Five Years

by Brooklyn Knight

  I hurried to my office, woke my computer and typed up a few paragraphs on the previous clients, then I sat back in my seat. I glanced at the clock.

  It was 9:59 AM.

  I couldn’t avoid it. Avoiding it would be unprofessional. I needed to confront this head-on and get it over with.

  When I pulled the waiting room door open, Maverick was sitting there with his hands clasped in front of his face. Today he was wearing a heather gray suit and it fit him to perfection. His blazing red hair was in his signature pompadour, and his eyes were steady on me.

  God had created Maverick from a limited-edition mold. His perfection was undeniable.

  Did I find him attractive? Hell yes!

  Did he meet my standards? I couldn’t imagine a higher one, and now, it was taking every ounce of energy I had not to liquefy in front of him, and we stared at one another, neither of us moving right away.

  I fitted a professional smile onto my face. “Mr. Dangerfield, I’m ready. To see you.” I balked. “In my office.”

  He chuckled and pulled himself to his feet. He seemed taller. Sexier.

  This isn’t gonna work…

  He approached and the air grew thicker with each step. When he stopped in front of me, I waited in horror for him to do something crazy, like press his lips onto mine, the way he had on Friday night. If he did that, there’d be no coming back, professionally or otherwise.

  But he didn’t do it. Instead, he shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets, and I shoved aside unprincipled disappointment.

  “Are you ready?” I squeaked, looking up into his face.

  “I was born ready, Miss Flowers.”

  I nodded and marched to the office.

  Maverick languished behind.

  When we were both finally inside, I hurried to the safety of my throne and he assumed his position in front of me.

  We stared at one another until my eyes watered. “Mr. Dangerfield, I know you had… homework and everything, but before we even begin, I need to apologize again.”

  He shook his head. “There’s really no need.”

  “No, I have to,” I insisted. “I um…” I swallowed and rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m really sorry about what happened over the weekend,” I admitted. “First, for the way I behaved, what happened between us. It was horrific, completely unacceptable.”

  He pursed his lips and rested his ankle on his knee, showcasing a shoe that probably cost one of my paychecks and exposing a fashionable sock.

  “I’m hoping we can move past the weekend and get back to work dealing with the things that concern you. I’m going to process what’s happening between us in clinical supervision. It would be easy for me to run away, to siphon you off to another therapist, but that wouldn’t be fair to you. What I do, my professionalism, it means everything to me, and if that means I need to process my countertransference and address it, then I’m going to do that.”

  He shook his head, perplexed.

  “Transference is when you, the client, brings their stuff into the session,” I explained. “Countertransference is when the therapist’s stuff bleeds into the work.” My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “My ability to provide you with the best level of service means everything to me. The truth is, I enjoyed myself on Friday night.”

  “So did I.”

  “And I’m glad you understand that it can never happen again. If we’re going to work together, there’s no way we can fraternize beyond the confines of this office. It just can’t happen.”

  His mouth pressed tight, but he nodded. Didn’t say anything. Did nothing to alleviate the tense energy swirling in the small room.

  I pushed my back against my chair. “If you have anything to say, of course, I’m open to hearing it. We’re here to process together. That’s what we do.”

  “May I share my homework with you?” he asked.

  I jerked in the seat as embarrassment washed over me like a tidal wave. “You… met up with a woman?”

  “I did.”

  My shoulders withered. Oh my God, I’d just dished out this long, self-serving spiel about how Friday night should never be repeated, and the man had moved on, the way he said he would. What would have made me think he'd come here this morning pushing the envelope? Had I actually allowed myself to believe that he wanted me?

  I was the epitome of a Plain Jane. Maverick was surrounded by beautiful women, women who matched his status and identified with his lifestyle. He'd completed his homework. He'd approached the woman he was interested in, and gotten the balls to make himself vulnerable, just like I'd instructed. Friday had only been a blind date Blaine and Nichola had arranged.

  Nothing more.

  ‘A good girl never reveals the full extent of her feelings to a man, because she can never know what he’ll do with them.’

  I tried to keep my shoulders erect. “Of course,” I encouraged him, smiling. “I apologize.”

  Maverick gripped me with a hard gaze. “You instructed me to make myself vulnerable,” he reminded me. “That’s what we’ve been doing since our first session. We started with my mother. You had me pen a letter to her, telling her how much her selfish behavior affected me as a boy, as a man. You then told me to approach a woman and let her know how I felt about her.”

  “Were you able to do it?” I croaked.

  “No, not exactly.” He scratched his jaw. “When I started to tell her, things didn't go as planned.”

  I moistened my lips. “Don’t let that stop you,” I encouraged him, hypocritically. “Stepping out of your comfort zone is difficult, but if you want to tackle the root of your problems, it's necessary.”

  “You're right,” he said.

  For some reason, the advice fell on my ears.

  “And I don't intend on giving up. I rarely give up. When there’s something I want, I go for it. I'm going to try again. Really soon.”

  “Good.”

  Maverick’s eyes smoldered and he exhaled. “Amaris… It's been five weeks,” he started. “It’s nowhere near enough time to justify how strongly I feel about you, but I don't wanna justify my feelings. I only want to feel them, the way I did on Friday night.”

