9. Hailey
I feel like I’m back in the year of doom. Today, four of my five clients requested virtual meetings because of sickness, theirs, or someone close to them. It’s damn depressing. The only client who could hope to drag me out of it also requested a virtual meeting. I flip my laptop the bird, as though it’s at fault.
A few seconds later, the call goes live to two black windows where our video images should be, as he requested.
“Are you sick?” My question is blunt and borders on rude. Up until yesterday, we were all set for our usual Friday meeting. I’m worried he’s distancing himself on purpose. So worried, I didn’t sleep well last night.
Only one thing gets in the way of my sleep. Crave. I’ve worked long and hard to make it so. It took a solid decade of therapy, a whole host of behavioral and emotional interventions, and time.
They say time heals. I don’t know if I believe it. There’s been so much time. Too much and not enough all at once. I can hardly believe it’s been nineteen years since I lost them.
“Are you worried about me, Hailey?” His signature voice is so far away but also closer than normal. An odd dichotomy makes me fidget with the pen on my desk.
I should demand that he stop calling me by my first name. Put my foot down. But the familiarity feels nice. And that’s a bad sign. A terrible sign.
“Answer my question.” Somehow, I manage to soften my tone.
“No, I’m not sick. I’m in Budapest for work. I tried to postpone until the weekend, but it couldn’t be avoided. I apologize for the late notice.”
Relief that he’s not trying to avoid our meeting should relax my shoulders, which are up by my ears, but I’m stuck on how far away he is. He’s on the other side of the world. Something dark tugs at my belly. Certainly, it has to do with Nat and the notion that she passed on the opportunity to live on the other side of the world.
Before I realize it, I’m doodling on the notepad beside my computer. “No apology necessary. I should probably be the one apologizing. What time is it there?”
“It’s only eleven.”
“Only eleven?”
“Sleep isn’t my ally, remember?”
Of course, I remember. “It didn’t used to be mine either.” I drop my pen and plaster my hand over my mouth.
Why did I say that?
“And now?” he rasps. It pulls me in closer to the screen.
“I get eight hours every night.” Unless I’m worried about you . “Nine on Saturdays.”
“How?” There’s shock and a hint of desperation in his voice.
“A healthy exercise routine. Meditation. No screens two hours before bed. A cup of herbal tea.” I lift my hand in a defensive gesture even though he can’t see it. “I know. I sound like someone’s grandmother.”
“You said it, not me.” He chuckles slightly. “That’s all I have to do, and I’ll be able to sleep?”
“Years of therapy and working through my shit probably have a lot to do with it as well. That, and an orgasm or three before lights out.”
“Hmm.” The smooth purr lights my seat on fire. It makes me need Crave, and my option one, and his delicious mmms and hmms.
My fingers clutch into fists. This is too much like a phone call with a boy and too little like a professional therapy session. I’ve recommended orgasms before bed to many clients. None of those times made me feel like stripping down and working on one of my own.
I grit my teeth and breathe through the inappropriateness of my actions, then do the only thing I can without drawing more attention to it. Move on.
“Mr. Judge, tell me, when are you most comfortable in your daily life.”
Releasing my fists, I grab the arms of my desk chair and straighten in my seat. I pull in a deep breath through my nose, hold it for as long as I can, then set it free. Still, my patient is quiet. I give him time to think while I try to collect myself. Anticipation of his answer pings around my brain. I’m sure he’ll talk about some time at home. Maybe when he’s alone in bed.
“It’s a toss-up. When I’m at work and things are going to hell. There are proverbial fires everywhere. Everything is dire, and the needs are immediate. Or when I’m boxing. Depends on the day, I suppose.”
My eyes go wide. Images of a man I’ve only seen in pictures but am probably too aware of his breadth and height, fighting and sweating and bleeding make me swallow hard.
“Boxing is touching,” I counter.
“Boxing is hitting.”
Uselessly, my mouth opens and closes. No sound escapes.
“Besides, I wear gloves.”
“Then why were your knuckles busted last week?” I find myself leaning forward, hovering over the keyboard.
“From punching my wall.”
“Why did you punch your wall?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Venting,” he hedges.
Then I remember the woman. The reason he’s coming to therapy. The reason he wants to get better. I push myself against the back of my chair and try my best to recalibrate my stupid hormones.
I’m thankful for the woman. She’ll keep my body in check until I can handle it myself.
“How often do you box?”
“Train daily and go rounds once or twice a week. Well, I did until my therapist told me to cut back.”
My professional nod presents itself for no one at all. “That’s your exercise? How many holes are in your walls?”
He sighs. “One.”
“One a week?”
“I don’t make a habit of it.”
