The fear heads south, needling me between the legs - a thin little spike of vague want that gets me when I remember I can still charm him in that way. Wasn't that always half the fun of it? - the fear of running the risk of rejection, even though you were sure he'd still collapse when you raised your skirt or your t-shirt? I could have tried to seduce him all over again last night, but when I laid down on the bed - such as it was - I was suddenly aware of how tired I was. Deep down tired. It's amazing how it can get you like that. In the early days with Dr. Stahl - after she had managed to coax the worst of it out of me - I slept like the dead for the first time since Justin died. Like reliving it was that exhausting.
It's enough that he stayed. Isn't it?
Or maybe he just thought I'd try and open a vein again. I hate the sympathy in his eyes - it's way too close to pity for my liking. Then he asks, "Are you busy this evening?" and my heart flutters wildly back to life.
Another sign that it's way too soon.
"I don't think so," I say. "Why? Do you want to get dinner or something?"
He's wary and rumpled; he slept in his clothes last night. I would do anything to take it all back, go back to the way we were before I told him. Except that wouldn't have worked either, would it? You can't shut the world out forever.
"Sure," he says, scrubbing a hand over his dark stubble and stifling a yawn. "You want to go out?"
"I don't think I'm ready for that yet. We can eat here?"
He glances around the apartment - the empty walls, the bare floor - but he's too polite to do anything but come up with a solution to the problem. "Okay," he says. "You wanna get pizza?"
All my tension bursts out of me in a laugh. "Pizza? Here? You're in the land of low-carbs now, kiddo."
"Right," he says, and his smile is so warm that I want to cry. "Of course."
"Sushi? We're going to be sitting on the floor, so..."
"Sounds like a plan."
We're standing at the door and the tiny, bright moment has already burned out between us. Stiffness once again locks our limbs and pins our tongues in their proper places. "So - about six?"
"Seven?"
"Okay," he says, and hugs me - a mechanical, funeral kind of hug. Oh God, I shouldn't feel this way. I won't feel this way.
"Take care," he says, kissing my cheek. "I'll see you later."
"I'll...go get some furniture," I say, in a misguided attempt at being cute. Quirky. It doesn't suit me and I'm instantly ashamed of myself for trying to fake it. I can still feel the touch of his lips as I dial the phone.
An hour later I'm in Dr. Stahl's waiting room - an angular white jungle of minimalist surfaces and lush green plants. The receptionist brings me jasmine tea and offers me magazines, but I've brought Madame Bovary along with me. I could never get on with it in college - too wordy and slow, but I feel as though I should be reading something worthy. Sooner or later I'm going to have to meet other people, and my dropping out is bound to come up in conversation.
But the words make no sense. I'm not that smart. The magazines are as bright and shiny as a poison butterfly. I know they're bad for me. I know they're full of the kind of idle, meanspirited bullshit that could destroy a sane person. What if there's something in there about me? I glance up at the receptionist, wondering what the hell she was thinking, but all I can see is the back of her blonde chignon, mostly obscured by palm fronds.
A door opens. “Amber,” says Dr. Stahl, throwing it wide. “Come on in.” When she turns to lead me into her office I see the red soles of her black patent leather shoes.
“I like your shoes,” I say, with a kind of shock at the words coming out of my mouth. She’s always been my doctor. We’ve never exchanged the kind of words you would think of sharing with another woman.
“Oh, thank you,” she says. “We all have our vices, I guess.”
“Vices?” I take the offered seat - a cube-shaped white leather armchair. The first time I came in here I wanted to retreat into it and never come out. She sits down opposite me, on the high backed white chair I remember from before. Between us there is a low, glass topped coffee table. In the middle of the table is a tissue box, with a Kleenex protruding from the top like a tongue - both a taunt and an invitation.
“Shoes,” she says, admiring her Louboutins. “I’m afraid I can’t resist them.” She stretches an ankle for a moment then snaps her feet back together with almost military precision. Back to business. “How are you today, Amber?”
I hesitate. I know what I need to say to her, but now I have to I can't. Deep down what her answer will be.