  Okay, I was back to being stiff, but this time, I was ten times stiffer than before. I might as well have had rigor mortis. “Maverick – ”

  His hand shot up. “I'm not finished,” he scolded me. He inched closer to the edge of his seat. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve imagined what it would be like to be something more. You are so entirely beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside. You touched a part of me that no one else has ever reached. Not even I have been able to access the depths you have.”

  I bristled. “That’s my job, Mr. Dangerfield,” I clarified. “Don’t mistake my professional role for something more.”

  “Mary – ”

  I leaned forward. “That happens frequently,” I continued, trying to rationalize his experience. “Men sometimes latch onto their female therapists. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad thing. It’s actually a clinical indicator.”

  He huffed and shook his head.

  “We can work with it,” I pressed on. “We can use it to explore what this really means for you, just like I’m going to do in supervision. We can work together and – ”

  “We can’t,” he cut me off, voice dry and firm.

  My brows pulled. “Okay…” My mouth pinched, but I lifted my chin. “Are you saying you don’t want to work with me anymore?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he bit out. His eyes still had me under lock.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Maverick had taken two long strides and was across the room, in my face. My breath snatched up as his commanding presence loomed over me, and he bent his face to mine, resting his palms on the arms of my chair until I was caged in.

  I fell forward.

  Wait, what?

  I jerked back!

  His lips – they were full and tantalizi
ng. Memories of the way they felt dragging over mine bombarded me, but now I imagined them between my thighs.

  Wait, what?

  “I don’t require further sessions. At least not with you,” he whispered staring into my eyes. His heavy gaze dropped to my mouth and then pulled back up. “I… want you to close my file.”

  I swallowed hard. I wanted to back up, but I was already as far back as I could go. And the truth was, I didn’t really want to back up.

  “Maverick, what are you talking about?”

  “Five years.”

  “What?”

  “Five years,” he repeated. “You were right. I looked up the ACA Code of Ethics as soon as I got home on Friday night. Section A.5.c…”

  I choked.

  Maverick tipped his head to the side, as if he was studying my reaction. “As of today, I’m no longer your client,” he whispered, “which means that five years from now – to the very day… there’s a chance for us to be more than client and therapist. Right?”

  I shook my head, mouth bunched. “You’re crazy,” I whispered.

  He didn’t say anything as he unbarred me and stepped back.

  My chest was heaving. “This is clinical-level behavior, Maverick. When I say you're acting crazy, I'm not saying it in a colloquial sense.”

  “Then I’d be happy to take a referral to another therapist of your choosing so I can continue to work on myself,” he retorted. “As long as it’s not you, I really don’t give a shit. If I'm crazy because I'm attracted to you and because I'm willing to wait until a more suitable time to have you, then I'll take the label; but if I’m crazy then so are you, because I know you feel the same way, Amaris.”

  “What?” I squeaked.

  “Come on, Mary,” he coaxed me, lowering his tone just enough to dampen the crotch of my cotton bikini-cuts. “Don’t think, for one moment, that I can’t see that look in your eyes. When we were on the dance floor on Friday night, I could see it. I could feel it. That problem you have? I can help you fix it. In five years.”

  “I… don’t have any problems.”

  He chuckled. “We all have problems,” he countered.

  I was stuck to the chair. I didn't dare move. If I did, I couldn't be certain what would happen. Maverick was unstable.

  So was I.

  “Maverick…”

  He peered at me, eyes weighted.

  I huffed. “Five years?”

  Silence.

  I jumped out of my chair, angered by his ludicrous behavior and stomped closer. “Five years!” I said again. “We’ll be almost forty years old by then. You sound ridiculous and you’re making no sense. There’s no way in hell you’ll wait out five years. For me!”

  “Watch me.”

  “You’ll have found a suitable woman by then. You’ll probably be married!”

  He dug his hands into his pockets. “Close my file, Amaris.”

  My jaw trembled and I bit my bottom lip, trying to make it stop. I needed to re-center myself. “Mr. Dangerfield,” I started again. “To be clear, I’m not trying to persuade you to continue therapy with me; but what I am saying is that this idea of yours… it’s preposterous, and you really need to reconsider your motives.”

  He pulled his hand out of his pocket and now, he did touch my cheek. He decorated my jaw with a smooth, trailing line and stopped only when he reached my bottom lip. He paused and pulled away. “Leave me to reconsider them on my own,” he whispered. “I promise you, whatever you need me to be, I’ll be it. In five years.”

  He erected himself to his full height. “It was a pleasure working with you. I appreciate your time, your effort… and your professionalism. I’ll be in touch.”

  He turned and walked out of the door, and I dared not look back, because if I did, every ethical bone in my body would crumble.

  10

  Maverick

  ~Three Months~

  Thick and menacing dark clouds had formed over my city, and they seemed never ending. All I could see was darkness for miles, with no hint of sunshine. True, yesterday had been a little brighter, but it was still… depressing… like a weight strapping itself across my shoulders.

  I hated rain.

  I hated clouds.

  I needed to do something.

