Marriage Matters

Five

Chloe stood in the hallway, staring at the nameplate on the door. Dr. Geoff Gable, IV stared back in cool, nondescript prose. She could not believe the renowned psychologist was willing to take the time to meet with her.

Earlier that year, Dr. Gable had made a speech at a fundraising event for her school. The man had such a commanding presence that Chloe listened, riveted, as he discussed the complex relationship between the field of psychology and art therapy. It was pretty impressive. (She couldn’t help but notice that his green eyes were pretty impressive, too.)

“Ultimately,” Dr. Gable lectured, “you should find a mentor in your field. Someone to coach you.” For a brief, breath-catching moment, his green eyes seemed to look right at her. “Email me. I’m happy to advise you in any way I can.”

It took all summer, but Chloe finally worked up the nerve to get in touch. She requested a letter of recommendation for a grant she was interested in applying to, pressed Send and expected to never hear from him again. To her surprise, Dr. Gable responded with a time and date to meet. Chloe read the email seven times, certain that he’d made a mistake.

Now that the big day had finally come, Chloe was giddy with excitement. Brushing her fingers over the nameplate for luck, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Inside the office, she stopped.

On her ride up in the elevator, Chloe had imagined that the waiting room would be bright and bustling, with a tight-lipped secretary who would ask her to take a seat. Then, after Chloe had waited a decent amount of time, flipping through worn copies of AAA and Better Homes and Gardens, the secretary would nod. “The doctor will see you now.” But to Chloe’s surprise, the white chairs lining the walls were vacant, the lights were turned down low and the tight-lipped secretary was nowhere to be found. If it weren’t for a light shining behind the frosted-glass partition by the desk, Chloe would wonder if anyone was in the office at all.

“Hello?” she called. “Dr. Gable?”

No answer.

Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Noon. Being on time was definitely overrated.

Taking a few tentative steps, Chloe peeked behind the glass partition. A long hallway led to an open door. Smoothing her hair, she headed for his office. Her sandals seemed to sink into the thick rug and the strands of carpet brushed against her toes. She’d only made it halfway, when the strains of Louis Armstrong’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody” blasted out from his office.

Crap. Dr. Gable must have forgotten about their appointment altogether. Feeling a flash of disappointment, she decided to leave. She’d send another email asking to reschedule, even though it totally sucked that he’d forgotten all about her.

Just as she made it back to the glass partition, Dr. Gable started singing along with the music. Chloe stopped in surprise. Geez, he had a terrible voice. It was surprising, really, especially considering he was so good-looking. But it was like the worst karaoke ever.

As he hit a particularly high note, Chloe had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Unfortunately, Dr. Gable chose that exact moment to barrel out into the hallway. He was bare-chested, dripping with sweat and wearing only a pair of green sweatpants.

Dr. Gable froze, the high note dying on his lips. After a long, horrifying moment, he said, “Can I help you with something?” as though trying to figure out who she was and why, exactly, she was spying on him.

Chloe’s hand dropped from her mouth. “Uh . . . hi,” she stammered. “I . . . I had an appointment with you. At noon?”

With one swift look, Dr. Gable seemed to take in everything, from her thin-framed, tortoiseshell glasses to her industrial navy wrap dress. “I never make appointments with pharmaceutical reps. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“No, no. I—” Chloe made the mistake of looking at his tanned, heaving chest. Her eyes dipped even lower, falling on a trail of black hair that led from his defined abs to the very top of his pants. Blushing furiously, she forced herself to stare at the carpet. “I’m a student,” she mumbled. “I emailed you?”

Dr. Gable turned his sculpted, sweaty back on her and headed into his office. Cautiously, she followed, waiting as he tossed a series of weights over to the side of the room. Apparently, she’d caught him in the middle of his workout. Although, honestly, Chloe could recommend some peppier music.

“If you’d like, I could come back . . .”

“You may as well stay,” he grunted. “You’ve already interrupted my day.”

Okay. Maybe he hadn’t appreciated the fact that she caught him singing. And half dressed.

Dr. Gable seized a wad of clothing from the back of his desk chair. Stepping into a tiny bathroom, he shut the door. The latch didn’t catch and Chloe could hear him changing. When his belt buckle clicked closed, she blushed furiously, trying not to think of those green sweatpants.

Chloe glanced around the office. It was comfortably decorated, with a stately wooden desk, typical green plant and a big, comfy blue couch. An impressive bookshelf lined the walls. If the situation had been different, she might have made a list of titles to look up later.

“What is your name?” he called.

“Chloe McCallister.”

Dr. Gable gave a little grunt. For some reason, she pictured him pulling on a pair of black socks.

“I wrote to you about that grant,” she said, just in case he still couldn’t place her. “I had an appointment with you for noon—”

“Tomorrow.” Dr. Gable strode back into the room. He was now fully dressed and sported a tweed jacket, plaid shirt and a yellow ascot.

“Um, no.” Chloe stared at the ascot. What the heck was that all about? “Our appointment was for today.”

“I think I would know,” he scoffed. “I scheduled it.”

Chloe snapped open her appointment book, thumbing through the pages. “No. I’m sure it was . . .”

Shit. The appointment was for noon tomorrow.

“I’m sorry.” Chloe felt like a total idiot. “You’re so right. This is all my fault.”

