Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
When Walker and Vivian graciously invited me to Texas for their wedding last week, I thought I could make it into a little vacation, but somehow, a colleague in Houston heard I was going to be in Texas and asked me to stop by to interview a challenging suspect they couldn’t get a good read on.
I barely had time to enjoy the delicious triple layer vanilla bean with raspberry compote filling and the best vanilla buttercream frosting I have had in my entire life.
I’ve had dreams about the cake since that night, and I’m not ashamed to admit I tried to find the recipe, only to discover it was Walker’s sister-in-law’s recipe.
She freaking made the best cake I’ve ever had in her kitchen!
But before I could have a second—or third—piece, Kelly dragged me onto the dance floor, knowing I had to leave early, but insisting it was our duty as wedding guests to help celebrate.
It was a picturesque September evening, cooling down to the perfect temperature after the mid-day heat.
I was able to have a brief catch up with Vivian’s brother, Liam, who I haven’t seen in person in ages, and honestly could have spent all night there.
I heard I missed quite the fun party, but the two-hour drive to Houston was looming, and I begrudgingly snuck away.
I wish I could have said no to the request, but that’s just not how I’m wired.
Although for the first time in a long time, I had something that I was both invited to and missing out on. I still got to enjoy it, even if it wasn’t for as long as I would have preferred, and that feels like … growth.
“You’re going to the Annual Forensic Psychology Symposium in San Diego in January, right?
” Aisha snaps me out of my thoughts as I snuggle into my couch.
She’s working from home tonight in Boston, but FaceTime allows us to have our regular coffee chats as though we’re in the same room.
Her long thick black hair is piled up in a messy bun on the top of her head, and her tan skin glows after her nightly skincare routine.
Her complexion allows her to look beautiful even without a stitch of makeup, something she attributes to her mother’s genetics.
My mother has made it clear, more than once, that without makeup I always look tired and much older than I actually am. But Aisha—and likely her mother Fatima, who is a lovely woman in her own right—would never say anything like that.
Having a friend that not only works almost as much as you do but also understands your academic and professional passions is so refreshing. We’ve been friends for eight years, and I consider our friendship precious.
Especially when she understands why I’m home on a Friday night by choice.
Most Friday nights are much more exciting for an average twenty-eight-year-old, but average has never been my life.
Even when I, at times, crave it more than I can even articulate.
I have a stack of notes to go through for updated CPM scores for this week, an inbox filled with requests for guest speaking at various colleges and professional associations, and while I know I have to get through all of those before I can call it a night, I really just want to get back to the book I’m in the middle of on my Kindle.
“Did they release the full schedule for that? The chair for this year’s event asked me to speak on a panel a few months ago, but I hadn’t heard what the scope of topics were supposed to be,” I reply as I lift my tumbler of iced chai and take a sip.
As I set the tumbler down on the coffee table, I still for a moment as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I look around, but nothing looks out of place—although I did forget to close my blinds.
I reach over and press the remote, the soft mechanical hum filling my condo.
Aisha pulls my attention back to the screen. “I just saw an email this morning, and I guess they were being optimistic because you’re already listed on the panel, but it’s with a disclaimer that you are scheduled to appear. I noticed it because you and I are speaking on the same panel.”
“We are? What did they title it? I can’t find the email, but honestly, my inbox is insane right now.
I need to take Christine up on her offer to organize it for me.
” I need organization and order in my life, but my email inbox doesn’t make me fidget like a messy kitchen or basket of unfolded clothes.
Or the low water level in the vase holding fresh white hydrangeas.
I jump off the couch to water them, otherwise, it will not only bother me, but it will continue to distract me.
Aisha likes to tease me that I’m allergic to colorful flowers, but I love the classic beauty of white ones—especially hydrangeas.
“Leading Thought Leaders in a Modern World … so, basically, it covers whoever they stick on the panel.” Aisha laughs as I sit back on my couch, finally finding the email in question.
I recognize a few other names on the panel, including two other individuals that helped me define the criteria for the CPM we use every day with the task force: Dr. Graham Tremblay and Dr. Quentin Truett.
“Oh, look, they got both Graham and Quentin to agree. Quentin is a genius, but I didn’t think he would be interested to do panels like this anymore. ”
“He’s a grumpy old man, but his work is fascinating.
” We talk a bit more about the other scheduled speakers and make plans to coordinate our hotel reservations.
Our discussion is mainly focused on our professional lives because neither of us excel in the dating world—or that's what our dating histories would suggest.
“By the way, love the pink lip color you’re rocking today. I feel like you dressed up just for me!” Aisha teases. She’s much more into fashion and makeup than I will ever be, but I do put a little effort into my appearance.
Granted, never enough for Astor Morgan-Lane, but that sounds exhausting.
