11. #2
"It's fine," I say easily.
"So," he continues, "your mom worked for Rodney's dad, right?"
I nod. "Assistant. For years."
"That's how you two met?"
"Yeah."
"How old were you when you guys started dating?"
"I was seventeen."
He raises a brow. "And he was what, thirty?"
My mouth drops open. "He was twenty-seven, smart ass."
Grant laughs, the sound warmer than I expect.
"That wasn't very mindful of you, Mr. Psychiatrist," I add.
"You're right," he says. "Let me try again. Seventeen and forty-five. Very normal age gap."
I can't help laughing. "He was twenty-seven and what can I say? I was taken by him. He used to be very charming."
Grant tilts his head slightly. "I don't know if I've ever heard anyone describe Rodney as charming."
"Isabel calls him a lot of things," he continues, "but I don't think charming has ever made the list."
I smile. "I could tell she wasn't his biggest fan at that event."
"Yeah," he says. "Not even close. Our mom raised us around politics. Isabel's studying poli-sci, and we've always been a pretty left-leaning family."
He pauses, then asks, "Have you always been conservative?"
I shake my head. "Not at all. I wouldn't even consider myself conservative even now. My mom was more liberal, but she kept that out of work. She believed in keeping your principles and your paycheck separate."
He nods.
"When I started dating Rodney, I was young," I continue. "A lot of his opinions just became the environment I was in. But they never really felt like mine. Some of those views are just..." I shrug. "They don't sit right with me."
Grant studies me, like he wants to ask more.
The silence stretches again.
I glance at the clock on the wall, my stomach tightening. I can't stay too long. If Rodney wakes up—.
I clear my throat. "But I'm guessing you didn't call me over here to ask about my political views."
I try to make it sound light. Like a joke.
Grant exhales slowly, the humor fading from his expression.
"No," he says. "I didn't."
And just like that, the air in the room shifts.
Silence settles between us.
Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just full. Like there are too many things sitting in the space and neither of us knows which one to pick up first.
I glance toward the hallway, then back at him.
He sets his glass down on the coffee table, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His voice shifts—not into therapist mode, but something quieter. More personal.
"About the other night," he says.
My stomach tightens instantly.
The kiss.
"I shouldn't have let that happen," he continues. "It crossed a line. Professionally. Personally. Every way it could've."
I stare down at my glass, watching the condensation gather at the base.
"It wasn't just you," I say softly. "I didn't stop it either."
"That's not the point," he replies. "You're my patient. The responsibility was mine."
The word patient lands heavier than I expect.
I nod anyway. "So... what happens now?"
Grant studies me for a moment before answering.
"That depends on what you want," he says. "If you'd rather transfer to another therapist, I can arrange that. No questions asked. No hard feelings."
The idea hits harder than I expect.
Another therapist. Another stranger. Another person I'd have to pretend for before I could even think about being honest.
"I don't want that," I say quietly.
He doesn't look surprised, but something in his shoulders loosens.
"You're one of the only people I feel normal with lately," I admit. "Like I'm not just playing a role for someone."
He shifts a little closer. Not dramatically. Just enough that our knees are almost touching. Thigh to thigh, a few inches apart.
Neither of us looks at the other. We both face forward, like we're watching something invisible across the room.
"You know," he says quietly, "that's not something I've ever done before. With a client."
I glance at him. "Kiss them?"
A faint smile touches his mouth. "Yeah."
I shrug, trying to keep it light. "It's okay. I didn't really take you for the 'kissing your clients' type anyway."
He lets out a quiet chuckle. "Good. Because that's not exactly the image I'm going for."
That earns a small laugh from me. The tension softens, just a little.
Then he grows quiet again.
"Did you tell..." he trails off, not finishing the sentence.
I already know what he means.
My head shakes immediately. "No. Absolutely not. He'd go berserk."
Grant nods once, like he expected that answer.
"Does he know you're in therapy?"
That makes me look at him.
Our eyes meet, and for a second, the room feels smaller. Quieter. Like everything else fades out except the space between us.
There's something steady in his gaze. Something that makes it hard to lie.
I shake my head slowly.
"No," I say.
I look down, my arms wrapping around myself before I even notice.
Grant's eyes follow the movement.
"Was that an uncomfortable question?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No. The question itself is harmless." I hesitate. "It's just the reminder of him not knowing."
Grant nods thoughtfully.
"Have you ever noticed," he says gently, "that whenever something makes you uncomfortable, you wrap your arms around yourself?"
I blink, then look down at my hands.
I unwrap them slowly. "I actually haven't noticed that."
I glance back at him. "I'm surprised you did if I didn't."
He shrugs. "It's my job."
I let out a small laugh.
The air feels lighter now.
I pick at the edge of my sleeve, suddenly aware of how close we're sitting.
Then the thought slips out before I can stop it.
"So...do you have a girlfriend?" I ask.
The second the words leave my mouth, I cough lightly. "Or—wife. Or... something."
Smooth, Naomi.
He leans back slightly, studying me.
"No," he says. "No girlfriend. No wife. No something."
"Oh," I say, trying to sound neutral.
He tilts his head. "Why? Were you worried about stepping into a messy situation?"
I feel my face warm. "I think I'm already in one of those."
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
The room settles again—quiet, aware, charged in a way neither of us is naming.
And for a second, it feels less like therapist and client.
I can feel the warmth from his leg beside mine. The faint brush of fabric when either of us shifts even slightly. It shouldn't feel like anything, but it does. My body notices it before my brain can tell it not to.
Grant clears his throat softly.
"You should probably get back soon," he says.
But he doesn't move away.
"Yeah," I say. "I should."
I don't stand.
Neither does he.
The clock on the wall ticks softly. The sound feels louder than it should.
Grant glances at me, then back ahead. "I meant what I said earlier."
"About what?"
"If you'd rather see someone else... I'd understand."
I shake my head immediately. "I don't want someone else."
The words come out more quickly than I intended.
Grant turns his head slightly, studying me.
"Are you sure that's not just because I'm familiar?" he asks. "Because starting over would be uncomfortable?"
I hesitate.
"Maybe," I admit. "But it's also because I trust you."
The words hang between us.
Grant's expression shifts—something softer, more complicated.
"You shouldn't have to earn trust in a space like that," he says quietly. "It should be built in."
"Maybe," I say. "But it's usually pretty hard for me to let someone in and allow them to be there for me and I like what i've been able to build up to with you."
Our eyes meet again.
This time, neither of us looks away right away.
There's a quiet pull in the moment. Something subtle, but undeniable. The kind of silence that doesn't feel empty—it feels like it's waiting.
Grant's gaze drops briefly—to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw tightens slightly, like he's forcing himself to stay still.
"I'll walk you to the door," he says.
"Yeah," I whisper.
Neither of us moves for another second.
Then I push myself to my feet. He stands too, a half-step behind me.
The space between us closes for just a moment as we move toward the front of the house.
At the door, I turn to face him.
"So... Thursday?" I ask.
He nods. "Thursday."
Another silence.
Not as heavy as before. But not light either.
He reaches for the door handle, then pauses.
"Naomi?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitates. "I'm glad you were able to come by and we could talk."
My expression softens. "Me too."
He opens the door, and i step out into the cool night air. He follows me onto the front step.
"Drive safe, Naomi."
I nod. "Goodnight, Grant."
I start toward my car, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way.
It's not until I'm inside, door closed, hands on the wheel, that I finally let out the breath I've been holding.
I glance back at the house.
He's still standing there in the doorway.
Watching.
And the tension between us doesn't feel resolved at all.
If anything, it feels like we just lit the fuse.