing a "goodbye" message now?
What if he's sitting at his desk, filling out a referral form with my name on it?
A sour, burning panic climbs up my stomach, hot enough that I have to sit down. I hug a pillow to my chest and rock slightly in place, willing the phone to ding.
I review our text messages from last night.
Focus on five things, he wrote.
I get to four, but every time, the fifth turns into his face.
I pick up my phone again. I scroll slower, feeling every emotion he put into each line from last night.
There's anger, restraint, fear, and then his surrender. The memory of his groan caught in his throat settles in my stomach, and I can barely keep myself from texting or calling him.
Don't, I warn myself.
I pinch the phone between my palms, pressing it against my forehead to stop the ache building behind my eyes.
This is the problem with being understood.
Once you've tasted it, you can't survive without it.
Red isn't just a therapist anymore. He's air.
And people don't give up air. Not without fighting.
I go to my camera roll and open the photo of him I took at the restaurant. It's the one where his eyes locked onto me like he needed me more than he needed to breathe. I zoom in. His blown pupils, parted lips, and whole body taut were because of me. I know it.
A tremor moves through me, electric and certain. I tell myself that he's not a man capable of walking away. He's the type who stands on a fault line, hoping it'll break. He may not admit it, but I saw it. I felt it. I captured it. He pushes the boundaries, and he'll blow it up for me.
Will he?
I set the phone down and take a slow breath, thinking through everything like I'm building a blueprint.
If he doesn't kick me to the curb, I have to be better. I can't be needy, sexual, or manipulative. Red thinks he's looking for ethics, for distance, and stability. So I'll have to give it to him.
The more I think about it, the more determined I am to become the version of myself he believes he can safely treat.
Once he relaxes, he'll let his guard down.
By then, he'll realize that keeping me is the only decision that doesn't tear my progress apart.
Then I'll let him see the rest of me again.
The part that wants him. The part he wants back.
I pick up my phone and stare at the message. I type his name, then stop.
What am I doing?
I have to be better than this.
I erase it. I can't message him yet. Not until I'm sure I know what he wants to hear.