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I feel slight butterflies in my stomach as I smile at him.
“Then it’s all set then. You give me a place and time. And please… call me Sarah.”
Chapter 5
Tyler
Forced Proximity
I find myself pacing the floor of my cabin, a place I've considered my escape from the world.
It's nestled quietly in the woods, a mere ten-minute drive from the town's prying eyes but miles away in terms of privacy and peace. The idea of inviting Dr. Marlene here — Sarah, as she insists I call her now — for dinner seems both exhilarating and anxiety-inducing.
Would she see it as a step too far, or would she appreciate the gesture for what it is: an attempt to show her a side of me that's not just another name on her appointment list?
The memory of our last encounter outside her office hits me like a playful slap of reality, reminding me of the boundaries we're meant to dance around.
Offering her a drink at the bar was my moment of wild abandon. She gracefully sidestepped me, reminding me of the etiquette that's supposed to simmer between a therapist and their client.
It's a gentle but necessary nudge back to our lanes, yet here I am, plotting to not just cross those lines but to dynamite them into oblivion by inviting her into my hideout.
At first, making a reservation at a restaurant seemed like the logical choice, but the risk of being seen and the unspoken judgments from familiar faces made the idea unappealing.
This cabin, with its walls echoing nothing but the serenity of nature, might be the perfect compromise. It allows us the privacy we need, away from the nosy residents of our small town.
Recalling my conversation with Richard, the old cowboy from the ranch, brings a half-smile to my face. I'd broached the subject of Sarah's favorite foods with casual ease I hadn't felt, disguising my probing behind a veneer of casual conversation.
His revelation that she loved chicken and dumplings — and was practically a passionate devotee of chocolate pecan pie — felt like striking gold.
With the afternoon wide open, I roll up my sleeves and dive into the kitchen. Cooking is my second language, a personal kind of therapy. Mrs. Carolyn taught me to cook more than macaroni on the stove, and the primary staple of eggs and bacon.
I kick things off with the pie, giving it time to chill, before I tackle the chicken and dumplings. It's a dance of sorts, methodical and almost meditative. Each chop, stir, and simmer keeps me focused on not making a mistake. I realize that Sarah is the third person I've ever cooked for, the first and second being my son and Mrs. Carolyn, and it gives me weird jitters.
Why am I going out of my way to do this? Why not just take her to a small diner? She accepted my invitation to dinner, meaning she didn't mind us being seen together. We're not exactly friends, but we aren't strangers either, since I've been seeing her for therapy for over a month.
The rhythm of cooking, the steady chop and sizzle, has a way of smoothing out the rough edges of my thoughts. I focus on the task, measuring flour for the dumplings with a precision that's more often found in my work than in my kitchen. But today, the kitchen is my workshop and chicken and dumplings is my project.
I start with the chicken, seasoning it with salt, pepper, and rosemary and letting it brown in the pot. There's something deeply satisfying about watching it transform, the golden crust forming under my watch. The smell fills the kitchen, a comforting, warm aroma that seems to wrap around me, soothing my nerves.
While the chicken simmers, I turn to the dumplings, my hands moving with a confidence I didn't know I had in the kitchen. Mrs. Carolyn's voice echoes in my head, reminding me that cooking is as much about feeling as it is about measurements.
"The dough should be soft but not sticky," she'd say, and I find myself repeating the words under my breath as I mix.
By the time I drop the dumplings into the pot, my earlier anxiety has simmered down, much like the dish on the stove. As I watch them puff up, I realize that this isn't just about impressing Sarah or proving something. It's about sharing a part of myself that Mrs. Carolyn helped nurture, a part that my son got to see every day.
The final touch is a handful of fresh parsley, chopped and sprinkled over the top. I step back, looking over the meal I've prepared, and for a moment, I allow myself a slight sense of pride. Cooking, I understand now, is more than therapy. It's a way of communicating and sharing joy and comfort without needing words.
And as I set the table, my mind isn't filled with doubts about the evening ahead but with quiet hope. Maybe, in the shared space of a meal made with care, Sarah and I can find common ground beyond the confines of a therapist's office. Maybe, just maybe, this chicken and dumplings can say what I've struggled to articulate—that beneath the surface, there's someone worth getting to know.
A couple of hours have passed as I nervously stand on the front porch and see Sarah's car pull up the gravel driveway. My heart skips a beat, anxiety and anticipation swirling in my chest. I smooth down the front of my shirt and take a deep breath to calm the flurry of emotions, as I step off the porch to greet her.
Sarah steps out of her car, her expression confused and curious. I can't help but notice how the sunlight catches in her hair, framing her face in a soft halo. Her brows furrow slightly when she sees me standing there as if she's trying to piece together the scenery before her.
"Tyler, I wasn't expecting—Why are we having dinner here?" she asks, her voice laced with genuine confusion. There's a vulnerability there I hadn't expected to see, and it catches me off guard.
I step forward, offering a smile to lead her inside as I reach to take her jacket. "I thought you might prefer this," I say, trying to keep my voice even. “You seemed a bit uncomfortable the last time we bumped into each other in town. And, I don't know, I just figured it might be easier here—more private."
She hesitates momentarily, then nods as she hands over her jacket.
