Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Please don’t be in a bad mood again. Please don’t be sad. Please don’t change your mind about us again.

  One. Two. Three. Open.

  Good morning :)

  A smile in a text has to be a good sign. Hopefully a sign that he himself is also smiling…

  I hit reply.

  Morning :)

  As I’m hitting send, my phone buzzes again. Another message.

  Ugh. From Dr. Gabriel.

  One. Ugh. Two. Ugh. Three. UGH.

  Open.

  Good morning, Calista. I can come meet you so we can walk down to our first session together. What room are you in?

  No thank you.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t already know my room number, that he didn’t go ask for it at the front desk or something. Maybe they don’t give out that information, though. Maybe they have some sort of strict security policy. Or—

  My phone buzzes again. Unknown Number this time. Smiley, seemingly not miserable this morning, Unknown Number. Open text.

  Would you like me to walk you down to the first floor for your 8:00 a.m. session? I promise to disappear before we get even close to the lobby or conference rooms.

  Hmm…two similar invitations within about two minutes. One creepy. One…perfect.

  I respond to the creepy one first.

  I’ll just meet you in the lobby in about ten minutes. Thanks.

  Now…for my Unknown Number response. Hit reply.

  Yes.

  Send.

  I put my phone into my purse and—

  Then there’s a knock at my door.

  I walk right over to answer it, certain that it won’t be Dr. Gabriel (since he just made it clear that he doesn’t know where my room is), confident that the deadbolt…the lock…the handle on the door are all clean. (Because no one has been in my room since last night. I’m pretty sure that the murderers didn’t make an appearance because, well, I’m still alive. But even if they had stopped by, they wouldn’t have used the door. They are murderers. They would have climbed in the win—)

  Callie!

  Unlock door. Open door.

  And it’s him. He’s here. {Damien’s here too.}

  Dark jeans. Brown, long-sleeved thermal tee.

  He looks different. Casual. Relax—

  His eyes grab mine with a…with a pretty gorgeous smile. He holds out his hand. “Ready?”

  My hand lifts to meet his. One. Two. Three. Done.

  {One. Two. Three. Damien’s refrain.}

  His warm hand. Our entwined fingers. My erratic heartbeat.

  He tugs on my hand, pulling me out of the hotel room. The door shuts behind me. Then he—

  Then he checks the door for me with his free hand. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

  When he turns back to face me, I give him a grateful smile. Then we start moving toward the stairwell.

  He talks quickly as we move. “I know I only have you for a second, but—”

  You have me. You have me. You have me. {Bruce Springsteen comes back in with “Secr—”}

  “I did a lot of thinking last night, and I’ve come up with a few new treatment options for you.”

  I don’t want new treatment options. I want you to treat me.

  I want you. Period.

  Walk. Walk. Walk.

  He continues, looking over at me every few seconds as he talks, as we walk. “I will text you each of the options. I want you to really think about each one. I want you to decide which one is best for you.”

  He opens the door to the stairwell, and we go down the steps together. Steps. Steps. Steps. Holding hands. Holding hands. Holding hands.

  He opens the first floor stairwell door, and we go through and…and he drops my hand with a small, regret-filled smile. “I’m sure conference attendees will be everywhere this morning.” He smiles. “No hand-holding babysitters allowed.”

  I nod and just walk beside him as we start down the hallway. When we are about fifteen feet away from the visibly crowded lobby, he stops.

  My feet stop, and I turn to face him.

  He whispers, looking around to make sure no one sees us. “I’ll text you soon.”

  He smiles. I smile back while trying to memorize the relaxed look on his face…never know when I might see such a thing again. Really, I—

  “Oh.” He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans. “I almost forgot.” He pulls out a breakfast bar. He whispers again, his face still smiling, but an authoritative look now in his eyes, “It’s only two hundred and twenty calories. You have to eat.”

  I take the bar from him and nod. And really, my nod is not a lie. I’m hungry. I’m going to eat the—

  “Okay, Callie. I guess you have to go.” He stands facing me, lots of room (unfortunately) now between us. He looks around again quickly and then turns back to me, a glint now in his eyes. “I have a surprise for you later. Tonight.”

  I open my mouth to ask about the surprise, to ask for a hint as to what it is, but then I see a group of conference badge-wearing people coming toward us. And they, I’m sure, don’t know me…don’t care what I’m doing, who I’m talking to…but they might know Dr. Gabriel. And if he finds out that my psychologist (who doesn’t want to be my psychologist) is here babysitting me, it will get back to my advisor and probably the whole Pierce faculty and the Dean, and then…then, I’ll never be taken seriously, never get into a PhD program, and—

  The conference people are getting close.

  I move my eyes purposefully toward them, trying to silently tell him that there are people walking up behind him.

  He nods his head very quickly, somehow actually getting my message.

  A blink of his eyes, another smile, and he turns and heads back toward the stairwell.

  Forcing myself to not just stand still and watch him leave, I turn and head toward the lobby…toward Dr. Gabriel. Ugh!

