Chapter 47
The Hermit is alone but knows there is wisdom to be found in solitude.
DANNY
There is a coffee shop in the Grant building where Laura’s office is located. I bought us both a coffee and we sat at a table in the back.
Cal began, “First, thank you for what you’ve done. Finding Juliet and putting all the clues together.”
“Sure.”
“Second, I want to apologize for walking out on you and for what I said. I had no right to say that. I don’t know you well enough. And what I’ve experienced of you is that you are neither self-absorbed nor a bastard.”
I didn’t say anything. It was apparent she had more to say. And there was more I wanted to hear.
“There are certain emotions that trigger cataclysmic responses in me. When I feel I am betrayed, or when I feel rejected, or when I perceive someone is not being honest with me, I have a difficult time maintaining composure.
“Notice I said, ‘when I feel’ and ‘if I perceive.’ Because my feelings and perceptions are filtered through my life experiences starting in childhood.
“You once asked why I became a psychologist, and I told you a very safe and watered down version.”
She takes a deep breath, like she is preparing for a long dive underwater. “My mother was a very angry woman. She was angry mostly at my dad, who left when I was six. I was the target for my mother’s expression of anger, and I have the scars to prove it. Physical and emotional. I still get triggered by perceived rejection. My immediate reaction is, ‘I’ll leave first before he leaves me.’
“I am not excusing my behavior. I’m apologizing for it. I have difficulty trusting that someone I love won’t hurt me. I overreact. I am sorry I overreacted with you.”
Cal takes both of my hands in hers. “If we can try again, I promise to do better. To be better.” She smiles, hopefully. “I am a work in progress.”
Her beautiful face is full of love and hope and faith.
It occurs to me that I had expected a psychologist to have better mental health. I expected someone with her training and experience to navigate the ups and downs of life with more expertise and less drama.
She is waiting for me to say something. I know what she hopes I will say, but I cannot.
“Cal, I don’t think I can make you happy. I’m sorry.”
I can tell she is stunned. Her eyes immediately watered and tears stream down her face.
“I understand,” she says softly.
Leaving the building, I glance through the window into the coffee shop. Cal is sitting as still as a statue, shoulders slumped, her face in her hands.
I know I’ve done the right thing. It is better for both of us.
So why does my heart feel like I just smashed it with a sledgehammer?