I can hear her grinning over the phone. “What about you? Did you end up as a sociology professor like you wanted? You weirdo.”
I could certainly write an interesting thesis on the culture I’m in these days. “I didn’t.”
“Oh.” She falters, clearly not sure how to reply. She’s spent this whole time thinking that I’d run off on her and ended up with the perfect life with everything I ever wanted. It’s a little hilarious. “What do you do?”
“You’ll laugh,” I reply, trying to buy time. What the hell should I say?
“I won’t, I promise.”
“I’m a hunter.” At least it’s the truth.
She laughs. The lying bitch. “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine that. My Abigail as a mighty huntress.” If only I was still her Abigail. “The pay any good?”
I put the eight hundred from earlier in my wallet. “It’s not bad.”
“That’s good at least. Do you like it?”
I honestly have no idea. It’s just quick and easy and lets me order things online. That is, after I use the ATM at the Community Center, which I forgot to do. Oh well, I still have enough from last time, and I don’t have anything too pressing to buy. “It’s a living.”
“Are you happy?”
Tears continue streaming down my cheeks, getting caught in my fur as I lean back in bed. “I’m happy hearing from you,” I offer lamely. No, that was stupid; it’s just going to make her think she can see me. I need to tell her to leave me alone. Even if I have to say I hate her, at least it’ll keep her safe.
“Wanna grab coffee sometime?”
I blink. I don’t think I even need to blink anymore. I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of any plausible excuse. I need to buy time. “I’m out of town right now, but maybe when I get back?”
“That sounds great. When will that be?” She sounds so happy.
I don’t want to take this from her. I want to see her. I hadn’t even realized how much I’ve missed her. “A few weeks?”
“All right. Let me know when you’re back, and we’ll make plans.”
“Can’t wait. I should probably get some sleep. You have a good night.” I hang up without waiting for her response. What the hell did I just agree to? I have to cancel or not show or change my phone number and let her think I ran away again. Anything is better than this. I can’t let her see me like this. Let her keep the memory of the woman she loved, not the monster I’ve become. My phone slides from my hand to the floor, and I bury my face in my pillow. I’m pretty sure I end up biting a chunk out of it as I try to muffle my sobs. This is such an awful idea, and the next diet group isn’t for another week. I need someone to beat some sense into me.
The beating can wait for tomorrow, though. If I go out in this state, I might eat someone. I let myself fall asleep. It’s the closest thing to sustenance I allow myself. My dreams are of food. They’re of Elizabeth.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth
I’m really trying to listen to this client, I swear I am. I’ve just heard her say it all so many times before. It feels like I’m stealing from her at this point. I walk her to a solution, she decides to take it, and then the next week, she’s right back in the same spot. It’s amazing her insurance is still covering it.
That’s not the only reason I’m barely listening. I still can’t believe that call last night. I’m gonna talk to Sandy about it in another hour. She should be proud; she wanted me to talk to Abigail. I just didn’t think it would really happen. Or that I’d be calling her at two in the morning after tossing and turning. I can’t even blame it on the booze. I was stone cold sober.
“I can’t betray my vows,” she says for what must be the hundredth time since she became my client. “I won’t do it. It’s wrong. We made vows before God. If she can’t love me as I really am, I’ll just stay with her and suppress it.” One of the two solutions she comes to before walking away every single week.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” I tell her as I always do. “If you think that’s what’s best for you, you should do it. I just want you to think about what you’re sacrificing, and if it’s really something you can live with.”
“But I love her.”
“Does she love you?” I actually don’t specialize in this stuff, but a friend of hers found out that I am gay because I am not always great at keeping up that wall between therapist and client and recommended that she see me since I might understand. I don’t, but she seems to like venting to me anyway.
“Of course she does. She doesn’t treat me as badly as you seem to think. She does love me.” She grabs a tissue from the box on the plush couch’s armrest and wipes her eyes before blowing her nose and tossing the tissue in the general direction of the wastebasket. “She really does.”
Every week. “I can’t judge that for you. I only want to make sure you’ve thought everything through before you do it.”
She kicks at the carpet, stirring up the chip crumbs from my last client. “There’s no other option. It’s the only way.”
“If you’re sure.” I let her continue ranting for a while. This is one of the more religious days, and it’s never fun listening to her insist that God doesn’t approve of homosexuality in addition to the divorce, transitioning, and all kinds of other things she’s convinced He doesn’t want her to do. It gets old. I’ve never had much patience for that sort of stuff myself. Religion is exhausting all on its own.
“What do you think?”
I suck on my teeth as if I’ve been listening and am trying to sort out my feelings. “I think you should pick whatever is easiest for you to live with. If that’s staying with her and burying who you are again, then while I worry about you and think we should discuss it more, I can’t make you choose otherwise.”
Chewing on her lip, she turns her gaze to the shag carpet. It came with the place. “It’s what God wants.”
Well, God also wants this session to be over. It’s 4:50. “If that’s what you believe. It looks like we’re out of time. I’ll see you next week?”
Standing up, she straightens her skirt and brushes off a crumb I’d missed from the couch. “It’s scheduled for noon, right? I need to do it during lunch.”
