I thought for a while that I had a fondness for it because he’d been the one who gave it to me to store in my mental toolbox. But even when I was at peak fury with him, I would still reach for it because it plays nicely with my brain.
Colors.
Taking a deep breath, I start with yellow because it’s my favorite color. Summon images of all the best things of that hue. Daffodils. Roses. Fat fuzzy bumblebees, their round bodies defying physics as they trundle through the air. The warmth of the sun on my face. A favorite rain slicker I had in elementary school before my brain went haywire. Lemons. Fluffy Easter Peeps, tomatoes, sunflowers, perfectly ripe and spotless bananas. The tart-sweet flesh of pineapples, lilies in full bloom. Yellow.
My breath and heartbeat have already slowed and I haven’t even finished with yellow. That’s why I love this. By the time I come around to orange, I’ll be thoroughly grounded and able to do my best work for Nora. Except my fucking phone rings again, and I swear to Christ, if it’s Tad again, I’m going to march over to his penthouse and push him off the balcony. Can he not take a hint? It wasn’t even a hint, it was a smack in the face. Go away.
But the name flashing on my screen isn’t Tad. It’s one I haven’t seen for years. Fifteen years to be exact. Lowry Campbell. My heart doesn’t slow, it skips a beat and then goes double time to make up for it. That’s cool, just going to have a cardiac event right here at my desk.
Lowry. I did tell him to call me yesterday, but I didn’t expect… Well, I did have his number. Because why would he have changed his cell? He wouldn’t have. Didn’t. And that didn’t occur to me, why? The man impairs my cognitive abilities. Which is probably why I’m still staring at his name flashing on my phone instead of answering his call. I’d better pick it up because I don’t know if I’ll be able to work up the nerve to call him back. Though I wouldn’t mind having a voice message from him that I could listen to whenever I pleased. That would be beyond satisfactory. But the risk is too high and I already used up my moxie speaking with him yesterday. Best to pick up now. Now. Now, you foolish girl.
I try not to choke as I greet him with what I hope is an airy, nonchalant, “Hello?”
* * *
Lowry
She picked up.
It’s only now I realize I’ve so thoroughly convinced myself she wouldn’t that I haven’t actually prepared anything to say. Basics work.
“Starla. It’s Lowry.”
“Hi.”
Great. Off to a brilliant start. A-plus for the lot of us. Good thing neither of us make our livings from talking…
“You asked that I call you. So, unless you’ve changed your mind—which is always your prerogative”—please don’t have changed your mind—“I was calling to arrange a time for dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever you’d prefer. If anything at all.”
Jesus, Campbell, how many times are you going to tell her she doesn’t have to see you? Which she doesn’t, but she’s a capable adult who’s proved herself able and willing to say no to me. Repeatedly. Don’t give her an excuse. It’s okay to want to see her and to let her know. Hell, she knows already. So perhaps I ought to tell her so.
“I’d like very much to see you, so if you let me know when you’re free and what you’d like to do, I can take care of the details. If you’d like.”
It’s up to her because I already know that I would, in fact, very much like to take care of the details. Those types of things wear on her. She likes routine, schedules, so she doesn’t have to make decisions over and over again. It’s far easier to do things that have already been decided than to have to do all the work to set them up in the first place. Or at least it was. Perhaps she’s changed. And I know most women like to dictate the terms when they’re meeting a strange man. We’re not precisely strangers, and I hope she trusts me not to lure her into a dark alley or my laboratory, but I’m not going to be offended if she wants to pick someplace where she’ll likely see a familiar face. Does she go out enough to have a favorite haunt? Perhaps.
There’s a pause and I’m about to offer an apology, say she’s surely busy and she can call me back at her convenience, if ever, because I ought not to be doing this, but I couldn’t help myself, and smelling her hair when I leaned down to speak low in her ear over the threshold of my office at Harbinson… Let’s just say it didn’t do anything to quell my desire for her.
“I need to eat dinner on Thursday. I mean, I need to eat dinner every night, but I don’t have plans for Thursday yet. And I haven’t for a while. So sometimes I forget. Or eat tuna fish salad scooped out of the bowl with Doritos.” She curses under her breath. “No, I don’t. Who does that? It’s disgusting.”
I have to smother a laugh behind a hand, because that’s a very detailed description of something she doesn’t do. Slipping my hand into my pocket, I walk the length of my office and back because sometimes it’s easier to think literally on my feet. Since she’s not here to be disturbed or amused by my pacing, I let myself.
“Aye, well, wouldn’t want you to resort to some fictional, revolting, and not terribly nutritious sustenance. I’m also free on Thursday. How’s six thirty?”
“Is seven thirty too late? I work eleven to seven on Thursdays.”
“Seven thirty’s fine. Might actually get to the gym that day.”
Brilliant, Campbell. She already knows you’re a damn sight too old for her, you should definitely make sure she knows you’re out of shape as well. I pinch the bridge of my nose because clearly that inane gesture will fix everything. That not working, I press on.
“Anyplace you’d like to meet up or shall I choose?”
