Chapter 4

I STOP MY morning jogs as autumn settles and the days start to get colder. Now I hang around a café near my office. I also rearranged the coffee station disaster; now there’s just a kettle, tea bags, and a can of instant coffee so patients and Silvia can brew themselves whatever they prefer.

Since Josephine helps with Monday’s medical appointments, I have time to hide in this place and research the PhD I want to take. I’ve studied my whole life, it’s what I do best, so I think that a PhD is the next logical thing. Maybe I can find a good one in another city. Maybe Jo would say yes to moving if I tell her that’s what I want to do. Maybe.

Still, now that my dad’s health is a mystery, it might be too much for him to move. Every Monday, I come home to different updates. Bad ones, expensive ones, some that keep me up at night. My dad is not getting better.

But he isn’t getting worse either, the doctor said to Jo in a distasteful attempt at a joke.

Neutrality is a killer that waits to sneak in disaster until you have your guard down. It erupts in your face, leaving thousands of what ifs in your mind. I can’t let that happen. The neutrality of his condition makes me feel powerless.

The bell over the café’s door chimes every time someone arrives. I look up constantly when it does. It feels rude and creepy. Nobody wants to meet the eyes of a stranger when they’re minding their own business. So far, a man, two teenagers, and an elderly woman have joined me in this small shop.

A fifth person arrives. And somehow, in my mind, I knew it was bound to happen.

Theodore wears an olive parka and is followed in by his dog, who has a windbreaker vest on. It looks ridiculous to say the least, like he’s walking a real life stuffed animal.

His eyes scan the place until they fall on my table. He looks taken aback by my presence. I’ve seen him through the window, walking past this place plenty of times. Every time, I’ve whispered underneath my breath, begging that he doesn’t come inside. Today, I didn’t, as if my plea was the only thing keeping him away from me. I can’t shake the idea that perhaps I wanted this confrontation. I knew this was a possibility so why did I keep coming to this place?

But no, it’s not like that. I come here because I like this place, because I found it first and I’ll be damned if I give it up because of him.

His gaze doesn’t fall from me. I give him an amiable smile and a nod of acknowledgement. He greets me with a wave as he takes off his gloves.

And I don’t like this sensation of familiarity he casts on me. We keep holding our stares, fighting to see who’s going to be the one to break it off, until he looks away and goes straight to the pastry display. I look back at my computer and the papers scattered around the table. And as if destiny didn’t punish me enough, a well known melody fills the room. “The Swan'' by Camille Saint-Saëns comes on the loudspeakers. Unfortunate.

Not that he knows, but this song has always reminded me of the years when we were doing our internship at St. Barts. It stirs up a lot more memories but I shake my head to recalibrate my thoughts and go back to the present, where a mysterious muffin has been placed on my table, right in front of me.

“Do you still eat these?” Theodore asks as he sits on the chair next to me. He has a mug in one hand and his dog is sniffing my leg.

“What are you doing?” My words are dragged out. I’m still processing what’s happening.

“There’s no other place to sit.”

He’s so full of shit.

There’s a lonely table in the far corner of this place, right next to the window.

“So I’m offering this as a trade: food for a place to sit. I won’t bother you, I promise, but I want to know if you still like these kinds of things.”

It’s the word still that does it for me, because it implies he remembers I used to get these for breakfast. On the days that I was running late with an empty stomach, he would find me at the bakery across the street from St. Barts.

“Why do you ask?” I ask before I think of a better question like ‘why does it matter?’ or ‘why would you care?’.

“You’ve changed. Maybe you’ve gone vegan or something like that.” Sounds like he’s put a lot of thought into it.

And, surprisingly, he is not that wrong. I’m not vegan. My doctor told me I can eat anything I want as long as I'm eating but I try to avoid gluten. It upsets my stomach. He doesn’t need to know that though.

“It’s fine. Thank you.” His dog is now resting between my feet, his tail wagging against my heels. “You don’t need to do this.” I push the muffin to him. “I’m finished anyway.”

I close my laptop and start gathering my papers when he places his hand on my forearm.

“Hey, now, please. Don’t leave. Really, I don’t want to bother you.”