  10:00 A.M. FIRST SESSION…BORING SESSION about the history of the written word: over.

  Still sitting in my session seat, I see Dr. Gabriel talking to that rather young-looking professor from yesterday…the one that I’m pretty sure he took to dinner last night…or was going to take to dinner…if she said yes…and it looks like she probably did. She’s standing rather close to him. Yes…they probably did have dinner. They probably did a whole lot more than have din—

  Callie. He’s talking. He’s engaged. Use this opportunity.

  I get out of my chair and walk out of the conference room. I don’t know if Dr. Gabriel notices or not. I don’t care.

  As soon as I get out into the hallway, I wonder if being out here might actually be worse than being in the same room as Dr. Gabriel.

  The hallway is so crowded. And loud. And really rather narrow considering the number of conference attendees here.

  I’ve gotta get out of here. Preferably before someone inevitably bumps into me.

  I look around and see an empty-looking conference room. Door open. Light on. Just about nine steps away.

  I move toward the room, cutting across the hallway carefully, somehow managing not to brush up against any of the sport coats and business casual dresses walking around.

  Three fast counts of three and I’m in the conference room. Alone.

  Okay. Okay. Okay.

  I pull my phone out of my purse, ready to type in some questions about my post-conference surprise. Before I type anything, though, I see that I have one new message, one new Unknown Number message. Sent an hour ago.

  Open text.

  Treatment Option #1—There is another psychology practice about five miles from Pierce. I can refer you to a doctor I know who works there (Dr. Lyst), and he can create a new, personalized treatment plan for you.

  No, no, no. No new doctor.

  I hit reply right away, more than ready to tell him that I despise Option #1. Before I can type any words, though, my phone buzzes again. I click out of my reply message and over to my new text.

  Him again. Open.

  I
’m sure your first session just ended and that you just got my text with Option #1. Don’t reply now. Really think about this option first.

  Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Stop knowing what I’m going to do.

  I hit reply again.

  But I already know how I feel about Option #1.

  Send.

  My phone buzzes again a few seconds later.

  Open text.

  Think more.

  It buzzes again. Open text.

  Tell me what you think after your next session.

  So bossy.

  Reply.

  Yes, sir.

  Before I send my message, I add a smiley face…just in case my message somehow makes him sad. Like if he thinks I’m—

  Callie! No time for this.

  Okay. Send.

  Time to move on to my next session.

  Still holding my phone, I step back out into the hallway, the now rather empty hallway. I start toward Conference Room D, to my 10:15 a.m. session, and—

  And my phone buzzes in my hand.

  I stop to check it.

  One message. From him. Open.

  :)

  12:15 P.M. ANOTHER SESSION OVER. LOTS and lots of listening to the presenter. Lots and lots and lots of notes taken (all about literary deconstruction). Also, lots and lots of time spent thinking. But not about Option #1. About my after-conference surprise.

  I’ve pictured countless surprises ranging from some miraculous situation where I don’t have to get on a plane again tomorrow (especially with Dr. Gabriel), to a double secret back way to my hotel room that allows me to avoid using the crowded hallways or lobby, to a simple dinner with him where he actually talks to me.

  Still thinking about that last option, I leave the conference room, once again leaving as Dr. Gabriel talks to the young female professor.

  Perhaps she is my surprise—a person to distract Dr. Gabriel…to keep him away from me. She’d make a great surprise…but somehow I don’t think she’s it…I don’t think Dr. Blake could’ve arranged that…

  She must just be some awesome extra surprise…a bonus surprise…an answered prayer…a result of some much needed karma. Something like that.

  If only I could get some uncrowded hallway karma right now…

  No such luck. I take a step out of the conference room and immediately see a swarm of badged people—some talking on cell phones, some eating, some standing in line to go to the (I’m sure, gross) bathroom, etc.

  Ugh.

  I count to three, hold my breath, and start walking, squeezing myself together…trying to take up as little space as possible…trying to be invisible.

  People move around me, going in various directions. I veer from side to side, trying to stay as far away as possible from each human obstacle I cross.

  {The theme song to Nintendo’s Super Mario Bros. accompanies my journey.}

  Most people pass without even looking at me. A few give me questioning looks, as though they are judging my jagged path down the hall. I don’t care. I—

  I have an idea. I see an idea. I am only steps away from Conference Room G, the location for my next session. If I head there now, I don’t have to brave the hallways again.

  Good plan.

  One. Two. Three. Veer a little left. One. Two. Three. Veer further to the left so a man walking this way with a briefcase doesn’t brush up against me. One. Two. Three.

  In the conference room. The empty conference room.

  Excellent.

  I grab my phone from my purse and immediately type the message I’ve wanted to write for over two hours now.

  I hate Option #1.

  Send.

  Start new message.

  Do I get a surprise hint?

  My phone buzzes as I send my message.

  Open text.

  Okay. Treatment Option #2—I can refer you to that doctor, Dr. Lyst, from Option #1, and I can ask him to use the initial treatment plan I created for you.

