by DeLuca, Gia
“First Friday in February,” I said. “Seven in the evening. Beacon Art Gallery.”
“I don’t want to upset her on her special night,” her mom said. I barely knew Julie Salinger, and already I got the sense that she loved her daughter, but only from a distance. Sophie didn’t need passive love. She needed real love. She needed all the real love she could get.
“Please,” I said. “I need to go now, but I hope to see you both there.”
“Hey, stranger.” I rounded the corner by my office, only to run into Daphne. She always seemed to know exactly where I was going to be and strategically planted herself in all the right places.
“Daphne,” I said with a nod, charging forward to the neurology clinic.
“Tried calling you last weekend,” she said, her long legs going stride for stride with mine. “Didn’t know if you wanted to go get drinks sometime?”
“No, thanks.” The less I tried to engage with her, the better. She refused to let go of me, of the possibility of a future for us.
She slinked her perfect hair, an expensive shade of ash blonde, over her shoulder and smiled, hiding any trace of disparity as she nonchalantly inched closer to me.
“Maybe we can get together sometime soon?” she said. “Valentine’s Day is coming up. If you don’t have anyone to spend it with…”
Even if I didn’t have Sophie, I’d have much preferred to spend that horrid holiday alone in the comfort of my apartment than doing anything with Daphne.
I grabbed my patient’s file from the file box and flipped it open, charging ahead to Exam Room One.
“Jamison,” Daphne said, placing one thin hand on her narrow hip. Her blue eyes searched mine for an ounce of anything that might give her hope.
“I’ll be spending it with someone else this year,” I said, not knowing how else to tell her. Daphne was no saint, but I never wanted to hurt her.
I entered the exam room before I had a chance to see her face fall.
SOPHIE
“So good to be back.” I breezed through the front door of Beacon Art Supplies, which was officially Beacon Art Gallery, and stopped in my tracks, placing a hand across my chest. “Mia.”
In the long week I’d spent recuperating at home, Mia had refused to show me any progress pictures. She wanted to surprise me, and I was so glad she did. No pictures could ever do the new studio any amount of justice.
“This doesn’t even look like the same place.” I danced around the wide open space. Walls had been relocated and white-washed in shades of alabaster and ash gray, and pristine marble floors gave it the touch of class we could only hope would attract the right kinds of customers. Mounted lights showcased our art as it hung on the walls. Natural light flooded in the front floor-to-ceiling windows and our old, paint-stained counter had been replaced with a modern steel and granite desk.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Mia swooned, stars still in her eyes as if she were seeing the place for the first time.
“We need to have a grand opening,” I said, already picturing it in my mind.
“We will,” Mia said coyly.
“Like, as soon as possible, Mia. Come on, let’s get on this,” I said, nothing short of impatient. Our dreams were finally taking shape, and I didn’t want to waste a single moment.
“We will,” Mia said, emphasizing each word. “Come on. I have something to show you.”
She hooked her arm into my elbow and led me to the back of the store where her office had been converted into two separate, small studio spaces.
“This is where the magic will happen,” she said, watching my face as it lit up like the fourth of July. “We each have our own little studios, you know, to work while we’re here.”
“Mia,” I gasped. Everything was brand new. The easels. The paint supplies. The brushes. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“You know I get a supplier discount on all this stuff,” she said casually. “We have this beautiful new gallery, so I figured we needed beautiful little studios, too.”
I spun around and wrapped my arms around her. “Have I told you how amazing you are? Seriously, Mia.”
Not only did she nurse me back to health while Jamison was at work, she’d managed the renovation on her own and had time to put together two beautiful art studios.
“Oh, stop,” Mia said, not usually one for sentimental moments. “Okay, slacker, let’s get to work.”
I popped over to the pristine bar stool positioned in front of a brand new easel that held a blank canvas. Drawing in a deep breath, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what I wanted to paint.
I grabbed a filbert brush and some red and white paint, squirting them onto a virginal wooden palette and mixing them into the most vibrant shade of pink. Big strokes, followed by small ones. When I was finished, a slender, abstract heart took center stage on the canvas. I loaded my palette with more colors. Yellows. Peaches. Whites. Lavenders. The heart wouldn’t be recognizable by the time I was done with it, but it would still be there, underneath it all.
“Nice,” Mia said in passing a short time later. She stood in the doorway of my new studio, admiring my work. She’d deemed me the queen of oil painting back in college, but she was the queen of watercolor. Watercolors were harder, in my opinion, and Mia’s ethereal paintings were extraordinary.
“Thanks,” I said, cocking my head to the side as I studied my work.
“No blue in that one,” she observed. She’d called my last two years’ worth of paintings my Blue Period. Everything was blue or had shades thereof worked into the details.
“Getting kind of tired of blue now, to be honest,” I sighed. A smile drew across my lips as Jamison came to mind.
“What’s that smile for?”
I shrugged and flashed her a knowing smirk.
“Him,” she said.
I nodded.
“He really cares about you, Sophie,” Mia said, brows raised. “I can tell you that.”
“I know,” I said, well aware.