“You don’t bother me, Theo, alright? It's fine. I’m fine.” I move my arm away and drop back onto the chair to prove my point.

“Good. So there’s no reason for you to leave. I’ll be here, minding my own business.”

I open my computer again. Maybe it’s pride or trust that stops me from leaving. I know I could leave, but somehow, when he’s there taking a sip from his mug, scrolling through his phone, I don’t feel like giving up my warm chair, my unfinished research, and a free muffin on the table. I grab the knife that came with the muffin and cut it in half.

“Here.” I push half of the muffin to him. “Today is 50% off for the chair.”

I try my best to not pay attention to him, but I still catch it. Therapists always catch things from the corner of their eyes. He suppresses a smirk while grabbing the pastry and bringing it to his mouth.

“How kind.” The only way this man can communicate is through sarcasm, so rooted in his words he can’t speak without it.

“Lucky for you, I had a good night’s sleep.” I chew. Still, my eyes are glued to my screen. If I don’t make eye contact with him, I will be able to keep this comfortable distance between us.

“Oh yeah, it shows. I mean, with the band around your finger.” He takes another bite and talks with his mouth half-full. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

I look down at my engagement ring. It‘s like I’m looking at it for the first time again. Three tiny crystals embedded in a silver band that glistens every time the light catches it. I’ve been wearing it for months, already used to it. Now, it's like I’m waking up on the morning of Josephine’s proposal. I catch myself smiling.

“Is that a smile? Must be a hell of a guy.”

I glare at him. His American-like expressions annoy me, even without taking into account he assumes that I am engaged to a man.

“Her name is Josephine.”

There’s a silence that settles between his surprise and confusion, as if he never knew about it. About me. He was one the first people who I said bisexual to with confidence. I don’t look away, still waiting for something. I’m not sure what it is. I just don’t want to be the first to look away.

“We are engaged. And you’re right, she’s wonderful,” I add.

He looks down at his mug, the words he’s trying to push out of his mouth still clinging to his lips. I go back to typing as if nothing happened because nothing really did happen. Nothing for him to be this startled about.

“You were serious, then?” he finally asks and I have to scrutinise him for him to elaborate. “I mean, I remember you told me and also…” He trails off for a moment. “Didn’t you date Adams? Yes, Stephanie Adams, after we…” He pauses. I raise my brow. “I thought it was… I mean, I thought you were curious.”

There’s a bubble of anger starting to grow inside my chest. I did date Stephanie between one of Theo’s unpredictable bursts of disinterest, but it had nothing to do with him.“I wasn’t doing it for attention.” My voice tastes bitter on my tongue. “Especially yours. The world doesn't and didn’t revolve around your prick.” My voice, low and steady, draws a wide-eyed look from him.

At some point in Theodore’s life, he became scandalised by swear words and cold responses. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He’s uncomfortable; good. He made me uncomfortable. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up being a bigot.

The bubble inside my chest is still growing and heating. “Look, if you have a problem with it, since you were the one to overwhelm my table, you can take your dog and look for another one. I’m sure you can—”

“Whoa, hey, I don’t. I get it, I was an idiot for thinking that way, but I’m not…” He breathes, I breathe. We both exchange stares for a moment, sizing up each other, seeing if we should attack or surrender. He lowers his voice, just for me to hear. “I’m not homophobic or biphobic, or anything like that, alright? I’m not.”

We keep quiet. I’m staring at my laptop screen, motionless, because every time that I argue with him, it’s like my brain stops working and I can’t focus. I’m not revising nor typing. I stay there in a catatonic state. And it's his fault.

He turns his mug in his hands and I’m extremely aware of his dog napping over my shoes.

“It seems that every time we see each other, I upset you.” There’s a chuckle on the last part of his statement and I start to see red but, also, it’s the first time I can agree with him.

“Have you ever asked yourself why? And I mean not just about these three encounters. You’ve always found a way to upset me.” He raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t have a damn clue. “For years, I thought you were doing it on purpose, that you were playing oblivious just to hurt me, but every time, you seem so surprised about the fact that you’ve done something to make me feel like shit.”