“You can choose. I should be able to get anywhere in the Back Bay, Beacon Hill, North End, Downtown Crossing, Leather District, or Chinatown by then.”
That’s plenty of options and I should be able to find something suitable.
“Brilliant. I’ll make a reservation and text you the details, shall I? You’re one of those young people who prefers texts, aye?”
She snorts which is adorable and also makes me scrub a hand over my eyes. You’ll be in the grave soon enough, no need make yourself sound like a moldy old geezer.
“You realize I’m an adult, right? Like in my thirties and everything. But yes, texting is good. Much less disruptive than a phone call. But you know, feel free to use emojis. I hear the kids these days are totes into them.”
She’s mocking me and I don’t mind. In fact, I rather like it. Far better than her hanging up on me, and I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, particularly when it’s gifted me with time spent with Starla.
“I, uh, totes will.”
Her laugh is a tinkling light thing that I’d like to hear again and again no matter how much a fool I need to make of myself to have it. I would throw all the pride I have at Starla’s feet for her to tread on if it would make a difference.
“I won’t keep you, then. But I’ll see you Thursday.”
“Looking forward to it,” she says, and something like hope surges inside me. Yes, hope, not anything more sinister or lascivious than that.
What does it matter that I have to moderate my tone when I respond, “I am as well. Good night, Starla.”
Chapter 5
Starla
Not a date. This isn’t a date. This is a psychiatrist wanting to catch up with his former patient and make sure all the work he did with me didn’t go to waste. That’s all it is.
Except that when he’d called the first time—okay, the second time—he said he’d always enjoyed talking to me. Which was somehow wildly unprofessional? I mean, I’d entertained feverishly inappropriate thoughts of him for sure, but I can’t imagine they were anywhere near the same. I mean, doctors must have favorite patients, right? Much as parents have favorites among their children even if they would never admit it? Perhaps despite being a hard case, I was one of Lowry’s. That’s nice. I guess.
And for this definitely-not-a-date I definitely didn’t carefully select my clothes. I
work from home most of the time and while I get dressed in professional clothes every morning because it helps me get in a work mind-set and keeps me from crawling back into my bed or collapsing on the couch when I’m having a hard day, I don’t usually look quite this nice. Perhaps I don’t pay as much attention to how flattering the cut of my shirt is or whether my butt looks good in this skirt. It does, by the way. Thank the heavens or the witches or whoever blessed us with pencil skirts and peplum sweaters. They at least give the illusion of being effortlessly chic.
Are there people for whom being alive is actually effortless? Given that I’ve got a pretty heavy diagnosis and it’s been made clear to me for almost as long as I can remember exactly how dire, how serious, my situation is, I suppose I’m not at a great point in the bell curve to judge. At least I can afford to hire a stylist to find me clothes and put them into outfits I have only to pluck from my closet and not put together myself. Toward the end of my ECT cycles, that might be too much to bear.
Lowry’s chosen a newish place in the Back Bay for us to eat, and I have to dodge some slush puddles in these shoes, even though it hasn’t rained or snowed for days. I like walking down the wide, straight streets of the Back Bay—it’s one of the few places in Boston where cow paths didn’t determine how the roads were laid out—they’re soothing and pretty.
When I get to the brick front of the restaurant, I take a deep breath, smooth my skirt down my thighs, and square my shoulders. Two professional people having dinner. As…friends? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter because it’s not a date.
Except that when I give the waitress Lowry’s name and she shows me to the table, it sure as hell pushes all my date buttons. Candlelight at an intimate table by a window, the way Lowry’s face lights up when he sees me, how he stands to greet me. I expect him to offer a handshake, because that’s what I’ve prepared myself for, except that he goes in for a hug and I’m only too happy to oblige. And I’m sure my face turns as red as the roses in the centerpiece when he pecks my cheek; a brief but deliberate brush of his lips, enough contact for his scruff to scrape deliciously against my skin.
I’ve also made the mistake of inhaling while he’s so close, and I’m guessing he did make it to the gym because he smells freshly showered, like sea salt soap, and some kind of piney aftershave or cologne. I can picture the forest by the sea so vividly I can hear the waves tumbling into shore and my shoulders drop a couple of inches.
Even if it is awkward to sit across a table from my high school (and apparently current) crush, Lowry’s a good man. A kind man who is intelligent, has a good sense of humor, and won’t be a self-centered dinner companion. This evening will be far more pleasurable than many I’ve spent, especially as of late, so I should enjoy myself.
It’s likely wishful thinking on my part, but our hug feels like it lasts longer than your standard greeting, and his smile is perhaps wider than he’d give a stranger. Or a patient, for that matter.
He’s still smiling when he says, “I’m glad you made it. Nice to see you.”
I duck my head and flush some more when he pulls out my chair. Men don’t do that anymore, and why not? It’s charming. It’s the kind of chivalrous gesture that makes me feel cared for but not condescended to.
