Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“I can find a part-time psychiatrist to help out. Maybe another mom who wants to go back to work but can only do half days or something.” I nodded. “I’ll make it work. We’ll make it work.”
Connor’s lips curved to a giant, boyish smile. “We’re gonna have a baby,” he whispered.
The thought left me a little breathless. I swallowed. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I want a boy first. Then a girl. Then maybe three or four more boys.”
“Uh… slow down there, big guy. That’s five or six kids. How about we try one and see how it goes? It’s going to mean a lot of change for us.”
“Whatever you want, beautiful.” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’ll be a good change. I see nothing but happy days ahead, for the rest of our lives.”
CHAPTER 3 Now
Walking in the first time is the worst part.
Weaving through the hallway of closed doors—people like me hiding behind them, ready to diagnose what’s wrong with someone who was a complete stranger only an hour ago. MD, PsyD, PhD, all sorts of fancy-sounding letters tacked on after names. I knew coming in was intimidating for my patients, but I don’t think I comprehended just how bad it could be. Until now. When the doctor became the patient.
I ride the elevator up to the third floor. It’s like every office building—cheap, rough carpet, neutral walls, heavy fire-resistant doors, and too much silence. I stop outside my destination, 302b. As I contemplate going in, my cell rings. Jake flashes on the screen. My brother. I hit ignore, telling myself I’ll call him back later. Though I know I probably won’t. He wants to make sure I’m doing okay, like everyone else who checks in on me occasionally. Except my brother knows me too well. So I try to answer on the good days, when it’s most believable that I’m happy. Though lately those are few and far between.
I take a deep breath and tuck my phone into my coat pocket, going back to staring at my new therapist’s office door. Inside waits a man I’ve never met. A stranger I’m supposed to tell how I’m feeling. Keith Alexander, PhD. Nausea works its way from my stomach to my throat, and I haven’t even opened the door yet. My hands are damp and sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans, wishing the turbulence of my thoughts would slow down, just slow down already.
Yesterday my thoughts were slow. Painfully snail-like. It took me twenty minutes to fix a cup of tea, an hour to get ready to leave the apartment. Even putting on my shoes was an effort. And now I’m buzzing like I’ve downed a dozen cups of coffee.
Gabriel. I saw Gabriel Wright.
And he was happy.
But I can’t think about that now. I need to be somewhat normal for this man. He’ll scribble in his notebook and say, “Uh-huh,” and, “Let’s talk about that.” I can see him now—fifties or sixties, gray hair, playing the part.
My hand touches the doorknob—a polished chrome, not original to the dingy building. It’s cold. I hesitate, my stomach gurgling. I’m hungry.
I can’t remember the last time I felt much of anything, much less hunger. Until yesterday.
I push through the door, and a midtwenties or early thirtysomething man looks up. He’s no older than me. Dark blond hair, tanned skin, and a welcoming, open smile. It must be dress-casual Friday, because he’s in jeans and a blue T-shirt that fits him well enough that it’s hard not to notice it fits him well. A notebook lies open on his broad desk, appointments by the look of it. He must be Dr. Alexander’s assistant.
“Hello. I have a six thirty appointment.”
“You must be Meredith Fitzgerald.”
“Meredith McCall,” I correct him. “I’m using my maiden name, but it wasn’t changed when…” I let my voice trail off. If Dr. Alexander’s assistant doesn’t know the details, I’m not going to be the one to provide them… when I made the appointment,” I conclude.
“Ah.” He straightens, offers a kind smile. “Well, Dr. McCall, come right in, then.”
It’s not until I step past him and into the inner office that I realize no one sits behind the desk in the corner. Dr. Alexander is not perched on the leather couch or the matching armchair. Because the young man I mistook for an assistant is Dr. Keith Alexander. Heat works its way up to my face.
How many times had I been mistaken for an assistant because I was young and attractive? Too many to count. Furthermore, he is not what I was expecting. How am I supposed to talk to him about the crushing guilt I feel or how much I miss my husband while simultaneously wishing I’d never met him?
I blow out a breath, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. Instead of the creamy white walls my office has, his are alternating blue and gray. A modern white-and-wood coffee table sits atop a Persian rug. A frosted-glass window calls my attention from a few feet away. During the day, it must bathe his patients in sunlight.