I didn’t want to say anything of it, not at all. It comes out of my mouth as verbal vomit and there is so much more to say, but every time that a word leaves my mouth, I feel a brick from my wall shattering into pieces. I don’t want that wall to be gone. I need it to keep him out.

“I don’t want to make you feel like shit!” He raises his voice and my body recoils.

“But you do! Every time!”

“Oi!”

We both look back to where the voice comes from. I see the face of a bearded man through a small window that I assume is a connection between the kitchen and the café.

“Stop that or you both will have to continue outside!”

In the silence, everyone’s eyes are on us. It makes me sick to think that we look like a couple fighting about some petty disagreement. I don’t want anyone to think I’m in a relationship with this man. I don’t want to be associated with him at all.

“Emma.” I hate how my name sounds in his mouth. “I’m sorry. I am. I know that I can’t make it better.”

“I don’t want you—”

“But I want you to know that I am not doing this on purpose, alright? I’m not.”

I want to tell him that I don’t believe him and that I don’t forgive him. I want to scream in his face that he doesn’t know the damage he causes nor how much baggage I’m dragging from his mistakes. I want to yell about all the problems that his careless behaviour caused in my life.

But I don’t, because he doesn’t deserve to know.

This encounter, the ones before… They cannot be a coincidence, can they? I could have done something to avoid it. As in not coming here since I’ve seen him around, but why does it have to be me? I’m not changing my life just because he can’t find a café of his own.

“Are you following me?” My question floats in the air for a moment.

I haven’t seen him in a decade. I’ve been working in this area for ten months at least and now I see him almost daily?

“I’m not. I swear.” He says it too fast. That only roots the idea that he could be stalking me.

“It’s weird that after ten years, you appear all of a sudden and become a constant face in this neighbourhood.”

“Trust me, I know it’s too convenient, but I promise, Em. I’m not stalking you.”

The sound of droplets against the coffee shop’s window pulls me out of that moment. As it becomes louder, I remember that Silvia and the rain don’t get along, and she always arrives late because of it. Theo’s dog has woken up and jumped on his lap. The wall between us is rebuilt by his tiny dog.

“I was a jerk.” He resigns, pulling a tired laugh from me. At least he’s aware now.

“And you're still pretty much an idiot,” I state, halfway between trying to lighten the situation and still wanting to hurt him.

He shrugs. “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

I take a moment to give in and look back at him. His eyes have always been a mystery. I’ve always been met with a lock I didn’t have the key for, but right now, the lock is open. The way the crease between his brow deepens, his jaw tightening, the ghost of a memory across his eyes. There are so few things that he cares about. At least, from what I can recall. It’s the same worry my patients show when they arrive.

“You need therapy,” I offer as a tagline. It has become an automatic statement when I don’t want an awkward silence to settle.

His eyes narrow while scanning me. Theo leans back, arms crossed and a weary air around him. “I do need therapy, Emma Lamb.” There’s amusement in his voice. I feel a twitch pulling the corner of my mouth. “I think that you are the one who is stalking me.” The tone of his voice changes in a mix of emotions somewhere between surprised and suspicious.

I shake my head as I avoid smiling. “I don’t think that’s the best joke, considering what happened back in medical school…”

“You’re right.”

“I can refer you to my colleagues if you want to—”

He interrupts me. “Wait, are you a therapist?”

I forgot that he didn’t know. I left St. Barts in the middle of my fourth year and finished it in Glasgow. I stayed there for my masters in psychotherapy. I wasn’t expecting him to know what I did with my life, but I also wasn’t expecting him to not know even a little. He never asked about me after I left and I should be relieved, but I have a knot in my gut.

“Yes.”

“That’s amazing.”

I hate that some twisted parts of my stomach loosen after he says that.

“I need therapy.” His body stiffens. He talks low as if he has an awful secret between his lips. “Do you remember Molly?”

Do I remember one of the reasons why I stayed away? I sure fucking do.

“Your daughter. Yes.” I’m not bitter about his child, not at all, but there’s something that makes me feel so inadequate when talking about her.

“Well, things with her mother didn’t work out and I’m the reason why.”

