"I got stuff for alfredo. Is that okay with you? Do you like alfredo, I mean?" I mentally cursed myself for my sudden inability to speak properly. Something had come over me and I needed it to disappear quickly. I couldn't afford to have her think less of me. I didn't want her to lose her confidence in me. But how was that possible when I was losing confidence in myself?
"Yes, it's fine," she said from behind me. There was a softness to her voice that made me turn around to see her again. She was a walking contradiction. She read erotic books yet couldn't even make eye contact, let alone engage in sexual activity. She had little to no self-esteem yet she looked like she could grace the covers of magazines. She was defiant at times yet she stood in front of me looking like a scared child about to be scolded for coloring on the walls.
I quickly cleared a space on the counter and slapped it with my palm. "Here, hop up. I'll cook while you keep me company." I waited for her to move, but she never did. Finally, I went to her, wrapping my hands around her small hips and dragging her to the counter. "Come on, you can at least talk to me while I make you dinner."
"Why?" she asked meekly.
"Because it's boring to cook alone."
She shook her head. "No, why are you making me dinner?"
Why the hell was I having such a hard time finding an answer to her question? It wasn't that difficult. It was dinnertime and we both needed to eat. I worried about her eating habits and wanted to make sure she had a decent meal. There were still things we needed to discuss about her progress plan. I could have picked any of those excuses, yet the one that came out of my mouth was, "Because I wanted to see you."
Her eyes grew wide on her face.
"Not like that," I quickly recovered, silently kicking myself for my admission. "We have a lot to discuss. You're way more closed off than my other clients and I feel like we are having a hard time moving forward. I just need to know more before I can feel confident in the work we are doing together." What the fuck was wrong with me? I was a professional. I knew better than to do what I was doing.
She finally relented and climbed onto the counter.
"That's good because I wanted to see you, too," she admitted, gaining more of my attention than she already had.
I continued to arrange the food on the counter, acting as if her words hadn't just gotten to me. "Oh yeah? Why did you want to see me?" I asked nonchalantly, not looking at her, hoping she wouldn't notice my nervousness at her confession.
"I don't think I can do this anymore."
That made me stop and look at her, freezing in place. The cocky smile slipped away from my face. "What do you mean?"
"You're really good at what you do, Cade, don't get me wrong. But I don't think you can help me," she said the words quietly as she looked down at her clutched hands.
"You haven't given me a chance."
"I have seen you every day this week. It's too much. I'm confused and uncomfortable."
Well, shit. I hadn't expected her to say that. It made me feel worse for what I had done to her. I had pushed her too far and it had made her want to call the whole thing off. I didn't know if I was ready for that. Why had I done it? Why had I been so desperate to see her every fucking day this week? I should have known it would freak her out.
"I'll back off. I understand that some people may find my methods too extreme or suffocating, but you can't give up now. We can do this; I know we can. I will let you make the call from now on. I'll leave it up to you when we see each other again, and I'll follow your lead."
She gave me a silent nod and I felt my shoulders relax as if I had been holding my breath for her answer. Maybe it was a good thing that I back off; it seemed as though she was getting to me more than I had thought. I mean, I knew she was affecting me, I could tell that by my night with Alyssa. But I hadn't realized the possibility of my dependence on her, and that worried me. I hadn't been dependent on anyone since I was eight years old.
"What are you reading?" I asked, pointing to the tablet in her hand as I busied myself in her small kitchen. I wanted to act calm and unaffected, and the only way I knew how to do that was to ask questions and keep myself moving.
"It's called ‘The Truth About Mack' by Jettie Woodruff."
I waited for her to tell me more, but she never did. I guess I would have to work harder at getting her to talk to me. "What's it about?" I asked, hoping she would give me more than a few words.
"Lots of things."
I looked at her and raised an eyebrow, demanding she continue without speaking. I knew that books were one thing she could usually talk freely about.
She rolled her eyes and continued after huffing out a breath of air. "I haven't gotten very far in it, but I don't think I can continue."
"Not good?" I asked.
"Oh, it's not that. It's very good. It just hits too close to home. I don't know if I can finish reading it, which upsets me because it's a really good book so far."
I silently finished cutting up one of the chicken breasts and turned to her. "Why do you think it is hitting so close to home?"
She shrugged and looked to her lap. "The book is about this girl, Mack, and when she was in high school, something happened between her, her best friend, and their teacher. But the book isn't about her in high school; it takes place seven years later."
"What happened to you in high school, Ivy?" My question didn't come out in concern, it came out as a demand, commanding her to answer my question and answer it honestly.
She looked at me with confusion spread across her face.
"Ivy, don't bullshit me. What happened to you in high school?" I had lost my patience with her.
"Cade, nothing happened to me … not in high school, not at home, not by a family member or a stranger. I don't understand why you just won't believe me!" She jumped from the counter in a huff and began to walk away.
I followed her around the corner to the main room.
"You said the book hits too close to home and then you say it's about a girl and her teacher. I don't understand how you could have such traumatic issues regarding sex if nothing has ever happened to you. I want to believe you." I grabbed her by her upper arm and turned her around so that she had no choice but to look at me. "I really want to believe you, but you can't blame me for questioning it. All of the facts point to something sexual happening."
"I told you last night. We were standing in this same place when I told you that I hadn't ever been sexually molested. What more do I have to do or say before you believe me? I've told you, I lost my virginity when I was twenty-two. Would you like for me to see if I can find him so he can attest to that? Would you believe him if he tells you the details of it? Huh, Cade? What will it take?" She was frantic as streams of tears fell from her eyes so quickly they were dripping from her chin.
I wanted to calm her down so she would stop; I didn't want her to cry. I wanted to make it better, to make her better. "Then why can't you read the book? Why is it hitting too close to home? Please, I want to believe you. I want to know that you were never abused that way." My voice was calmer as I begged her to answer with my eyes.
She wiped her face and straightened her spine. The defiance I had gotten used to seeing small glimpses of was back in full force. Her shoulders squared as though she was preparing to fight me. "As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, the story takes place seven years later. She's trying to live and cope with a mental disorder. She's crazy and can't confide in anyone why she feels the way she does. She's living somewhat of a double life and that is what's hitting too close to home."
I wanted to ask multiple questions, but I held my tongue. I needed answers, but the last thing I wanted to do was set her off by jumping to the wrong conclusion again. I had already wondered if she, herself, was suffering from a mental disorder, but I had nothing to support that fact. It was just an educated guess because nothing else seemed to fit. I just had to bide my time and wait for her to tell me everything. I told her I'd let her lead and set the pace, and I was going to try my best to do just that.
After staring at me, presumably waiting for me to question her, she finally spoke again. "No, I'm not crazy. My mom was crazy. There was something wrong with her, but I never knew what it was. I don't think she even knew what was wrong with her. I remember one of her boyfriends arguing with her after she accused him of looking at me. He told her she needed help, and if she didn't go on her own to get it he would intervene. I didn't know what he meant at the time, but social services came a few weeks later and took me away."