  Golf.

  The minute I sat in the cart, the clouds thinned out.

  Blaine tapped the golf ball and we both grimaced as it circled the hole and slid down a bank, into a bunker. He cursed and swiped a stream of sweat off his brow. “I still don’t understand your affinity with this sport,” he complained. “And it’s not a sport, by the way. It’s the pointless pastime of rich, white men.”

  “We are rich, white men,” I reminded him, selecting my iron. “And it is a sport. You’re just pissed because you suck balls at it. Pun intended.”

  I tapped my ball and we both watched it sink into the hole.

  “You’re such a fucking prick,” Blaine muttered shaking his head.

  I laughed, opened my palm, and wiggled my fingers.

  After a short hesitation, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

  Just like that, I was five hundred dollars richer. Why he continued to challenge me on the green was beyond me. I was the one who’d made partner, not him. Still, five hundred dollars was a drop in the bucket for both of us.

  “So you’re coming to Nic’s art show tonight, right?” he asked, shoving his irons into a golf bag.

  “You’re asking me if I’m coming like I have a choice,” I muttered, throwing my golf bag onto the cart.

  “You do have a choice,” he responded. “You’re a grown-ass man. All you have to do is say no.”

  “Right,” I snapped. “I say no, and then you call my mother, giving her convenient updates on my professional and marital status.”

  “You don’t call, so somebody has to.”

  “Not the point.”

  Blaine burst into laughter. “You can still say no,” he finalized.

  I glared at him and hopped into the driver’s seat. “I can’t make it,” I informed him. “Not tonight. I’ve got a shit-ton of work to do. Being partner has me flat-out, and you wouldn’t believe it, but that ass-wipe, McConnell, is more of a bitch now than he has ever been.”

  “Why are you surprised?” Blaine came back. “But to be fair, your anger has been more off the charts than ever,” he added. He narrowed his eyes. “You still seeing that therapist of yours?”

  Of mine? I fucking wished. It had been twelve weeks since I’d pranced out of her office, head reeling. I’d jumped into my Mercedes and gunned down the highway, trying to make sense of the few cards in my hand and figure out the best play.

  I focused on Blaine’s question. “I’m not going to counseling anymore. I quit,” I snapped as I navigated the golf cart.

  Blaine’s neck shot back in shock. “What do you mean, you quit? You were singing that woman’s praises for weeks. Not only that, you were actually changing. You were patient, kind, gentle…”

  “I feel like I’m in Sunday School, learning the Beatitudes,” I grumbled.

  “Well, maybe you need to go back,” Blaine quipped.

  “To Sunday School?”

  “And to therapy.”

  I hissed through my teeth.

  He was right. At least about the therapy part.

  True to her word, the day after I’d marched out of her office, Amaris had sent a referral for some guy named Dr. Rosen; which was good, because the last thing I needed was another female therapist. If I couldn’t have her, I didn’t want anyone. Still, I had yet to make a call.

  “So you coming or what?” Blaine asked, back to his peer-pressuring.

  “I already told you, I can’t,” I reminded him as we rattled along a narrow path.

  Blaine sighed dramatically and his shoulders slumped. “I can’t lie and say I’m not sorry to hear this.”

  “There’ll be other occasions,” I suggested, nonchalant.

  “You’re right,
” he agreed. “Nic is taking off. She’s absolutely amazing. And to think, the one time you decide not to come is the one time Amaris is actually going to be there.”

  The golf cart almost slammed into a bush.

  “Damn, Mav!” Blaine yelled, gripping the sides.

  I regained control of the vehicle and Blaine offered an apologetic wave to a group of golfers.

  “What do you mean, she’s going to be there?” I demanded, shifting my focus between him and the path.

  “Exactly as I said,” he replied.

  “It’s been three months, and she’s never been there before.”

  “Because any time Nic invites her, she finds some way to weasel out. I think you scared her.”

  I flinched. I hadn’t scared her yet.

  “What the hell happened between the two of you, anyway? The chemistry between the two of you was electric. You almost started a damn fire in that restaurant. One minute you were making love to her mind on the dance floor, and the next, you were sitting at a table nursing a Corona.”

  My hands tightened around the small steering wheel. “You know you’ve asked me this question a million times, right?” I grumbled. “I told you what happened. She… wasn’t interested.”

  “How could she not be interested?” he demanded, as if the insinuation were unreasonable.

  I didn’t blame him for thinking that way. In some ways, it was completely unreasonable. In all of my adult life, I’d never not gotten the girl. Granted, my reasons for not getting the girl were completely out of my control, but it still stung.

  And she’d been deliberately avoiding me?

  “Well it doesn’t matter,” Blaine continued, jerking me out of my agonizing reverie. “She’ll be there, and there’s no way she’s getting out of it. Tonight is going to be huge.”

  Pride made Blaine’s face glow, almost as if the rays of the lowering sun had convened on his countenance. His eyes were ablaze, his enthusiasm infectious. The unbridled excitement was pouring off him in waves, so much so, that my mouth curled into a smile.

  But if I was honest, I’d admit that Nichola’s impending success wasn’t the only reason for my excitement.