He’s holding himself accountable, which is surprising. I don’t know the dynamics of his family, of course, but I do remember some things he said about his ex; awful things. I should have known from that moment that he was more than trouble.

“Don’t get me wrong, she is an amazing mother. And on her own, she’s an amazing woman too. I’m aware I have issues I need to work on, but she thinks I purposely ruined our family. She tagged me as unapproachable and unavailable. Clearly she’s been talking with someone about it. Now, she doesn’t believe I’m fit to co-parent.”

Unapproachable and unavailable. Turns out that I wasn’t crazy after all. He’s not an easy person to deal with. I find myself feeling the opposite of satisfied. I thought I’d have rejoiced in his problems, but there’s a bit of empathy in me.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah, it's a whole load of shit.” When he swears, he sounds more like himself.

“We came to an agreement. Well, more than an agreement. It’s a fucking gun over my head. She asked me to see a therapist at least two times a week for the next three months. If not, she’ll make seeing my child a living hell.”

I immediately want to ask what he did. No one does something like that out of the blue, especially when you want to put your child’s safety first. But at the end of the day, asking would only make me look like I care.

“That’s fucked up. Though she must have her reasons, you shouldn’t start therapy because someone is coaxing you into it.”

“Well that’s exactly what’s happening, Emma.” He rests against the chair, looking defeated. “I don’t want to lawyer up against her mother. I just want to have a stable relationship with her.”

“With the person that’s manipulating you into a situation where you’re clearly at a disadvantage?”

“You think I’m right?”

“I think it's none of my business.”

“Listen, Lamb.” I stiffen at the sound of my last name. His voice is not threatening or violent, but he’s serious about this. Maybe a bit unhinged. “I just want to be able to see my daughter and I don’t care if I have to see a shrink for the rest of my life or take antidepressants and shit to keep Molly’s mother happy.”

I don’t have to read him to know this is too important to him. It’s one of the few times where his truth surfaces through that layer of sarcasm. He needs this and I’m in no position to give him advice about it. I should mind my business.

“How much do you charge for the session?” His question is so sudden, so ridiculous, I’m baffled. My laugh sounds as if his statement both amused me and confused me but he doesn’t flinch even a little.

“Are you for real? No,” I state.

“Why not? I know you. You know me more than anyone else.”

“Listen.” The whole place starts to spin around me, and I grab the side of the table to stop it. “Even if it were true, I can’t. It’s not ethical. Precisely because we know each other, the way we know each other, I’m not fit to be your therapist.”

He puffs, letting his face rest between his hands. “No one has to know. You don’t need to make a file report on me.”

“Really? You’re just going to tell her you started therapy and she’s going to believe you? No, Let me refer you. I know people.”

“I don’t know. I’m comfortable telling you things. Isn’t that important? To feel comfortable with one’s therapist?”

“Well, I’m not comfortable with the idea.”

A smug smile appears on his face. “You are really worked up about this, huh? I’d like your help.”

“No, you wouldn't. You didn’t know I was a therapist a few minutes ago.”

“Sounds like destiny to me.”

There’s a plea in his eyes in contrast to his sly mouth. I believe his desperation. I'd like to think I’d be that desperate too if it were me, but I can only help him so much. I’d lose my licence, my credibility, and respect among the mental health community.

“I’m sorry.” This time, he doesn’t stop me when I close my laptop and gather my papers. “But that’s what I can do for you, and if I was you, I’d take it.”

“Emma.” He grabs my hand.

The place starts to spin again. Being around Theodore Eullie has always felt like being on a merry-go-round that is going too fast. The warmth of his skin, the calluses that formed on his fingertips, and how his thumb is stroking my knuckles make me forget that we are at a café and I was getting away from him.

My first mistake after all these years is letting him hold my hand. His face fills me with pity. My body betrays me and wants to stay in the comfort of his well-known touch. My skin wants to know if something has changed. Everything has.

I pull away.

“I have to go. I’m sorry.”

I shove my laptop inside my messenger bag so fast, the corners make a deafening sound.

“You’d help me a lot,” he whispers.

But it won’t help me and I hope Molly can forgive me one day, but I care more about my well-being than helping her unhinged father.