My gaze perhaps grazes his butt and his thighs in the wool trousers he’s sporting. I mean, I think they’re wool. I’d have to touch them to be sure. Jesus, Starla, don’t think about getting into your ex-psychiatrist’s pants. But it’s kinda hard not to when he’s got an ass like that…
He settles into the seat across the table and regards me with those blue eyes of his. They ought to be cold, with the crisp shade of them, but they’re not. Everything about him is warm. Maybe it’s the ginger hair, streaked with a grey-blond. Or maybe it’s his hand with its veined back and thick fingers resting on the tablecloth. Dammit, goddammit.
His eyes narrow slightly as he seems to drink me up with those eyes. “You know I wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up.”
“I told you I would. I always show up.”
He smiles again, and it makes me feel fuzzy, warm, seen. Yes, he remembers. There was only one time I failed to do so, and I don’t want to talk about that, think about it now. It still mortifies me to have been that foolish. To have put myself in that much danger and to have caused the people I care about so much worry.
“Aye, you did. But that was before we’d had a few conversations where you told me to go away, leave you alone, or you’d hung up on me. Twice. So you can’t blame a man for wondering.”
His response is easy, but it reminds me that I don’t want to be easy. When I think about why I responded that way, fuck yeah, I had the right to be churlish. Still have, and he should know that. “Yes, well, I was pretty angry with you for a long time. Not all of that has gone away.”
His features darken, taking away some of the warmth. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but he deserves to know. Besides, he was the one who brought it up.
“You’ve made that clear, rightfully so. And I apologize again. If you’d like to throw a drink in my face or yell at me, I wouldn’t argue. But you’ve never seemed like the type of person who would cause a scene. You simply wouldn’t have come. It’s obvious you’re more than capable of saying no to things you don’t want to do, so I’m going to assume you’re here because even though I hurt you and you’ve been deservedly angry at me because you trusted me and I…I left, that you want to be here. You were curious, if nothing else. Or perhaps you just wanted me to pay for dinner.”
I can’t help but crack a smile and shake my head. I don’t need anyone to pay for anything. Hell, I could buy this restaurant at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t because restaurants are risky ventures, but I could and he knows it. He’s teasing me and I like it. Want him to do it more.
I also can’t help but appreciate his faith in me to say no. Not something that I’ve been particularly adept at over the past few months, though I’ve tried to hold the boundaries where I can. No, I will not fly to New York for a meeting with a potential partner. Yes, I will attend the board meeting. Of course, I will review the quarterly earnings report, but fuck no will I be playing golf with a visiting dignitary from a country where we have some of our manufacturing plants. I want to tell him about all of it so he can tell me I’m doing a good job, but I can’t bring myself to.
“Fine, your treat. And you’re right. I am curious. It’s been a long time and I could never really ask you all the things I wanted to when…” When I was your patient. When it was your job to crack my head open and sift around to make sure there wasn’t anything life-threatening in there. When I was a teenager and you were very much an adult. He’s well aware of all of that and I don’t want to remind him so I go with, “Back then.”
The waitress comes and takes our drink orders, and when she’s departed, Lowry takes a sip of his water.
“So, what do you want to know?”
“What have you been doing for the past fifteen years?”
“Ah, is that all?” He sits back, his brow furrowing. “I worked at the same clinic in Chicago the entire time I was there. Made the switch to adult psychiatry from children and adolescents. Mostly worked with patients who were dealing with severe depression and anxiety.”
“Still your specialty.”
He nods, and folds his hands across his midsection. “I was married for a time there too.”
Something inside me lurches, which is ridiculous. I had no claim on Lowry then, and I have none now. Of course he was married. I will do my best to ignore the satisfaction that accompanies the “was.”
“Was?”
“Yes. Maeve and I were married for six years, but then we split up. Nothing dramatic, it was about as amicable as these things can be. She’s a lovely woman, I think you’d like her.”
“And you split up, why?”
It’s not really any of my business, but if he wanted me to back off, he would say. He is, after all, the person who taught me about bo
undaries. He shrugs and takes a swig of his Bourbon and Blood that the server brought by, along with my Fabiola.
“I thought Maeve would be happier with someone who wasn’t me, and she’s not the adulterous or polyamorous type. It wasn’t a bad marriage, but I thought she deserved better.”
“What about you?” I take a sip of my drink before I say anything else, like “Are you dating anyone?” Lowry looks at the flatware on the table, and the crease between his brows deepens.
“I don’t know that I could ask for anyone better than Maeve.”
That’s a kick in the teeth, which is, again, ridiculous and not at all fair. Not a date. He’s not interested in me romantically. He’s not saying these things to make it clear that he’d never want to be with me, he’s saying them because it’s never even occurred to him that we could be.
“You must have loved her very much.”
“I did. I do. We still talk often. She had some opinions about me coming back to Boston.”
“And what were those?”
He looks at me, and there’s a… I can’t quite put my finger on what it might be. It’s not a sheen or glimmer or anything poetic like that, but there is an intensity that makes my heart beat faster, makes a certain kind of feeling crop up in my breasts, my pelvis. Men have looked at me like this before, or at least I think they have. This feels like when they want me.
In my fantasy life, Lowry would let the brogue fly, his voice going low and gravelly when he’d say, “First and foremost that I was foolish for coming back for a woman I had no reason to believe wanted me. You. I came back for you.”
For Her Own Good Page 6