“Of course it is.” Dr. Gable folded his cuffs. “I don’t make scheduling errors. Would you like to have a seat?”

Chloe glanced at the door. It was not too late to make a run for it. Instead, she settled into the pale blue suede cushions of the couch as Dr. Gable walked over to the window and snapped open the shade. Sunshine streamed into the room and she squinted in the sudden brightness.

“So.” Dr. Gable turned to face her, his green eyes intent. “You sent me a letter asking for an endorsement for a particularly formidable grant. Is there a reason you’re interested in competing so far out of your league?”

Chloe sat up straight. “I don’t think it’s out of my league.”

Dr. Gable assessed her with his eyes. “Historically, it’s been awarded to older men with Ivy League connections. That’s not you. Is it?”

“That shouldn’t be an issue.” Chloe ran her sweating palms over the starched fabric of her dress. “It’s for a local project. It seems to me, that if someone was going to delve into the psychological implications for the children of our city, it should be someone in our city.”

Dr. Gable looked vaguely amused. “Someone like you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Someone like me.”

Chloe met his gaze, remembering what June always said about the importance of eye contact. It makes you seem strong, she always said. Even if you really don’t feel that way.

“Chloe . . .” Walking over to his desk, Dr. Gable rifled through a few papers. “I am always interested in helping students. However.” He plucked a paper off the top of the stack. “I did speak with your development professor. He forwarded me a copy of your most recent paper. Given this and your, ah, untimely arrival . . . I do have some concerns.”

Striding across the room, Dr. Gable settled in next to her on the couch. Their fingers brushed as he handed the paper to her. Chloe was quick to move her hand away.

Addicted to Art was on the viability of using art therapy as a recovery tool for abuse. The paper had been great, even though she’d rushed to get it done right before leaving for the wedding. She wondered why he had “concerns.”

Flipping open the first page, Chloe was surprised to see that it was covered in red marks. “Wait . . .” She peered at it more closely. “Oh, my gosh.” Mortified, she slammed the paper shut like a diary. “This isn’t my paper. This is . . . This is . . . entertainment news.”

“Unless you were analyzing the lifestyle of a child star, I found it a bit difficult to see how the supporting information was relevant.” Plucking the paper from her lap, Dr. Gable read, “‘Duress in the home environment can be demonstrated in several forms. Reports suggest that Madonna was spotted at the Coffee Bean, discussing a new vibe for the national anthem.’”

Looking at her, Dr. Gable raised an eyebrow. “Madonna?”

“No, no, I—” Chloe snatched the paper back. Splashes of entertainment news were neatly situated within her academic argument, like hot pink fishnets spicing up a graduation gown. Her professor had circled Madonna’s name in red ink. “The mother figure???” he’d written in the margin.

Thinking back to Wednesday night, Chloe realized exactly how this had happened. She’d just finished a shift at her part-time job, jammed clothes into a suitcase for the wedding and sat down at the computer to bang out her paper. There was a ton of research to compile and to stay awake, she’d flipped back and forth between the research and entertainment news.

“I was exhausted when I wrote this,” she said. “I must have cut and pasted a wrong source or two.” Her ears burned. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” They sat in silence for a moment. “You didn’t cite the source, either.”

“I cited the wrong source,” Chloe said. “The quotes are all cited.”

“Either way.” Dr. Gable gave her a patronizing smile. “Not your best hour.”

“Not my best work,” she clarified. “You know, I can’t believe my professor would send this to you.” Out of all the well-done pieces she’d turned in to her development professor, this was what he decided to use to demonstrate her work? How humiliating.

“Don’t blame him,” Dr. Gable told her. “I asked him to send your weakest performance. I find that the assignments with the least effort invested in them are the most revealing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Chloe’s eyes flickered to the tissue on the coffee table. No, she was not going to cry. It would give this man too much satisfaction. Suddenly, she was glad she’d caught him singing. At least she wasn’t the only one who looked like a jerk.

“May I ask,” Dr. Gable continued, “why this . . . nonsense . . . was on your computer at all?”

“Only if I can ask why you listen to shitty music from the 1930s,” she shot back.

Dr. Gable laughed. “Chloe.” He put what was probably meant to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think your ambition is to be admired. Rumor has it, your work is typically much stronger.”

Standing up, Dr. Gable walked back over to his desk. He sat in his chair in a way that could only be described as smug. “However, according to your professors, you seem to have a hard time managing everything. You rush into class at the last minute, take on too many internship hours . . .”

Show up for appointments a day early hung in the air, unspoken.

“Slow down.” He spread out his hands. “Enjoy your life.”

“I don’t have time to enjoy my life. I have serious goals that I plan to meet by the time I turn thirty. I want to own my own practice, just like you. And with this grant, I could finally—”

“Forget the grant,” he said. “It’s not going to happen this year. Maybe you can find someone else to endorse you, but I’m here to tell you that you’re moving at a pace that is much too fast. You’re going to burn out. And I’d hate to see that happen to such a promising little flame.”

Chloe’s mouth dropped open. “A promising little flame?”

Dr. Gable watched her with dancing eyes. “Isn’t that what you are?” He picked up her paper. With a smirk, he read, “The celebrity wedding was witnessed by friends, family and paparazzi, circling like vultures over . . .”

“A*shole,” Chloe said, then slammed his office door.