I miss her so much it fucking kills. I can't even hear her voice anymore, or see her curls, or hold her in my arms. If I was a violent person, I’d punch a hole through Elizabeth’s chest. But I’m not. In fact, I’m the opposite, which is probably why I have such a long history of getting fucked over so badly.
Nice guys really do finish last.
I spend the entire morning, before my shift at The Burrito Bar, working on one of my screenplays and reading through the script of Hero that I found online to see what made it work so well. I like to write and fiddle around with this stuff, but that's it. The last person who even read and reviewed any of my work was my AP high school English teacher at Torrey Pines High, Mrs. Pimental. She was the one who pushed and inspired me to study movie production in college.
Those days are long gone though. The only reason I bother with this stuff now is because it keeps my mind off things when I'm not working. Life gets especially painful when I try to call Elizabeth's cell, hoping she'll let me say hi to my own daughter. But she doesn't answer; she uses Zoey as a weapon against me, and it works every time. So I write and channel as much anger and sadness that I can through my craft. Then I study other movies. And I use my brain to turn my pain into a story or two or three. Even if I’m the only one who reads them.
With all of that said, this morning is shaping up to be even stranger than most of my mornings, which is saying a lot considering where I live right now. Because no matter how hard I try, Garrett keeps popping into my head. I truly can’t put my finger on it, because I’m not into him physically, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be into a man who is legally investigating me right now.
Then why, when I let my thoughts wander back over to Garrett, can I feel my cock start to twitch? Am I actually attracted to him, or am I just confused? Does it even matter?
Honestly, it kind of sucks that I have to deny whatever pleasure I feel from even just thinking about that man. Last night, watching Hero together and talking afterwards, was a total release for me, something I haven’t felt for as long as I can remember. Being together, with Garrett, just felt natural even though it should’ve felt anything but. It definitely didn’t feel that way back in his office. So what changed?
I’m willing to consider, at least to myself, that I pretended as though I was completely engrossed with the movie the whole time it was playing, as though I was oblivious to his presence. In reality I was hyper-aware of every single breath he took during the entire movie. I felt like I could even taste tiny airborne droplets of spearmint mouthwash that escaped from his breath.
Like I said, it’s been a strange morning, at least in my head. If only I knew just how much this spool was about to unravel.
The rest of the week lingers and I feel all triggered inside, more so than usual which is saying a lot. As much as I hate to admit it, the reason is crystal clear. I can’t wait to see my court ordered therapist. Not exactly the type of person normal people look forward to seeing, but that's par for my course. Not so normal…
When the day and time for my appointment with him finally comes, I sit out in the waiting area just as I did before. I look around again and try to make sense of it all. Garrett is a smart man. He seems like the type of man who could do anything in this world. So why is he here? Not that there's anything wrong with his job, I just get the sense that he's so much bigger than this.
An older, haggard looking man practically limps down the hallway. He looks completely disheveled, and he's sporting a tattered flannel shirt with faded ripped jeans. His eyes are sad and dark, and I'm guessing he's one of Garrett's clients just leaving an appointment with him. He doesn’t pay me a lick of mind as he walks right past me and down the stairs. I can only imagine the characters that Garrett has to see, myself included.
A few more minutes crawl by and I start to go all crazy waiting in my seat. I check my watch and figure he's either running late for normal reasons, he completely forgot about me, or that he escaped through the back door.
Finally, Garrett comes out and greets me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's the one who looks slightly nervous to see me, and not the other way around. This can’t be right though. Why would a man in his position be nervous around me right now? I'm the one with the life on the line here. My opinions of him mean nothing; his opinions of me mean everything.
I grab my "work" bag that I’ve been lugging around all day, my trusty brown sack that I use to transport all of my notes and my laptop. Then I snatch up my half-empty latte and follow Garrett down the hallway. I instantly hate myself again as I can't stop perusing every inch of his flesh. It's as though he gets better looking every time I see him. And I still say that sandy blonde hair of his should be on the fucking cover of a cereal box. Or on a Hollywood set...
It’s safe to conclude, to my own major dismay, that he's the kind of man who is so fucking magnetic, even straight men like me can't ignore him. And occasionally, straight men like me even get a little charge in our pants if we get too close to him, even if it ultimately means very little in the grand scheme of things.
My mind starts to drift to places it shouldn't. I wonder what he looks like completely unclothed. I wonder if I’d actually get turned on by that. And I wonder if he shaves his pubes. He must. He's too prim and proper not to.
We head into Garrett's office and it’s déjà vu time as I feel my shoulders drop the moment I enter his serene, calming space as opposed to the musty projector room I’ve been crashing in.
"What's in the bag?" he asks, more than likely just making small talk than actually wanting to know.
I pat my bag as though it's an old war buddy of mine. "This? This is where I keep basically my entire life. Since I don't have a place to stay-"
Garrett's eyes widen. "Where do you sleep?" he asks, looking noticeably less professional than he did in my first session with him, and looking disproportionately concerned considering he hardly knows me.
