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Rebecca shrugged. “It was better than with Steve. But something was missing. He smacked my ass and pulled my hair and stuff. But I could tell he was just doing it for me. It wasn’t really driven by passion, like it was with my ex.”
I look over at my desk, the spot of my own passionate encounter. I picture Gabriel behind me, holding me down. Pinning me. Goose bumps prickle my arms. And I realize Rebecca is talking again, yet I haven’t heard her.
“Anyway, he texted again. But I don’t think I’m going to see him.”
“The guy from the bar?”
She nods. “I’ll just ghost him.”
Ghost him. Like Gabriel seems to have done to me. I shift in my seat and recross my legs. Let’s talk about that a little more…
“May I ask why you would ghost him, rather than telling him you had a nice time but aren’t interested in seeing him again?”
“Why should I? It’s not like we were dating. He didn’t take me out to dinner or bring me flowers. I didn’t make a commitment to him. We didn’t even talk much. If he doesn’t see it for what it is, then he’s dumb.”
My shoulders slump. I am to Gabriel what the bar guy is to Rebecca—not even worthy of a courtesy text. But Gabriel and I have more than that, don’t we? We’ve been talking for a while. Albeit because I’m his therapist and he’s my patient, but we have something more than a bar pickup, right?
Or maybe we don’t.
Maybe I’m the only one even thinking about it after.
It dawns on me that my patient is counseling me now. Worse, I’m asking questions and probing, in search of advice for myself, rather than trying to counsel her. Not to mention my patient has compulsion issues. Probably not the best place to procure dating advice for myself. Or sex advice. Because Gabriel and I are not dating. And I need to remember that.
I muddle through the rest of the session with Rebecca, doing my best to counsel a woman who is obsessive with men, when I’ve spent the last week, the last few months, even, with my own obsession.
I’m exhausted when it’s over, thrilled she’s my last patient of the day. On my way home, I stop at the liquor store and pick up two bottles of wine. Not because I plan on drinking both tonight but because the guy behind the counter smiled at me like I was a regular. It’s semantics, I know. Buying two at once or going in twice means I drink the same amount of wine, but at least I don’t have to become the Norm of Cheers at the local liquor store.
At home, I eat a cheese stick and fry up a bag of frozen pierogi, only to eat two and toss the rest in the garbage. I finish off my second glass of wine and draw a hot bath. My third is three-quarters of the way done by the time the tub fills, and I might as well chug the rest back so I can slip into the tub with a nice full glass, right? So that’s what I do. I’m feeling pretty good now. My neck is relaxed, my mind slows down, and I almost feel calm again. Alcohol is a great therapist like that.
Before I climb into the tub, I tie up my hair, light a candle, and call up some soft jazz on my phone. It’s nice. Feels serene. So I keep drinking, sink into the warm water, and let it take away all my troubles. But then my cell chimes with an alert. And I’m the type of person who needs to know what I’m missing. Even when I’m about to finish my fourth glass of wine. So I swipe into my phone to see what the alert was for and find a text message from Robert. Robert, who doesn’t ghost me. Robert, who takes me to nice dinners and is a gentleman, even when I go home with him, because he knows I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
It’s laughable, really.
I’m not ready for sex with a man who is a great catch, one who kisses me lovingly and seems completely into me. But I’m ready for breath-play and banging a patient on my desk.
I hold my phone in the air, high above my head, and slip down under the water, immersing the hair I tied up and hadn’t been planning on getting wet. I count the seconds as I hold my breath. Fifteen. Then thirty. Sixty. When I hit ninety, I feel pressure in my head. Yet I push to a hundred and five. Ten more seconds tick by, and I burst out of the water with a big splash, panting. Water sloshes over the sides of the tub.
The candle goes out.
And now my hair needs to be blow-dried.
Also, my glass is empty again.
So it’s time to get out.
I stumble out of the tub, wrap myself in a towel, and look down at the bathroom mat. I’ve never sat on it. It looks comfy. So I use the wall as my support to slide down to the ground, then grab my phone again.
Maybe Robert is too nice a guy for me.
Maybe I’m built like Rebecca now. Maybe the accident changed me. I need someone a little rough around the edges. Being punished seems fitting.
I can’t picture Robert holding me down. Yanking my hair. He’s probably gentle and kind in bed. Warm and caring.
With that thought, I call up the dating app. I’ve avoided it lately. No use finding a third man when I can’t figure out what the hell is going on with the two I have. Not that I have Gabriel. But whatever.
I scroll for a while, randomly swiping right on any guy who looks a little rougher—guys with tattoos, guys with beady eyes. Motorcycle? Perfect! And then I go to the Columbia website to look at Gabriel’s picture. He’s even more handsome in person. I stare at his smiling face, wondering what he’s doing right this minute. But I also remember all the young blondes he’s spent time with.