“But you make a habit of letting grown men punch you?”
His laugh is heady and delicious. “I make a habit of punching grown men.”
“Semantics. You get punched. Aren’t you worried about concussions? Brain damage? What’s the repeated concussion thing? CTE. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy?”
“I get punched. Mostly body shots. I’ve had a couple of cracked ribs,” he admits.
“Cracked ribs?” My voice is too shrill to be skillful.
“And one concussion.”
“Oh mercy.” I slip back into my old sayings, and a hint of my old twang bleeds through. Luckily, it’s only a whisper.
“I’m in the habit of giving concussions, not receiving them.”
“And people voluntarily do this in the city?”
“It’s mild compared to what some people do in the city.”
The words Oh, I know almost slip out. I don’t mention that I’ve had a cracked rib from one of those wild things people do. Thank goodness. About keeping my mouth shut, not about the cracked rib. I never saw that patron again. He ended up getting banned from Crave.
“Okay, Rocky, when are you the least comfortable?”
We’ve had a quick back and forth. I’m bringing us back to reality, and it’s jarring. He’s quiet once more. For a while.
“Turn your camera on.” It’s a command. My fingers leave my chair and fly to the keyboard, but then I catch myself.
“Are you going to turn on yours?”
“I want to see you.”
My suspended hand shakes. This is vulnerability he’s showing me. Even if it doesn’t seem that way. Admitting a desire is hard.
I smooth my hair back, sit straight, and click the icon. The light on my laptop turns green. It’s the first time he’s seen me without a blindfold. I offer what I hope is a warm and not-too-awkward smile.
“At night. In bed,” he breathes.
It takes me too long to register what he’s talking about. I certainly wasn’t waiting for a comment about how I look. Certainly not. Right?
At night. In bed. Well, it could be taken in a certain way. But that’s not what he means. No, he's the least comfortable at night while in bed.
“It’s when the demons come out to play,” I admit.
“Sounds like you know from experience.”
My grin is lopsided. “I’m a therapist. So yes.”
“Personal experience,” he amends.
The point of my tongue traces my left upper molars for several passes. “That too,” I finally concede.
“What made you want to become a psychologist?”
“I wanted to help others.” I smile sweetly.
“You could have done that by becoming a teacher, a physician, or a firefighter.”
I shrug and nod and keep my mouth closed.
“But you didn’t.”
“Obviously not.” I give a little, hoping it’ll be enough.
“Why a psychologist?”
My legs cross and recross, seeking relief. “Now who’s relentless?”
“Now who’s stalling?” The determination in his voice urges me with a two-handed shove.
“I wanted to help others who were as fucked up as me.”
We sit there in silence. Me completely naked, though fully clothed. Him hidden behind thousands of miles and a black screen. It makes me want to lash out. To push back. Instead, I sit and breathe and count. I count until my pulse smooths and my need to hang up on him eases.
“Thank you, Hailey. For everything.”
There’s so much more to speak about, but I need to go. My emotions claw at my insides, threatening to break free. My needs push and shout to be set free.
“Good night, Mr. Judge.”
“Good night, Hailey.” Only he doesn’t hang up.
My clients always hang up first. It’s a reprieve from the discomfort of baring their emotions, peeling back the layers of their souls. Tonight, I feel like the patient, with my finger itching to click the icon and end the call. I hate the turn of the table.
“Have you spoken to your woman?”
“She’s not mine,” he counters. I glare at him through the web. “Yes, I’ve spoken to her.”
She would be if she knew about your interest. There’s no question in my mind. There is something strange and ugly knotting the wavy loops of my brain, though. It’s completely unfamiliar.
“Does she know you want to touch her?”
“No.”
“Did you do your homework this week?”
“Straight A’s,” he rumbles.
“Perfect,” I say without smiling. Whether it’s the emotions he’s made me feel or the woman I’m idiotically and inexplicably jealous of, I need to push him to be as uncomfortable as me. “This week, in your fantasies, she touches you.”
“What if she doesn’t want to?”
“It’s your fantasy. She wants to. That’s how fantasies work. You set the stage. You control the players. You enjoy.”
“And in real life?”
My eyebrows shoot up because, for a second, I forget I’m on camera. I would have never thought that a lack of confidence could be his hang-up. He’s objectively beautiful. He’s hardworking. He’s kind. He’s fit.
Stamina for days.
“In real life, I can’t think of a woman, married or single, young or old, or many men for that matter, who wouldn’t want to touch you.”
Your stupid therapist included.
“Good night, Mr. Judge.” This time, I don’t wait for him to end the call. I press it as though it were the button to the only life raft on a sinking ship.