Clarity hits me between the eyes, the feeling so intense it’s tangible. I pinch the bridge of my nose as if a mosquito just stung me.
“No. I do have to talk. I’m here because even I know this is destabilizing. I love Lindsay more than life itself and I’m afraid I’m fucking this up already.”
She glances at the newspaper. “I see.”
“That punch got me fired. Harry Bosworth took me off the case protecting Lindsay. We were just getting closer again,” I say, my voice filled with regret.
“Intimately close?” Her voice is so neutral she might as well be screaming. The dichotomy makes no sense, but nothing makes sense right now.
“Yes.”
“And how was that?”
I shoot her a speculative look. “I’m not a kiss-and-tell kind of guy.”
She laughs, the sound genuine. I’ve surprised her. “I’m not looking for lurid details, Drew. I’m asking about your psychological health.”
“What does sex have to do with that?”
Her turn to give me an incredulous look.
My laugh surprises me. It’s deep and rough, and sounds like it’s coming from outside my body. “Sex was good. Great, actually. Especially when she doesn’t steal my gun afterwards.”
Peering intently, Salma asks, “Is that a euphemism for something sexual?”
“I wish.”
Her eyebrows go up.
“It’s a long story.”
“You booked two hours.” Her comment comes with a small smile.
I give her one back and cross my arms over my chest. I’m playing games. I shouldn’t. The mess with Lindsay is a tornado filled with flaming pieces of my soul, my career, my life. All of it spirals, pushed by forces beyond my control. I hate it.
I hate not being in charge.
But I’m here because it’s the right place for me to be. Paulson nudged me, and being fired was all I needed to call and get in with Salma.
I’m here.
I should be productive with my time.
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important,” I start.
“Of course. Reconnecting with Lindsay is important.”
“And destabilizing,” I add.
“You’ve used that word twice now,” Salma notes.
I shrug. “You introduced me to it. It’s a good word. Fits how I feel.”
She nods and stays silent.
“Four years ago,” I start, my mouth going dry. I cough, clearing it. “Those bastards drugged me. Made me watch. And then...”
I close my eyes.
It’s like the last four years didn’t happen. I’m back in that room, at that party in a rented beach house. We were all buddies from high school. Blaine, John and Stellan had been on the lacrosse team with me. I’d known them since middle school. Wasn’t a fan of Blaine and John, but they were okay. Good for partying and having fun. Lindsay was with Tara, Mandy, and Jenna, and Jane was there, shy, against one wall in her own little category. Alcohol flowed.
I was graduating from West Point in a few weeks, home for some family event. The Saturday night party was a fluke. Lindsay’s dad was running for re-election to the U.S. senate, and earlier that day he’d talked to me about my future. Said he could help me get in with the Secret Service.
Now I am more powerful than any Secret Service agent.
But for all the wrong reasons.
I’d been drinking. So had Lindsay, but we’d both agreed to a three-drink limit. She was still underage and always worried about how her actions would reflect on her father. I didn’t want to be hungover for my flight back to school the next day.
None of it mattered. We’d been so careful, and not one iota of it mattered.
“Would you like to do some guided imagery, Drew? What do you see when you close your eyes?”
“I see failure.”
“What does failure look like?”
My own face flashes before my eyes.
“Me.” I know from being in therapy that the first answer isn’t always true. Damned if it doesn’t feel like it, though.
“What color is it?”
“Blue, purple and red,” I blurt out, surprised.
“The color of Lindsay’s scarves,” Salma says quietly.
I jolt. My heart canters in my chest like a skittish horse.
“Have you tried to imagine her face as you tell her?”
“Try?” I open my eyes. “I don’t have to try. I see it every day, every second. Not a moment goes by that I don’t imagine how much she’d be disgusted if she knew what really happened that night.” My fists tighten again. Any equanimity or clarity I was working toward is now long gone.
“She’s smarter than that. She loves you. She wouldn’t -- ”
“Loves me? Lindsay can barely trust me. We’re sleeping together but it feels so weird. Like I’m part of some game. A ruse. I’m just...” My throat tightens. My pulse feels like it’s jumping rope.
“You’re together but you think she’s manipulating you?”
“I know she is.”
“Then why are you with her?”
“Why do iron shavings attach themselves to magnets?”
“You’re hardly an inanimate element, Drew. You are a sentient, grown man who can make choices.”
“Lindsay is a choice,” I say, my voice gruff.