***
“Hi, Sophie. Come on in,” Dr. Strong said the following afternoon. “Good seeing you.”
I sunk down into the loveseat, unzipping my coat and trying to get comfortable as Dr. Strong flipped her yellow legal pad to a fresh page.
“What brings you in today?” she asked, clicking her pen.
Sidewalk slush had seeped through my suede boots on the walk there that afternoon, and my toes were tiny, frozen icicles in my soaked socks.
I tried to speak, but the words got stuck once again.
“It’s okay, Sophie. This is a safe place,” Dr. Strong assured me, peering over her glasses.
“There’s this thing that happened a couple years ago,” I began, my voice timid and meek. “I’ve been told I need to stop blaming myself for it, but I don’t know how.”
Dr. Strong sat her pen down and situated herself in her chair, her eyes softening. “Go ahead, Sophie. Tell me everything.”
For once she appeared completely engaged, though she reminded me more of someone impatiently waiting to hear juicy gossip.
“Two years ago,” I began, “I was a senior at the Taylor School of Art in Upstate New York. I had two sisters. Nori and Rossi. They were twins. They were freshmen, and they were just nineteen.”
My throat swelled as I fought tears.
“It was dead week. I was finishing a project for finals. I’d been staying up late, and I planned to stay in that Friday night to finish my project,” I said, eyes darting to the ground. “They were invited to a party, and begged me to buy them alcohol. I wanted to be the cool big sister, so I did. I bought them alcohol, and I dropped them off at the party across town.”
Dr. Strong picked up her pen and began studiously taking notes.
“They were supposed to call me when they needed to be picked up,” I continued. “I didn’t want them getting in the car with someone else. I fell asleep. I missed their call. They got a ride home from this guy. And he’d been drinking…”
I squeezed my e
yes shut, reliving that nightmare all over again.
“They were smart girls.” My voice broke. “I didn’t think they’d do something like that. But toxicology reports showed their blood alcohol levels were twice the legal limit. Their judgment was impaired, and they got in a car with a drunk driver because I didn’t answer my phone.”
My nerves frayed and my body began to tremble. The room spun on its side as my lungs gasped for air. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as I stifled sobs.
“The driver went the wrong way on the interstate,” I said, my shoulders shaking. “Everyone died.”
Dr. Strong stood up, walked across the small room, and handed me a tissue box before sitting next to me on the sofa.
“Sophie, it’s okay,” she said. “We’re going to work through this. It’s not your fault.”
I dabbed my eyes with the tissue and leaned back, feeling the coolness of the room’s air was it washed over my hot skin. Dr. Strong waited until I’d calmed down before returning to her chair.
“First of all,” she said, her voice assertive and attention-grabbing for the first time ever, “you didn’t make your sisters get into that car.”
I lifted my gaze to hers, finding myself finally beginning to like her just a little. Maybe.
“Second of all,” she said, “you’re only human. We make mistakes sometimes. Maybe you shouldn’t have bought them alcohol. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen asleep. And you can replay that night in your head as much as you want, testing different scenarios as if it would’ve made a difference. But at the end of the day, you have to accept what happened, Sophie. And you have to forgive yourself.”
“Forgive myself?” I asked. The concept were foreign to me.
“Stop holding yourself hostage over what happened,” she said. “Are you angry with yourself for buying them alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“Are you angry with yourself for falling asleep and missing their call?”
“Yes.”
“Then you haven’t forgiven yourself,” she said. “Release that anger. Let it go. Stop punishing yourself for your mistakes.”
She’d hit the nail on the head. I’d been punishing myself for two years. Every time my parents called, I’d push them away. I had pushed away my college boyfriend after the funeral. I had pushed away anyone new who came into my life, with the exception of Jamison. Mia was the only person I’d clung to. She was my lighthouse in the storm, the only person who didn’t look at me like I was the monster I believed myself to be.
“How do I forgive myself?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Dr. Strong stood up, nodding toward the mirror on the wall and motioning for me to meet her there. I stepped in front of it, staring back at my red, blotchy complexion and bloodshot eyes.
Standing off to the side, Dr. Strong said, “Sophie, I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and repeat after me: ‘I forgive you.’ ”
“I forgive you,” I repeated.
“ ‘You are only human.’ ”
“You are only human.”
“ ‘You made a mistake, but I am releasing my anger toward you.’ ”
“You made a mistake, but I am releasing my anger toward you.”
“ ‘I love you, and I want you to move forward. I give you permission to live your life, free from the mistakes of your past.’ ”
I repeated the words, though I didn’t quite believe them as they left my mouth.
“I know this exercise seems a little silly,” Dr. Strong said. “But if you do it enough, you’ll start to believe yourself. It works. I promise.”
We moved back to the center of her office, taking our respective seats.
“I want you to do daily affirmations,” she said. She grabbed her notebook and began scribbling feverishly before ripping the page out and handing it to me. She’d written everything she’d just made me say in front of the mirror. “Here. Take this. I want you to say this in the mirror to your reflection every single morning until you start believing it.”
“Thank you.” I took the sheet from her, folded it three times, and stuck it in my coat pocket.
