Chapter 11 #2
Pushing the door aside, I behold his modestly furnished office with a puzzled expression.
This isn’t what I was expecting. Brandon’s home library has in-built floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an oak executive desk, and a leather chair that faces a set of French doors leading out into his lush, manicured backyard.
He makes good money as a psychiatrist, and he likes his creature comforts.
He has spared no expense making his home the lavish bachelor pad that it is.
But his work space? There are no windows, first of all.
His desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets are metal, and there’s no leather or wood to speak of—just an uninviting fabric love seat that looks two decades too old to be comfortable.
Next to the couch is a coffee table adorned with a fidget spinner, Rubik’s Cube, a box of tissues, and a bowl of miscellaneous candies.
But then I turn around.
Behind the door, in the back corner of the cramped space, is a bookshelf filled with children’s books, toys, and dozens upon dozens of little plastic figurines—no doubt used for play therapy with his younger patients.
Brandon might be a child and adolescent psychiatrist, but I know from stalking his website that he’s trained in various modes of psychotherapy, too, like cognitive behavioral therapy.
While evaluating, diagnosing, and managing a range of illnesses is his primary focus, Dr. Brandon Timothy Wright understands that medication may not be the answer for everyone, and he is pleased to offer a range of other treatment options .
. . according to the stiff, professional language of his website profile.
Intrigued, I walk over and pick up a doll with dark hair. She fits perfectly into the palm of my hand and, coincidentally, looks a lot like me. She’s gaping into a mirror, recoiling from the image as though she finds her reflection horrifying.
Brandon leans against the door frame as he sips on his coffee. “Not what you were expecting?”
I put the figurine back before he can read into why I’ve picked it up.
“Not really,” I admit as I walk over to his desk and sit down in his chair. It’s stiffer than a board, and I wiggle around in it, communicating my discomfort.
He chuckles. “This is a placeholder. Gladys and I are planning to build an office space outside of town in a few years.”
“Is Gladys your business partner?”
He nods. “Her office is across the hall. She should be here any m—” I hear a door open and some plastic bags rustling. Brandon glances over his shoulder. “Morning, Gladys.”
“Hello, honey,” comes a warm, musical voice, and I rise, anxious to make a good first impression.
Why? I don’t want to work here.
A petite, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length auburn hair pauses in the doorway to see what Brandon’s looking at.
My first impression of Gladys is that she is whimsy and grace personified.
She’s wearing a flowing bright teal poncho over a pair of crisp white slacks, brown leather boots, and an array of glittering gold jewelry on her wrists. Her earrings are feathers.
Her face lights up. “Oh! Please tell me you found us a new assistant. Hi, honey. I’m Gladys.”
Brandon takes the bags she thrusts at him, and he disappears into her office. Gladys strides purposefully toward me, and I respond in kind, rounding Brandon’s desk to take her outstretched hands. Holding my hands out to our sides, she gives me an approving once-over.
“Well, aren’t you a doll? Actually, you remind me of one of those diva dolls my girls used to play with. Big eyes, big lips, lots of makeup.” She pauses to make a cringe face. “I’m sorry. I meant that as a compliment, of course.”
My mouth pops open. “You have no idea how flattered I am.”
She snickers. “Listen, Brandon can be a stickler about some things, but not me. If you’re good to my patients, then I’ll be good to you.”
I laugh and glance at Brandon as he reappears in the doorway. “Actually—”
Brandon’s phone rings, cutting me off.
“Oh! I won’t keep you.” Gladys winks before scurrying out of the room. She taps Brandon’s hand as she passes him.
I smile as she closes her office door. “She’s nice.”
“A handful sometimes, but nice,” he says, walking toward his desk. He stares down at me as he picks up his phone. “Wright and West Psychiatry. Brandon speaking.”
What a way to answer a phone. All business. No party.
Feeling shy under his gaze, I swivel away from him, taking the opportunity to snoop around his work space.
Again, he’s all business and no party. There aren’t many personal knickknacks on his desk—just a few framed photographs and a mug of pens.
Some sticky notes. My stomach drops when I spot the photo of me, him, Jamie, and Teddy in the hospital.
The same one I have on my bedside table.
Emotional now, I scan over all the other photos.
I’m shocked to see one is from a trip that the Montgomerys, Smarts, and Wrights took to Disneyland together when I was a kid.
This picture is of “just the kids,” although Jamie, Brandon, and Dana were all adults by that point.
We’re all wearing Mickey Mouse ears and holding up pretzels.
I’m clinging to Brandon’s side, smiling wide enough that you can see the gap I used to have in my two front teeth.
Adam is next to me, clinging to me as I cling to Brandon.
I avert my gaze, hating the reminder of our age gap.
There’s a calendar hanging on the wall behind his computer, packed with appointments. But there are no appointments or other obligations occupying his weekends. Jealousy twists my gut.
I wish I had weekends to look forward to.
“Evie?”
I start. “Huh?”