I continue, "When Elizabeth filed a bogus restraining order against me, I had nowhere to stay that was close enough to Zoey if and when I'd ever get to see her again. I got to know the guy who runs Fifth Street Cinema, and he agreed I could stay-"
He interrupts me again, which can’t be the usual fare for him. During my first session with Garrett, he was completely organized; he never spoke out of turn. Now, he seems like he's off his game, at a minimum. "You sleep at the movie theater? I did happen to…" his voice trails off, then he swallows hard and regains his composure.
Garrett squints his eyes as he glances over at the brown leather bag I practically live out of. "You're going through a lot, Ethan. How are you coping?"
I chuckle to hide the pain I’m feeling. "Not sure I'd use the word coping, but I guess I'm surviving. Being away from my daughter is devastating. I spend my days living in a movie theater. I can't earn real money because I don’t have a degree or any marketable skills. Elizabeth bumped me from her family health insurance plan. And I have no idea how I'm ever going to see my kid and get out of this mess."
He shakes his head slowly from side to side and offers a warm look of compassion. "Then what gets you through right now? I mean, this is a lot for anyone to have-"
I cut him off mid-sentence, "I write... Every chance I get. For no apparent reason, I just write."
"You write…"
"Screenplays. It helps me channel my emotions. My work is never going to be seen or used in any real way, but writing gives my soul an outlet. Better than sticking a needle in my arm, right?"
He smirks slightly. "Way better. Do you have anything I can read?" he asks.
"You mean, like a sample of my writing?"
He eyes shift up and down my body as he mindlessly massages the back of his neck and gestures towards his couch. "I'd love to see some of your work, if you’re okay with that."
"I don't show people my stuff," I say as I shake my head dramatically from side to side and plant myself down on his couch. I want to make it clear, that’s all. "Some of the content ge
ts a little... out there. You'll think I'm a psycho for sure, and that's the last thing I need."
"I don't think you could ever be classified as a psycho, Ethan. But I have to ask, how do you expect to get your work out there if you don't let the world see it?"
I fold my arms across my chest, forgetting who it is I'm talking to right now. Then again, Garrett seems to be acting like he's forgotten who he's talking to too. I reach down for my brown bag and place it on my lap, and then I cover it up with my hands as though I'm protecting a newborn child. "That's easy, Garrett. I don't want the world to see it. I write screenplays because it's cathartic, not because I want to make a living at it anymore."
"Maybe that's part of your problem. Don't you think you're a little young to be killing off your dreams already?"
My gut tightens. Is this really any of his business? Isn't trying to prove that I'm capable of raising my own daughter and that I'm not some raging alcoholic enough of an uphill climb for now? I'm pretty sure the probate courthouse didn't assign me to a fucking life coach who won't just let me wrap shitty burritos in peace for the rest of my life.
I finally let out a deep breath, no longer able to hide my discomfort with his line of questioning. I throw a fake smile his way, but I can see that he's not buying it.
But his demeanor suddenly shifts into something a bit more professional once again. "You’re right, it’s none of my business," he says. "That’s not what you’re here,” he adds as he raises both brows and shrugs his shoulders.
It's hard to get mad at someone when they're being this upfront, but I can’t let the issue go. I let my dumb mouth open and say, "Do you ever think that therapists sometimes push their clients too hard because they're working through some of their own issues vicariously through the people they’re supposed to be treating?"
It would make sense for him to throw me out of his office after what I just implied. And for him to file a report that says I'm an asshole and that no judge should allow me to have any significant amount of ongoing time with Zoey. But of course, he has to go and make things even more complicated with the perfect response. "I can appreciate what you're saying, Ethan. And you're probably right, there's probably a small part of me that tries to work out some of my own baggage through my clients. We all have stuff to sort through in this life."
I find myself burning to know what his issues are.
He goes on to say, "And when I believe in my clients, sometimes more than they believe in themselves, I can get a little carried away. I hate seeing people having distorted thoughts, or self-limiting beliefs, when I know that they’re capable of so much more in this life."
We simultaneously lean back in our respective seats. Rain starts to pound on the overly thin roof above us. I glance out through the window and notice that the sky has completely darkened.
"Switching gears-" he starts to say, but his words are halted by a sudden crash of thunder just outside his office building. This time, we both look through the window; San Diego sees a storm like this two or three times a year, at most. But when they do come, they come without warning.
He continues, “I’m going to use a clinical tapping method that helps stimulate the brain. It should give us, and the courts, some insight regarding the incident with your ex. I'll be tapping the sides of your knees, from right to left, back-and-forth. It’s not a test, and it's important that you try and relax as you answer each question."
I can't even hear the rest of his sentence. Did he just say physical contact? My body instantly stiffens. Why? Maybe it's because, in my defense, I know that he's bullshitting me about this supposedly not being a test. Everything with him is a test; he knows it, and I know it. The entire point of me being here is that I'm being tested, so I wish he would just be upfront with me about that. But I'm not totally convinced that that's the only reason I feel deeply petrified.
