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Ryan

Iwas eager to see Dr. Goodman. Willow had snubbed me all week, telling me she was sick. But I didn’t believe a word. I’d even called his office to see if he could fit me in early, but he was totally booked. So, I had no choice but to wait for my regular Thursday morning appointment.

For the first time since Allee’s death, I sat in one of the chairs facing him. I was wired up.

“Ryan, you seem unusually anxious,” he began, sitting in a chair angled to me, his hands folded on his lap.

“I am.”

“What’s going on?”

I blew out a breath and then got straight to the point. “What the hell is up with Willow Rosenthal? What’s her story?”

He met my gaze. “Ryan, you know I can’t tell you. Doctor-patient privilege.”

A combination of frustration and anger rose in my chest; I silently cursed under my breath. “What should I do?”

“Maybe you should consider couples therapy.”

“We’re not a couple.” I was growing edgy. “Any advice?

“Do you want to continue the relationship?”

Jesus. Sometimes, despite all his wisdom, this mind guru could drive me crazy. Answering a question with question. My blood curdling, I hurled back the answer.

“Fuck, yes.” This was the first time I’d ever said the F-word to his face.

Dr. G. twitched a smile. “Good. Then invite her to your place for dinner.”

“Fine.” And with this four-letter F-word, I bolstered myself up from the chair and marched out the door. Our session was over.