A couple clicks on my laptop bring up my schedule. “Yep, Twelve o’clock next Wednesday. I’ll see you then.”
She pulls me into a hug, and I pat her back. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you to talk to.”
“It’s my job. I’m happy to help.” I walk her out and grab a handheld vacuum to clean up the crumbs. I have a maid that comes in on Thursdays, but I’d rather not have every client stepping on chips in the meantime. When I’m confident I’ve vacuumed all the mess, I lock up and climb into my black Subaru sedan, tossing a few files in the back.
I’m supposed to be meeting Sandra at her favorite sandwich place in half an hour. It’s only fifteen minutes away, but I have an audiobook to listen to.
* * *
“What did you want to talk about?” she asks, popping a pickle into her mouth. “I assume you didn’t ask me to meet you here just because you knew how badly I was craving a good sandwich.”
“No, that’s the reason. I’m psychically attuned with your stomach, and I knew you needed this.” I smirk, sipping my Orangina.
“I really did.” She takes a bite that has to be too big for her and melts into the chair, a smile spreading across her face. “It’s perfect.”
“Good. It should be.” I blow on mine. I’m not burning my mouth again.
“Work was so long. I swear, I can still see numbers dancing in front of my eyes. It’s the worst. I had to fix someone else’s work that was off by almost a million dollars. It took me the entire afternoon to figure out where they’d made the mistake.”
I should own up to it. Why am I so scared? Do I think it was all a dream, or am I just dreading the “I told you so” lecture? Whatever. “I did it.”
She raises an eyebrow and sets her sandwich
on the plate, quirking her head. A speck of lettuce is stuck to her cheek, and it makes it very difficult to take her seriously. Maybe it’ll make the lecture easier to stomach. “You did what? I’m pretty sure I’d know if you were the one that fucked up the books for that client.”
“What you suggested over the weekend.” God, I’m coy today.
She wipes her face and leans forward, staring intently. Damn it, now she’s intimidating again. Her black eyebrows furrow as she studies me. “You called Carol?”
“I talked to her on Monday, but that’s not what I meant. She didn’t take it well, but I did it. Did I not tell you?”
“No, you most certainly did not.” She continues eyeing me but pulls back and picks her sandwich up. “All right, so other than hurting that poor girl even more, what did you do?”
I sigh, my gaze falling to my own lunch. Maybe this would be easier if Abby had told me more. I still don’t know what happened. “I called Abby.”
She drops her sandwich. Fortunately, it lands on the plate, but a few pieces of lettuce and a pickle fall out. “You what? Holy shit, Liz. Are you serious? How long has it been? I mean, you were calling her almost every day without an answer until, what, five years ago?”
“Yes. Thank you for that. I definitely needed to be reminded of how awful that year was.” Taking a swig of my drink, I turn away. It was not an easy time. Even the year I took off from school hardly made it worth it.
“Well, what’d she say?”
I grumble. “She didn’t say much. Just that she really missed me too, and that we could meet up when she’s back in town. I just wish I knew what had happened between us. Maybe I really did scare her off when I confessed.”
She wraps her arms around me, resting her chin on the top of my head. “I know how badly she hurt you before, but isn’t getting this chance for closure a good thing? You can see her and confront her. You won’t need to spend the rest of your life feeling like there’s something wrong with you.”
“Who says there’s something wrong with me?” I spit back, holding back tears in the crowded restaurant. I know I’m overreacting. She just kind of hit the nail on the head. Abby running off definitely made me feel as if I was broken, as if I wasn’t worthy of love. I’m over that, though. As a therapist, I give myself a clean bill of health and add that I am absolutely perfect and amazingly functional.
“You did, all the time. Hell, Friday you were insisting you weren’t capable of love.”
“That’s not necessarily something wrong with me,” I point out. Capable of love is not the same thing as worthy of love. I’m fine. “Can we leave? We can eat in the car. I’m sick of making a scene.” Trying not to cry is way less fun than crying in a friend’s car. I’m obviously only crying as part of my being fine, not because of how much Abby hurt me or anything.
She nods, chin pressing into my head. “All right.” She grabs our sandwiches and heads for the door. Taking a moment to collect myself, I wipe my eyes before I follow, carrying our drinks.
We sit in her SUV, classic rock playing quietly in the background as she watches me and delicately eats her sandwich as if in fear of a drop landing in her car. It’s not my car, so I dig in. Maybe the veal can fight back the complicated array of emotions I’m going through. In my defense, she told me to call Abby, so any mess in her car as a result of that is really her fault. It’s sad how bad I am at emotions considering that I’m a therapist. I can handle other people’s fine, but I’d rather just get rid of mine. They’re annoying.
She lets me finish before asking, “Do you know when she’ll be in town?”
I shake my head. “I wish I did. She said a few weeks, so hopefully less than a month.”
She contemplates that as she chews. “Keep talking to her, then. Maybe you can get answers before she gets back? You don’t need to wait that whole month for closure.”
I shrug. “I don’t think she wants to talk. She seemed pretty desperate to get off the phone.”
“Did she say that? She answered the call and said she missed you. You’re probably overthinking things.”
