Chapter 18 - Scarlett
SCARLETT
I have dealt with patients who were attracted to me before.
I’ve dealt with patients who claimed they were in love with me before.
I was trained to deal with that kind of situation.
All therapists are trained to handle these situations in a professional and caring manner, in a professional, emotionally safe environment.
I have been mildly attracted to patients before. I care about all of my patients. Therapy is an intimate process. It’s impossible to refrain from getting emotionally attached to clients to some degree. It happens and you deal with it.
But nobody and nothing has prepared me for Dylan fucking Brodie.
As a therapist or as a woman.
I’ve never had so many feelings about a patient before. I’ve never been so attracted to a patient before. I’ve never felt so connected to a patient after such a short period of time before. And I’ve never been mad at a patient before a session.
I can’t believe he hung up on me.
I understand it and I get why he did it. But I don’t like it.
And I really don’t like that I’ve had three intense fantasy angry-sex self-induced orgasms since he ended that call on Monday.
I’ve had to work overtime to identify and manage my personal responses to him so I won’t have any emotional reactions to him during our sessions.
I even limited myself to one cup of coffee today in the hopes that I’d be more relaxed by the time four o’clock rolled around.
I have never hated being awake so much in my life, and I wanted to throw things at all of my patients because they’re a bunch of big whiny babies who should just shut up and go home.
But it will all have been worth it, as long as I don’t yell at Dylan or try to lick his face.
I’ve decided this will be the session that determines whether or not I can continue to treat him.
The truth is it would be selfish of me to continue on as his therapist, no matter what.
It’s so much more than imposter syndrome—my usual anxiety about making my patients worse.
I don’t think it’s possible for me to be detached enough to help him find and create a healthy relationship with an appropriate, emotionally available woman.
The truth is I don’t want him to find or create a healthy relationship with an appropriate, emotionally available woman.
Because he found me.
I want him to want me.
Because I want him.
And it’s so inappropriate.
And I can’t allow myself to have him.
And I might never be able to forgive myself for putting us in this situation.
Because it’s unethical for me to be with him in the way that my body wants to be with him even after I stop treating him.
We’ve only had a couple of sessions, but we established a therapist-patient dynamic in that first session.
There are rules, and I am not a rulebreaker.
What I would tweet if I tweeted:
CALIFORNIA LAWMAKERS, LICENSING BOARDS, AND THERAPISTS’ ASSOCIATIONS: There must be no sexual contact of any kind between therapists and patients, even within two years of terminating therapy.
ME: But it’s Dylan Brodie!!! It’s FATE!!!
It’s a good thing I don’t tweet.
My three o’clock clients have left. Dylan’s waiting outside my office.
And I’m going to make him wait until exactly four p.m. Until then, I’m going to take three long, deep, calming breaths.
I’m going to breathe in Unbiased, Self-Possessed Licensed Therapist Energy, and I will breathe out Horny Single Mom Who Hasn’t Had Sex in Eight Months Hormones.
I’m going to force myself to forget about Friday night at the bar and Monday night on the phone.
I will not think about the emails or the first two sessions or the elevator fantasy or the first time I met him three years ago.
I will think about my son and my mortgage and my master’s degree and my student loans and the two years of supervised clinical experience I had to complete in order to become licensed in the state of California.
And then I’m going to let Dylan Brodie into my office and I will hand him a pamphlet entitled “Professional Therapy Never Includes Sex” so he knows I mean business.
Professional, ethical, therapeutic business.
I take a fourth long, deep, calming breath because those other three were totally useless, and then I go to the door to let my next patient in.
He’s wearing a gray Henley shirt that accentuates his pecs, a beanie that accentuates his eyes and dark stubble, and black jeans that fit him so beautifully I want to straddle him.
“Come on in, Dylan.”
He gets up slowly and doesn’t say anything verbally, but as he walks past me, his cologne mutters, This is what your clothes would smell like if you allowed yourself to spend the next hour making out with me on that sofa instead of trying to convince me that you can’t date me.
Fuck you, Garcon. Easy for you to say.
“No kitty cat today?” I close the door and hold my breath as I stroll on over to my chair.
He doesn’t smile or even look at me when he sits down on the sofa and says, “Nope.”
My trained, professional assessment of his facial expression, tone, and body posture is that he’s a big fat Grumpy Gus right now. And hot. But definitely grumpy. Which is hot.
Which pisses me off.
Because it turns me on.
But I can turn this around.
“Are you still pretending to be that other actor when you see Iris?”
“I’m pretty sure she realized I wasn’t Aiden Turner after that first time. But now she’s pretending she still thinks I’m him so I don’t feel weird about it.”
“Ah. So you’re both playing your parts in order to make the other feel better, then.”
“Like in any relationship, right?” He pauses before continuing. “Although, I’m not sure that the part you’re playing in our relationship is making either of us feel better.”
I pull out the pamphlet that I’ve been keeping in my notebook all day, stand up, and hand it to him. “This is for you.” I sit back down and watch him very closely as he reads the words on the cover page.
“This is a joke, right?”
“No. It’s my responsibility, as a therapist, to ensure that you feel emotionally safe and that you understand there are resources available to you as a patient. Resources to help you understand the legal and ethical boundaries that must exist between a therapist and patient.”
He holds the pamphlet in both hands, staring at it, but I can tell he isn’t reading it and that he has no plans to read the information inside it.
He stares at it and stares at it. I count to twenty in my head, waiting for him to say something.
Finally, while still staring at the pamphlet, he says, “I’m aware of my rights and yours.
I understand the boundaries that must exist. I apologize if I’ve overstepped them.
I don’t think you have at all, and I would never accuse you of that or threaten you with legal action. ”
Shit.
“Dylan, that’s not why I… You do not have to apologize for anything, and I did not mean to make you feel—”
“I know you don’t mean to make me feel anything, Dr. Shepard.
I think I understand the position you’re in.
I understand how difficult this must be for you.
” He carefully places the pamphlet on the coffee table between us.
He stares at my neck. He’s staring at the gold necklace around my neck.
I can’t stop myself from touching my necklace, stroking the delicate chain that clings to my skin.
He stares at my fingers, takes a deep breath before saying, “I know how I feel.” He finally looks me in the eyes.
“I know what I want. I’m not playing games.
I’m not interested in dragging this out.
You’re obviously struggling with it. I’m not going to speak for you, so I will say that I am not happy about this situation we’re in.
But I also know that I might just be in a bad mood today.
And I don’t want to make an important decision when I’m in a bad mood. So I think I should go home.”
He stands up.
Holy shit.
Dylan Brodie is the most rational person who has ever walked into this room, including me.
“I think you’re an excellent therapist, but I would appreciate it if you would make a decision as to whether or not we should move forward with these sessions.” He goes to the door, places his hand on the door handle. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
He nods, opens the door. He isn’t grinning or frowning. “Okay. Have a good night. I hope to see you again…Dr. Scarlett Shepard.” And then he’s gone.
Well, shit.
That man is just full of surprises.
Maybe if I’d had my usual five cups of coffee today, I’d take off my pants, run after him, and tell him what a great guy he is while attempting to swallow his head with my vulva.
Instead, I sit here in my chair, staring at the empty sofa in front of me.
I already know what I’ll say in the email I’m going to send him tomorrow.
I think I know what he’ll say in response, but maybe I don’t.
Maybe I don’t know what I’ll say in my reply to his response either.
Maybe I’m full of surprises too.