Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The library is quiet. The only sound is the soft shuffle of pages and the distant hum of the HVAC system. Laura sits at her desk, her computer screen glowing, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She types: "Doctor David Anderson Eros Medical Clinic reviews."
The search results load. Forty-seven reviews. Five stars across the board. Laura scrolls through them, her eyes moving quickly, her heart pounding.
"Doctor Anderson is the kindest, most patient doctor I've ever had. He truly cares about his patients."
"He saved my life. I was terrified of my first exam, and he made me feel so comfortable."
"I've been seeing him for years. He's the best in the business."
Laura reads every single one. She reads the glowing testimonials from women who praise his bedside manner, his gentleness, his patience. She reads the comments about how he takes his time, how he listens, how he makes you feel like you're his only patient.
She searches for complaints. Malpractice suits. Disciplinary actions. She types his name into every database she can find. She checks the state medical board website. She searches court records.
Nothing.
His record is spotless. Not a single blemish. Not a single complaint. Thirty years of practice and not one patient has ever filed a grievance against him.
Laura leans back in her chair, her stomach churning.
She doesn't know what she expected to find.
Proof, maybe. Evidence that she's not crazy.
Something that would justify the way she's been feeling for the past week, the constant knot of anxiety in her chest, the way she can't stop thinking about his hands on her body.
But there's nothing. Just a wall of five-star reviews and a spotless record.
She searches for vaginismus. The results are clinical, reassuring. It's a real condition, she learns. A real medical diagnosis. The treatment involves dilator therapy, pelvic floor exercises, sometimes counseling. Everything he told her checks out.
She finds a forum for women with pelvic floor disorders. The stories are heartbreaking. Women who feel broken, who can't have sex, who live in fear of their own bodies. Women whose husbands have left them, whose relationships have crumbled, who describe themselves as failures.
Laura sees herself in every post.
She reads about the shame, the isolation, the feeling of being less than a woman. She reads about the years of suffering, the failed treatments, the doctors who dismissed their pain. She reads about women who finally found help, who finally found a doctor who understood.
One post catches her eye. A woman describes her treatment in detail.
The dilators, the exercises, the slow progress.
She describes her doctor's patience, his gentle hands, his reassuring voice.
She describes the first time she was able to have pain-free intercourse with her husband.
She describes crying in the exam room, overwhelmed with gratitude.
Laura closes the browser. She sits in the dark, staring at her reflection in the blank screen.
Maybe she's overreacting. Maybe he really is just being thorough. Maybe the problem is her. Her fear, her repression, her inability to trust. Maybe she's been so twisted up inside for so long that she can't recognize genuine care when she sees it.
Helen stops by her desk. "How was the follow-up? You never called me back."
Laura looks up, startled. She forgot Helen was working today. She forgot where she was.
"It was fine," she says. "Routine."
Helen beams. "I told you he was wonderful."
Laura forces a smile. "You were right."
Helen lingers for a moment, her eyes searching Laura's face. "Are you okay? You look tired."
"I'm fine. Just busy."
Helen doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. "Dinner at my place tonight? Michael's grilling."
"I can't. I have too much work to catch up on."
"Laura, you work too hard. You need to take care of yourself."
The words hit harder than they should. Laura nods, her throat tight. "I know. I will."
Helen leaves. Laura sits at her desk, staring at the stack of books waiting to be shelved.
The library feels different now, smaller, more confining.
She used to love this place. She used to feel safe here, surrounded by stories, by other people's lives.
Now she feels exposed, like everyone can see what happened to her, like everyone knows.
She goes home that night and sits on her bed, staring at the dilator kit Doctor Anderson gave her. She hasn't opened it yet. The box sits on her nightstand, unopened, a constant reminder of what happened in that exam room.
She opens the box.
The dilators are arranged by size, smooth silicone in graduated lengths.
The smallest is no bigger than her pinky finger.
The largest makes her stomach clench. There are five of them, each one slightly larger than the last. A set of instructions is tucked inside the lid, with diagrams and explanations.
She reads the instructions. Use the smallest dilator first. Insert slowly. Relax. Breathe. Practice daily. Progress to the next size when comfortable.
She picks up the smallest dilator. It's smooth and cool in her hand. She thinks about his voice, the way he said her name, the way he looked at her when he slid it inside her.
"Your body is responding. Can you feel that? The way you're opening for me?"
She lies back on her bed, her heart pounding. She hasn't done this before. She's never touched herself, not really. Her mother's voice echoes in her head, sharp and disapproving. Touching yourself is a sin. Your body is a temple. Save yourself for marriage.
But her mother is dead. And Laura is thirty-two years old. And she's so tired of being afraid.
She slides her hand under the waistband of her pajamas. Her fingers find her clitoris, tentative and clumsy. She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know how to touch herself. But she thinks about his hands, his voice, the way he made her feel in that exam room.
She rubs in small circles, experimenting with pressure and speed. It feels strange at first, almost uncomfortable. But then something shifts. A warmth spreads through her lower belly. Her hips start to move on their own.
She thinks about the dilator sliding inside her. She thinks about his thumb on her clitoris. She thinks about the way he said "good girl" when she came.
The orgasm hits her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. Her back arches off the bed. Her mouth opens in a silent cry. She comes with a shudder, her whole body trembling, his name on her lips.
She doesn't understand what just happened. She doesn't understand why it felt so good.
She lies in the dark, trembling, tears streaming down her face. She is terrified and aroused and deeply ashamed. She feels like she's been split in two, like there are two Lauras now, and one of them is a stranger.
She picks up her phone. She opens the clinic's patient portal. She types a message to Doctor Anderson: "I think I need to see you sooner. The pain is worse."
It's a lie. The pain isn't worse. The pain is the same as it's always been. But she needs to see him. She needs to understand what he's doing to her. She needs to know if she's crazy or if something is really wrong.
Her phone buzzes with a reply almost immediately.
"I can fit you in tomorrow at 4:00. I'm glad you reached out, Laura. You're being very brave."
She stares at the words until her vision blurs.