I’m supposed to be the therapist here. “I was blowing up her phone. I’d sent her a really long message and called earlier in the day. Then I couldn’t sleep, and I tried calling again, not thinking about how late it was. She probably wasn’t paying attention to who it was. I mean, who calls at two in the morning without something important to say?”
“It was important, Liz.” She finishes her sandwich and washes it down with the rest of her water. “Try texting her. Just one message, and give her a day to reply.”
“Maybe.”
“If you think you harassed her into talking to you, take a step back, let her know that you still want to talk more, and leave the rest to her.”
“If I’m doing that, shouldn’t I wait for her to message me?”
With a shrug, she puts her hands on my shoulders and stares into my eyes as if to make sure I don’t miss a syllable. Way to be overly dramatic. “She wants to talk to you. She may be worried you were drunk or that you’re still mad at her. Just one message, then wait for her move. I promise, she’s gonna talk to you more. She already made plans to see you. Clearly, she wants to.”
The tears come again, and I do my best to fight them. “Then why’d she leave?”
A quick squeeze to my shoulders and she calmly says, “Ask her.”
I guess I can’t argue with that. “Fine.” I pull out my phone before I can chicken out. “I’ll message her right now.”
I type out a quick message. It was really great talking to you last night. I can’t believe how long it’s been. There, that’s harmless, right? Hopefully, she doesn’t read it as passive aggressive. I just didn’t want to ask her anything and sound presumptuous, as if I’m trying to force her to talk to me. “I messaged her.”
“Good.” She rolls her neck and tosses the garbage into a grocery store bag sitting at my feet. “Is it all right if I head home? I’m meeting a cute guy for drinks tonight, and I was hoping to clean up and look presentable first.”
“Yeah. Go knock him dead. I’ll be all right.”
“I love you, Liz.” She hugs me for the umpteenth time, and I swear I feel a tear on my shoulder.
“I love you too.”
“See, you are capable of love.” She crushes my spine and sits up. “Now get out of my car.”
“I can see when I’m not wanted.” I wink as I let myself out and head back to my sedan. I guess I’ll head home too. I don’t have a hot date since someone decided to chew me out whenever I have a one-night stand. Not that that’s what I really want right now. I hope she’ll message me soon, and those two things are completely unrelated. It’s not like I’m any good at relationships.
* * *
When I’m getting ready for bed, my phone chimes. It’s probably an email from a client or a potential client. That’s what it was the last time I checked. The time before, it was just Sandra making sure I made it home safe. She really is a good friend. There’s no way it’s Abby. I give in and set my toothbrush back down and dash to the phone. Dental hygiene can wait.
It’s her. It was nice talking to you too. I know what you mean; it kinda feels like it’s both been so much longer and so much shorter than six years. So much has changed.
I’m not tired anymore anyway. You free to call?
My phone rings. I didn’t even know custom ringtones could carry over from phone to phone. God, that’s embarrassing. “Hey,” I say, holding my breath as I wait for an answer. I can scarcely believe it’s real. No, I’m not still in love with her—I’m definitely not—it’s just nice hearing from my best friend.
“Hey.” She doesn’t sound at all nervous. Maybe slightly distorted. I could swear her voice was a little higher before, but it’s probably just the phones. Maybe it’s the connection since she’s out of town.
“How’s your day going?”
She doesn’t answer for a few seconds, and I glance at the screen to make su
re she hasn’t hung up. “I actually just woke up.”
“Oh.” Do hunters have a night shift? Maybe it’s her day off?
“It was nice having that message to wake up to.”
I lie back in bed, any thoughts of my nightly routine far from my head. I’ve missed this. “I’m glad I could make your morning special. Your night?”
“Morning is fine.” A low sound, something like a sigh, crackles across the phone. “How was your day?”
“Just boring work stuff. Nothing I can talk about.” I definitely didn’t cry over you both in a restaurant and in my best friend’s car. Christ, what is wrong with me?
“Right, confidentiality and everything. Wow, that has to be tough to get used to.”
I stare at the unmoving fan above, the light shining in my eyes. “It’s not that bad.”
I hear movement on her end. “I guess it was your dream job. Plus, you had a while to adjust to it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for it.”
Don’t say it. Just enjoy catching up. Put a pin in the insanity for once in your life. “Why weren’t you?”
There’s only silence for a long moment. I’m about to check the phone again when a barely audible sound comes through the speaker. Something almost like a growl. “I don’t want to talk about it. I promise it wasn’t you, okay?”
There, I got something. It wasn’t my fault. There goes six years of anxiety, only to be replaced with a million new fears. Just take it and change the subject. “Then why? Abby, you disappeared. I called you every day for an entire year. I dropped out of school. I was a wreck. I’m trying so hard to move past this and be friends again, but I need to know what happened.” Like I said, I’m the picture of mental health.
I wait for her to hang up. It’s about the only sane response to what I unloaded on her. “But you’re a therapist now. I thought everything worked out perfectly.” Her voice still seems oddly perfect, as if she’s not blubbering like a little baby. Maybe that’s just me.
My Date with a Wendigo Page 3