  No. No. No. Really no better than Option #1.

  Before I can hit reply, my phone buzzes again.

  Open text.

  No replying until after your next session. Think. Really think.

  Ugh.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Open text.

  Surprise hint—Your surprise will begin after you turn in your article tonight.

  Begin? So it’s an event?

  I type my thoughts into a text.

  Begin? So it’s an event?

  As I hit send, I hear people talking right outside the conference room door. They’ll be coming in at any second. I should—

  My phone buzzes again.

  Quickly check my message.

  Only one hint, Callie :) Time for your next session. Food at this one. You need to eat.

  Ugh. Again. I think he knows my schedule better than I do. The Dr. Gabriel email that I forwarded to him must’ve been pretty detailed.

  Speaking of Dr. Gabriel, he’s walking through the doorway right now…with the young female professor. Jared would probably jokingly refer to her as Dr. Gabriel’s lady friend. Or perhaps he’d come up with something more vulgar…like Dr. Gabriel’s post-session workout…his extracurricular activity…his conference bag…his seminar swag…something disgusting like that, I’m sure.

  I don’t care what she’s called, though. I’m grateful she exists.

  I move to find a seat far, far away from Dr. Gabriel and, um, whatever her name is.

  {Starland Vocal Band breaks into the refrain of “Afternoon Delight.”}

  3:30 P.M. END OF MY THIRD session—a three hour period where we were served lunch as we listened to several lectures about studies of feminism in literature.

  I spent the session taking notes, eating half of a turkey sandwich and some pretzels (approximately three hundred and fifty calories), and thinking…about how much I hate Treatment Options #1 and #2, about my upcoming surprise…about him.

  My next session is conveniently in this same room, so I don’t get up out of my seat. I pull my phone out of my purse and—

  “Calista.”

  Great. Dr. Gabriel. Coming this way. Young professor clicking her heels behind him.

  I slide a (fake) smile onto my lips.

  They both stop a couple steps away from me. Dr. Gabriel opens his mouth to talk.

  Please don’t accidentally spit on me. Please don’t spit on me. Please don’t spit on me.

  “We are planning to go to the seafood restaurant across the street for dinner.” He looks back at his…whatever she is…for a second before turning back to me. “Would you like to join us?”

  Well…let’s see. I hate seafood. And I’m not really a big fan of you. I do have friendly feelings toward your professor friend, but that is only because she is keeping you—

  Dr. Gabriel is staring at me.

  I quickly slide my fake smile back onto my lips. Then I lie. “Oh, I would love to, but I need all the time I have to write tonight’s article.” A bigger fake smile. “I want to make sure I capture everything we’ve experienced here.”

  Stupid, stupid sentence, Callie. Really horrible. Would’ve only been worse if I had somehow incorporated the word “shared.”

  “Oh, I totally understand.” The young professor, um, I think her name might be Kate, speaks. A high pitched, chippy voice. “What an honor to get asked to write those articles. I mean, I—”

  She keeps talking, moving a couple steps closer to me. I stop listening and start praying.

  Please don’t accidentally spit on me. Please don’t spit on me. Please don’t spit on me.

  I’m sure she’s already exchanged bodily fluids with Dr. Gabriel…sure she already has a number of diseases now running through her. Please don’t spit those diseases out on me.

  She talks. And talks. And talks. People around us exit the conference room, eventually leaving the three of us alone. She keeps talking.

  I hold my phone, wondering if I’m even going to get a second to send a text during this brea
k. And if I don’t, what will Dr. Blake think? Will he think something is wrong and then get upset and then just decide to lea—

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  It’s pretty loud. Loud enough that she, um, Kate, stops babbling.

  I glance down at my phone, see I have a text from Unknown Number, and then…then I make an unethical, selfish decision.

  One. Two. Three.

  I talk. “Oh—it’s my father. Something must be going on at home—he wants me to call as soon as I have the time.”

  Please don’t let anything bad happen to anyone. Please let nothing bad happen. Please.

  “Oh, of course.” Kate puts her hand on Dr. Gabriel’s arm. “We’ll get out of your way.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Hope everything is okay.”

  Me too.

  Dr. Gabriel gives me, I guess, a concerned glance (it looks more like the glance of a sexual predator), and then the happy couple leaves.

  I remain in my seat…feeling a little relieved, but more nervous. Oh, and guilty. Really, really guilty.

  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I said that. Please let everyone be okay…

  My phone buzzes again. I don’t look at it yet. More anti-family-hurting praying.

  One. Two. Three. Pray. One. Two. Three. Pray. One. Two. Three. Pray.

  Okay.

  I inhale slowly and look back down at my phone. I now have two Unknown Number messages.

  First message. Open.

  No comments about Option #2?

  Yes. I have a comment about Option #2. I’m not doing Option #2—that’s my comment.

  Before I tell him that, before I type anything, I check my second message.

  If you want, I can try to call Dr. Lyst this afternoon. Maybe he can even squeeze you in for an appointment at some point next week.