She glanced at me, peering at me like I was a picture of a person rather than someone real sitting right next to her. “No. He looks . . . worried.”
“That’s ’cause I am worried.” I spoke without thinking, but was able to keep my voice low and calm.
Flinching, her eyes dropped and she rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. I was reminded of what she’d said her obsessions were like, how they screamed at her and distracted her until she gave in to the resultant compulsions.
“What? No. We’re perfectly fine.” Her tone was sharp, like Shelly couldn’t hear the other woman but her patience was running thin. Her attention lifted to me again. “I don’t know.”
Very clearly, I heard her therapist instruct, “Ask him now.”
Shelly stared at me, a mixture of emotions playing over her features. Now, this was a sight to behold. Until recently, I’d never seen much in the way of emotion from Shelly Sullivan, just rare glimpses followed by taciturn caution.
So seeing the spectrum of feeling now—worry, desire, hope, despair—had me holding my breath and wanting . . . something. Something I couldn’t rightly name, but there it was.
Allowing the want to guide me, I held her gaze and reached for the phone, slipping my fingers over hers and taking the cell out of her hand. She let me, her stare now wary and bracing.
“Beau,” she said, and it sounded like a plea.
I lifted my eyebrows, giving her a second to object. When she didn’t, I brought the cell to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hello? Mr. Winston?”
“Yeah, but you can call me Beau.”
The woman on the other end sighed, like she was relieved. “Beau, thank you for agreeing to speak with me. Do you have me on speaker?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If it would make you more comfortable, you can place me on speaker.”
“Let me ask,” I placed my palm over the receiver and asked Shelly. “Do you want me to place her on speaker?”
She shook her head, reaching for the door. “No. I—I don’t want to hear. I’ll wait outside.”
“You don’t want to hear?” I almost choked on the irony. Here I couldn’t bring myself to give her privacy, and now she couldn’t get away from my impending conversation fast enough.
“No.”
“She’s your therapist.”
“Yes, but she’s going to ask you to do something, and I know what it is. I don’t want my being here to impact your response.” She was already halfway out the door as she said this.
“Shelly—”
“Beau, you don’t know me—”
“I want to.”
“Really? Still? Are you sure? Because it doesn’t get better than this.” Her tone was stark and the depth of sadness—of desolate surrender—I saw in her eyes almost made me miss the ice and arrogance. Almost.
But it also made me want to take away her sadness, to prove her wrong.
Before I could say anything else, she was out of the car and closed the door, pacing to the back of my GTO and leaning against the trunk.
“Beau? Are you still there?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here.”
“Am I on speaker with you and Shelly?”
“No. She decided to give us privacy.”
“Ah. Okay.” It sounded like the woman was walking, I could hear the click-clack of shoes against a hard floor. “That should be fine, but it does complicate what I’m allowed to say and share.”
“I have a lot of questions,” I glanced at the rearview mirror, where Shelly’s stiff, straight back was visible, “but I’d prefer to ask her.”
I didn’t want Shelly to feel that we’d talked about her, that I’d been given information she wouldn’t have been willing to share. I wanted Shelly to have . . . some control.
“Good, you should.”
“She said you had something to ask me? How is it that you know who I am?”
“Shelly has mentioned you on many occasions.”
“She has?”
“Yes.”
“Because we work together?”
“No.” There was unmistakable humor in the single-word answer and also finality, communicating very effectively that she was not at liberty to discuss the context of how and when my name had come up. “But I can tell you that she speaks very highly of you.”
She speaks highly of you. Despite everything, that had me grinning, which might’ve meant I was the crazy one.
“Beau, I can also tell you, Shelly has made great progress in the last several months, especially since moving to Tennessee, and I think you—and her position at the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—are contributing factors. I think, and I’ve discussed my theory with Shelly, that you in particular could be instrumental in helping Shelly’s therapy moving forward.”
“How so?”
“First, let me ask you, do you consider Shelly a friend?”
No.
“Yeah.” Even to me, my response sounded hesitant.
Clearly the woman sensed my insincerity, because she asked, “Really?”
“Well,” my gaze flickered to Shelly’s rigid posture, “I’ve made overtures, which she rejected.”
“Last week, correct?”
“She told you about that?”
Dr. West ignored my question, instead asking, “But you would like to help her? If you could?”
“Absolutely. I don’t want her cutting herself because she touched me, or anyone else.”
The doctor was silent for a long time, prompting me to ask, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Her voice altered, now wary and stern. “She told you about the cutting?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just before she called you.”
“That’s very surprising.”
“What?”
“She trusts you.” The woman suddenly sounded fierce, angry, like she was warning me not to mess things up.
And her tone had me automatically defending myself. “I’m very trustworthy.”
“Good. I hope you’re also a very responsible driver, and don’t needlessly put yourself in harm’s way.”
“I don’t,” I snapped. I wasn’t the daredevil in our family; that title belonged to Duane. Besides, why was she bringing up my driving skills?
“In light of this development, I will need to speak with Shelly to determine the next steps.”
“What development? Me being a safe driver?”
“No. Shelly trusts you.”
“So? What’s wrong with her trusting me? I trust her.”
“You don’t know her—”
“I’m trying to change that.”
“She doesn’t know you very well—”
“I’m trying to change that, too.”
“This is not a simple matter, Mr. Winston,” the doctor continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
“I told you to call me Beau.”
“This is not a simple matter, Beau. I’m not able to delve into specifics for obvious reasons, but her trusting you—after so little time—changes everything.”
“What does it change? And what were you going to ask me?”
The physician hemmed and hawed, saying nothing for a good ten seconds. “That’s no longer a viable course of action, Beau. But I do appreciate your willingness to speak with me.”
I sensed that the woman was shutting the door in my face, and that did nothing for my mood. Whether this woman liked it or not, Shelly was my business.
And another thing, I’d just kissed a woman I’d been fantasizing about for weeks. I should be planning my next move, not stuck in my car speaking to her therapist while the literal woman-of-my-dreams paced outside.