Brandon’s perched on the edge of his desk, gazing down at me. Blushing, I look away. My body tenses when I hear him rise. The clock hanging above his door tells me I should have left about five minutes ago, but . . . here I am.
I jump when his hands find my shoulders, and he begins rubbing soothing, absentminded circles into the hard, tight muscles between my shoulder blades—acting as if his casual touch is completely commonplace.
“Why are you here, Spitfire?” he wonders as he massages my shoulders.
His hands are warm and confident as they manipulate my body.
My shoulders wobble under the firm pressure of his touch.
It’s time to face the music.
“I came to apologize,” I whisper, holding my breath as I wait for his response.
“Oh?” He sounds amused. “I’m listening.”
Except I’ve lost my train of thought. His hands have moved to my neck, so now we’re flesh to flesh as he kneads my muscles like dough.
I’m already thawing. I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and lean into his touch.
Is this what it would be like to work for him?
We’d drink our coffee together, and he’d let me sit at his desk while he gives me a shoulder massage?
The idea doesn’t seem so bad all of a sudden. It seems rather nice actually, considering my back is killing me, and I’d rather not move from this spot for the next week. I would be able to sit at a desk if I worked for him. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger . . . or a person ever again.
I’m ashamed of the relief I feel over the idea. I love my job. I do. I’m just . . . tired. So tired.
“I’m sorry for threatening to tell Jamie.
” I stiffen when his thumb catches on a knot beneath my shoulder blade.
He relaxes the pressure he’s exerting and slides his thumb over the bump slowly, attempting to release the tension.
It takes a couple of tries, but it eventually starts to feel better. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Threatening to tell Jamie?”
“About . . . you know.” My cheeks burn. “Us.”
“Ah.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” My face and ears feel like they’re on fire.
“I know.”
“Okay . . .” I say, frowning as I look up over my shoulder. He grins down at me, looking totally at ease—as if he knew all along I would never do such a thing. Admittedly, it irritates me. He’s so arrogant. “Well, I should go.” Brushing his hands off, I stand.
“I didn’t think there was an us,” he says quietly, and I pause. “To tell Jamie about, I mean.”
His words sting. Is he really going to pretend nothing happened between us? I’m so hurt that I don’t reply, just book it toward the exit.
Coming here was a mistake.
When I reach the door, I turn back abruptly, indignant now. “Brandon, what’s the real reason you want me to be your assistant? Just cut the crap for once.”
Without fanfare, he walks over to his patient couch and sinks down onto it, then gestures for me to join him.
I hesitate, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I sit down beside him, mindful to keep a safe distance between our bodies.
He sits so he’s facing me, acting oblivious to my discomfort—despite the fact that I know he’s an expert in reading body language.
“The reason is threefold, really,” he begins.
“Okay . . .”
He smiles. “I don’t like that you’re constantly burnt out at your current job, Evie. Caregiving is great, but you don’t know how to maintain boundaries.”
Ha. I can’t help but snort. He’s one to talk.
He ignores me. “And with that potential diagnosis—” My mouth opens, but he lifts a hand to silence me. I wave him onward. “Second, you make so little money at the agency.”
I grit my teeth together. Grandma!
“It’s not fair.”
Lots of things in life aren’t fair. I wave him onward again, bored of this same old conversation.
“And remember, if you made what you deserved to make, you’d be able to save up for that trip to Europe quicker.”
I’m surprised he cares so much that I never got to go on that trip.
I’ve been tempted to give up on the idea altogether.
It seems like every time I save up a significant chunk of money, it has to go toward something else—like an ambulance bill.
But he really seems to want to make the trip happen for me.
I find that strangely . . . romantic.
“And even if you did have the money, you’d never get the time off because you’re so understaffed.
Third . . .” He hesitates, then takes a deep breath, twisting his hands between his thighs.
“I know you don’t trust me anymore, Evie.
” His voice lowers. “And I don’t blame you.
Not one bit.” I suck in a breath when he glances over and reaches out, trying to take my hand in his.
But I recoil from him, and he flinches like I’ve slapped him.
“But I want a chance to earn that trust back. So if you won’t allow me to be your friend, well .
. . I could settle for being coworkers.”
I stare at him for so long that the silence should make him uncomfortable, but nothing phases Brandon. He gazes back resolutely, giving me space to think.
If it weren’t for all the people who are counting on me, I might be persuaded by his touching argument. “A lot of people depend on me,” I whisper, thinking of Bert.
He nods. “I understand. But can you let me know by Friday if you change your mind?”
My eyes roam his desk as I contemplate. They land on that photograph again—the one where I’m clinging to Brandon, and Adam is clinging to me. It strikes me as ironic now. How telling of how our future would pan out.
I sigh. At some point, I’m going to have to cut ties with Brandon for good. I won’t be able to do that if I’m at his beck and call, running his silly errands as his administrative assistant.
“I’m sorry, Brandon.” I rise abruptly. “I can’t work for you. I didn’t mean to give you false hope.”
He stands. “Okay. I’ll still wait until Friday.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.” I snort under my breath. “Or do. It doesn’t matter to me.”