“Thanks! I actually started wearing this color more when I found it on my birthday shopping trip with the gift card you sent me. This color is called Bashful Blush, but I love that it’s a lip stain, so I can put it on and hours later it still looks good.
” I pucker my lips and strike a pose, making my friend laugh.
“That’s a great name, and I love a good lip stain. Will you send me a link for it?”
I nod. “Of course, and they had a ton of colors, too.”
“Perfect. Uh … just one more thing and I’ll let you get to that stack of work I’m sure is looming over your evening...” Aisha looks down before glancing back up, giving me a small smile.
“What’s up?”
“Do you remember that colleague of mine from four or five years ago that kept the whiteboard tally count of wins in his office?” She bites her lip and waits for my response.
I nod, clearly remembering the bane of her existence for the year that Dr. Edmund Allen was working at Massachusetts General Hospital on an international fellowship from London. She would complain about him almost every time we talked.
“Well, we … we kept in touch, professionally speaking, but in the last six months, the emails have evolved.”
“Six months? I didn’t even know you were still in contact with him. Why am I just hearing about this now?” I try not to sound shocked, but it’s uncharacteristic of my friend to keep something like this from me.
“It wasn’t a big deal at first … and I think telling you would have made it feel more substantial than it was initially.”
“And now?”
“Now, I think it’s a big deal.” Aisha goes on to tell me how Eddie—not Dr. Edmund Allen, which he previously has always been referred to as—asked if he could fly her to London for a proper date, and my practical, even-keeled, logical friend said yes.
“So, you’re flying to London to go on a date with a man that you previously had considered an archnemesis?” I tilt my head, trying to follow the logic here.
“I have discovered that the old saying, ‘there is a thin line between love and hate’ is, in fact, quite true.”
I can’t even try to hide the shocked gasp that escapes me. “Aisha, are you in love with the whiteboard tally guy?”
She shrugs, but her face lights up, and she is radiant. “I might be. I think we will know more when I go see him next week.”
“Next week?!” I squeak. “When were you going to tell me?”
She giggles. “Well, he just asked me yesterday.”
“Oh my goodness. You’re going to come back married!”
At least I get to live vicariously through my friend.
Aisha laughs and waves me off. “No, no, I don’t … well, I guess, I don’t think that will happen.” She’s going to be forty in a few months, and I know the approaching milestone had her reevaluating things, but this is more than a little out of character for her.
This sounds like something out of my romance novels, and I’m not jealous of my friend, but the romantic at my core can’t help but wonder what that would be like—however unlikely it is for my own life.
“Can you help me catch up with what changed? I thought you hated this man, and now you’re flying across the Atlantic to go on a—and I quote—proper date?” I raise an eyebrow at my friend.
“I don’t know when it changed exactly. It just …
do you remember when you were a child on the playground and a boy might pull your pigtails and run away?
” I nod, but I actually have no personal reference for something like that.
My mother thought pigtails were unbecoming, and I rarely was given the time to play just for fun as a child.
“I think it’s the same concept. To him, it was a flirtatious game that I took too seriously, and now… ” She shrugs.
“And now you’re flying across the Atlantic to go on a date with him,” I reiterate.
“Yeah … and Harlow? I’m really excited about it too, like I really think this might be something.” My friend is giddy and it’s impossible not to share her enthusiasm.
“Well, then I will wish only the best on your adventure, and it has to beat trying to find a decent date on the apps.” We both blow a raspberry and make a thumbs down gesture in unison; our feelings on dating apps are well-established.
After a few more minutes of visiting about her upcoming trip, I glance at the clock and realize my evening is slipping away from me, so I begrudgingly say goodbye to my dearest friend—who apparently may be in love with the man that was once her archnemesis.
I suppose fate has a funny way of showing up when you least expect it, or at least, that’s what someone would think if they believed in fate and that sort of thing.
Going to college so young, then straight to medical school, and eventually FBI training left very little room for typical experiences.
During my forensic psychiatry fellowship at Yale, I decided to write some of my own story.
There was minimal—but present—chemistry with another fellow in the program.
Chris and I went on a few dates. Eventually, we slept together.
It was … fine. I wanted to be able to say I chose when and where I had sex for the first time.
Chris was a handsome, intelligent, and nice guy, but neither of us pretended it was that serious.
We were both so focused on our careers and didn’t have the capacity for anything else.
We parted as friends, something I suspect was all we ever were, and last I heard, he was married with kids in upstate New York.
Good for him. I hope he found an all-consuming love that flipped his world in the best way.
More than once, I’ve wished I could believe in those sorts of things for my own life, but my reality is much more pragmatic.
Maybe that’s why I’m such an avid reader of romance books, it gives me a small escape of believing in the possibility of meeting one’s true love, finding your place in this world, and believing in happily ever after.
The notion sounds nice, but as my work stares back at me from the coffee table, I accept that’s just not in the cards for me.