"It's fine. Whatever it takes. You’re in charge, right?" I say, just before another round of thunder and lightning seems to land right outside of Garrett's office window.
He scoots his chair towards me so that he's now just inches away from my knees. As he leans towards me, I can feel my breath freeze and my jaw tighten.
Grow some balls, Ethan.
His voice is low and soft, almost hypnotic as he says, "I want you to picture the scene in your mind. Float back in your head, to the night in question. I know that your daughter was fast asleep, and that your wife-"
I interrupt him, "Ex-wife."
He nods once and says, "And that your ex-wife was out for the night. Now let that scene percolate in your mind."
Garrett leans forward a bit more and starts to tap both sides of my knees with his hands. A slow, rhythmic pulse begins to develop as his fingertips land on both of my knees and alternate back and forth between each side. And for some ungodly reason, I can feel heat start to make its way up the side of my leg and into my groin.
Fuck, I don't like this. I need to relax though. I have a job to do, for Zoey. I don't know why the hell I feel so nervous around him, but it shouldn't matter anymore.
"It's okay to close your eyes, Ethan. I want you to really get that scene in your mind and let me know when you've got it," he says.
I close my eyes and startle as another crack of thunder literally rattles the walls in his office. I take a deep breath and let myself recover as his finger tapping continues on my poor, frightened legs. His voice drops another octave as he says, "Are you relatively okay?"
"Yes," I whisper. In truth, I'm not. I'll never be relatively okay as long as he keeps putting his hands on me. There's an undeniable ball of energy that I feel swirling around between my legs, and I'm not even sure what it means, apart from the fact that it's impossible for me to calm the fuck down.
My heart is racing even harder now. Is he trying to set off a bomb in my chest? How am I supposed to sit here, relive the worst night of my life, and deal with his hands on my legs?
Another crack of thunder hits hard, and this time, because my nerves are already on total edge, I spring from my seat. The tension is too much to bear, and I lose all control, going off like a loose cannon in front of the most important man in my life right now.
“I’m sorry,” I say, waving him off. “I can’t do this right now. It’s not my fault. I shouldn’t have to go through this mess just to be with my own kid.”
Garrett is speechless, which can only mean one thing… he thinks I’m fucking nuts. Mentally unstable. No doubt, he probably won’t even need the remaining six sessions with me to complete his report. I’m totally cooked.
And I don’t even have anything left in me to defend myself.
But at least, and I mean the very least, I don’t have to relive that scene again with Elizabeth screaming at me, demeaning me with my own daughter within earshot.
And I don’t have to tolerate the agony of having Garrett put his hands on my knees and wondering why the hell I'm feeling all these crazy urges whenever I'm near him. And why, even though I so desperately wanted him to stop, did a part of me secretly want to feel his touch make its way up my thighs?
Yup, I've officially cracked up.
I go to offer a weak apology for my erratic behavior, but before my lips can move, a barrage of thunder and lightning hits so hard that it literally feels like a pipe bomb just went off in Garrett’s office. The lights flicker once or twice, then they go completely out.
I look around the office and make note of the total darkness we're in amidst this sudden power outage.
Nervous as hell, I make a corny joke about the fact that the storm is just a fraction as scary as having to undergo these psychiatric sessions with him.
Garrett mutters something that I don't quite catch, then I feel two hands on my shoulders.
I take in a quick gasp of air.
What the fuck?
Unless I’m mistaken, there is definitely a heavy dose of lust in his voice as he says, “I’m sorry. I can back away if you-”
An indescribable wave of ecst
asy fills every cell in my body. I cut him off with a whisper, “No, I don’t want you to.”
My shoulders melt towards the floor. His touch is better than any mind-altering drug on the market, minus the life-threatening side effects; his hands are both calming and energizing all at once.
He moves in towards me and whispers back, “I’ve never done anything like this before. But you seemed like you were in so much pain, I…”
“You felt bad for me,” I say, my body weakening by the second.
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it? Why are you doing this?”
Garrett slides his hand onto the side of my neck. My body tightens, for obvious reasons, but I arch my head back ever so slightly even though it’s the last possible thing I should be doing right now.
This officially marks the first time I’ve ever had a man touch me like this. And I hate to say, I’ve never felt anything so good, not even in my wildest dreams. His hands are rough, warm, and strong, the kind of hands that turn my flesh into lava.
But even though I kind of sensed some sort of connection between us right from the start, this is clearly not what I expected. And it’s crossing the line in so many ways I don’t know where to begin.
In theory, I’m the one who could probably press charges in this sick little scenario, or at least have Garrett’s license to work in his field permanently revoked for this. Then again, he knows I don’t have enough money to take care of my own kid, let alone to hire an attorney to press charges against him.
Is that what this is all about? Is he taking advantage of me right now? He knows I’m weak. Knows I’m broke and vulnerable…
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