“How are you doing otherwise, Sophie?” she asked. “I hadn’t seen you in a few weeks.”
“I had surgery a couple weeks ago,” I said. “So far, so good. I go in for a follow-up soon.”
“Wonderful.” Dr. Strong smiled. “And what about that boy you’d just met last time we talked? You still talking to him?”
My cheeks burned red. “You remembered.”
She nodded, eyes intently staring into mine.
“Still talking to him, yes,” I said. “He took care of me after my surgery, actually.”
“Good,” she said. “What did you say his name was again?”
I zipped my finger across my lips. “I can’t say.”
“Why is that?”
“He works here. At this hospital.”
She cleared her throat, her face falling ever so slightly. “Everything in this room is private, Sophie.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to get him in trouble,” I said, noting her strange reaction. It wouldn’t be hard for her to do a little digging and figure out who it was.
“Is he a doctor here?” Dr. Strong asked, her voice feigning innocence.
I zipped my lips again. “Can’t say.”
She tried to mask her frustration with a smile. “I see.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “I promise.”
“Sophie, if you’re involved with one of your caregivers, I urge you to end things immediately,” she said. “It’s not ethical, and it could complicate the care you’re being given.”
“Dr. Strong,” I said, “I told you, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Her pretty face pinched. She hated the fact that I wouldn’t tell her who it was. I knew how doctor-patient confidentiality worked. Things were kept private unless someone was getting hurt. If I told her I was dating Dr. Jamison Garner, she’d report it in an instant.
I glanced up at the clock on the wall and grabbed my purse off the floor. “I need to get back to work.”
“Would you like to set something up for next week?” she pushed, seeming slightly desperate for me to rebook. “Same time?”
I froze, pursing my lips and studying her face. “Look. I’ll do the affirmations, and if they’re not working, I’ll be back.”
My eyes landed on the plaque on her desk that read, “Dr. Daphne Strong, PhD.” I’d never realized her first name was Daphne. Daphne was such an unassuming name, reminding me of a pretty girl with superficial aspirations. Harmless. Carefree. Not this Daphne. There was something behind those blue eyes of hers that shook me to my core. I just didn’t know what it was.
I left her office feeling slightly rattled and realizing just how dangerous it was to date Jamison. I didn’t want him to jeopardize his career. Dr. Strong made it perfectly clear how she felt about patients dating their doctors, and the more I spoke to her, the more she was beginning to piece the puzzle together.
I had to protect Jamison and everything he’d ever worked for. I couldn’t see her again. I cared for him too much to risk it.
JAMISON
“Jamison, I need to talk to you.” Daphne practically ran toward me, her heels propelling her closer and closer with each long-legged stride.
“I’m heading to a consult. Can it wait?”
“No,” she said, catching up to me. She placed a manicured hand on my arm and stopped me. “If I ask you something, do you promise to be completely honest with me?”
“What’s that?”
“Are you dating a patient?”
My breath caught in my chest, and I turned away from her. “No.”
I kept walking. It was none of her damn business.
“You know your license could get suspended,” she called after me, clearly not believing my answer. “You’re playing with fire, Jamison.”
Had I been honest with her, she’d have tried
to use it as leverage. She’d have used her psychobabble bullshit to talk me out of seeing Sophie or to guilt trip me for it. Daphne was a master manipulator, the queen of persuasion. It was what she did for a living. It was why they paid her the big bucks, and it was why I still referred patients to her despite knowing what I did about her. She could get anyone to believe anything.
How the hell did she know about Sophie?
I grabbed the chart off the back of the door and entered the exam room, greeting my next patient.
***
Rounding the corner to my street that night, my heart raced at the mere thought of seeing Sophie. We were meeting for coffee at a little French café up the street, and waiting just outside my apartment door was a beautiful little filly in a pale pink beret, her leg bent and foot resting against the brick façade of my building.
“Bonjour,” she said with a sexy grin, adjusting her hat.
“I’ve been waiting all day to see you again.” I rushed toward her, wrapping my arms around her waist and slipping in for a taste of her soft lips. I’d never been big on public displays of affection, but lately I’d been walking around in a daze where nothing mattered but Sophie Salinger.
“Have you?” she teased between kisses.
The cool February breeze carried the scent of her freshly-shampooed hair to my nostrils, filling the air I breathed with a clean aroma. A mild-weathered evening meant light jackets and a preview of the much-needed spring that was just around the corner.
“Shall we?” she said, slipping her delicate hand into mine as we walked up the street.
Shoulder to shoulder, we waded through throngs of New Yorkers all heading home after a long days’ work, and all of them faceless people in a world where only the two of us existed.
I’d made reservations at Café Paris after Sophie mentioned she’d never tried French food before.
“I studied in Rome one semester,” she’d told me. “One of my friends promised we’d sneak off to Paris for a weekend, but it never happened. Our teacher wouldn’t allow it.”
The quaint little café housed a display of French pastries, artisan baguettes, and browned croissants in the window, all looking too perfect to be real, though they were as real as could be. Fresh bread and savory herbs greeted us, floating on the tepid air that warmed our faces as soon as we entered.
