The next day I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains—I must have been exhausted because I never sleep in. Tim left me alone for the night, and for that, I’m relieved, though I’m dreading having to face him now. I quickly shower, dress, and sneak out of the house before I can figure out if he’s home or not. He is, I realize as I dart past his truck and walk around the block to where I parked my car before I went out with Shane.
Fully aware of how bad this looks, I’m relieved Tim didn’t notice where I parked or my escape. How am I going to handle the situation when I have to face him? If Tim knew of my intention to see Shane again, he would try to stop me. He’s already made it clear he doesn’t trust him. What would Tim think if he knew who I went dancing with and why?
Like my husband, these aren’t problems I plan on facing now. There’s a fancy café on the far side of town near Shane’s office. I’ve never been there before but always wanted to, and now seems like the perfect time. So I drive over, park on the street, and head inside. A girl my age stands behind the counter, and I order a coffee and biscotti. I ask her for a job application, and while I doubt I’ll ever turn it in, it’s going to be a while before two o’clock rolls around.
I find a table near the window where I can watch people pass. It’s not nearly as glamorous as they make it seem in movies, and I quickly wish I had a new phone like everyone else. Mine is clunky, outdated, and barely works even with free Wi-Fi. I thank my lucky stars when I spot a bookshelf in the corner full to the brim with well-worn titles. I head over and pick one before I head back up to the counter and order another coffee. I don’t want to get kicked out.
It’s about twelve forty-five, and I am deep into an old mystery novel when I hear the chair opposite mine pull out. My mouth pops open as I see Shane taking the seat. He’s holding a paper mug like mine and a little plate with a muffin.
“Mind if I eat with you?” he asks after he’s already settled.
“Hi,” I squeak.
“Hi,” he smiles back. “I was surprised to see you here. I come here almost every day, all different times, and I’ve never seen you.”
“It’s my first time.”
I don’t understand why he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me alive.
“How lucky for me, then.”
“Mm,” I take a sip of my drink to keep from having to speak.
“Are you sure you’re not following me?” There’s a joking lilt to his voice, but anxiety sparks in my stomach.
He won’t keep seeing me as a patient if he genuinely thinks that. I shake my head but say nothing. There’s a long stretch of quiet between us where I get the impression he wants me to say something, but I have no idea what.
“Are you planning on coming to our appointment this afternoon?” he finally offers.
“Of course!” My brow wrinkles, and he laughs easily.
“Don’t be so surprised. I wasn’t sure after last night. I thought you had a fantastic time, but you didn’t seem too happy when I left you.”
He’s looking me up and down, and while he sounds casual, I’m sure he’s tense. Did I hurt his feelings last night with my melancholy? I sigh heavily. That can’t be it. Despite the crossed lines, he hasn’t done anything to make me believe he wants me in the same way I want him.
“I both had a fantastic time and wasn’t happy when you left me, but I had every intention of coming to our appointment. That’s why I’m here.” I shrug.
“What do you mean? Our appointment is over an hour away, and this is a coffee shop, not my office.”
“I’ve been waiting for our appointment. I can’t stand being in the house with Tim,” I shiver at the thought. “And this is close by. It seemed like a good time to hang out and drink coffee.”
“Since when?” his breezy tone is gone, replaced by a curt chill.
“Since when what?”
“Since when have you been waiting here for me?”
My cheeks redden. “Oh, I, a while.”
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing the back of my knuckles.
“Hours?”
I bite my lip, trying to think of a way to deny it. He picks up the book I’ve been reading and judges from how far I’ve gotten.
“Seraphina, is this book from that shelf?” He points across the room to the shelf it came from.
What am I supposed to do? Lie? I say nothing.
“You’ve been here for hours.”
I can’t look at him.
His hand moves from my knuckles to my chin, forcing me to look up.
“I always have time for you, and I’ll never make you wait. Next time, call me.”
His blue eyes are so sincere and beautiful. The blue sweater he is wearing makes them look even more intense.
“You have other patients,” I argue. He doesn’t and can’t always have time for me. I certainly can’t always think he’s a phone call away.
“And?”
“They require your time.”
“Mm,” he agrees but doesn’t consider it a problem. “But I’ll be the one to decide how much of it.”
“I can’t call you. I only have your office number.”
“I’ll give you my cell.”
“But then I could call you anytime.”
He laughs, as in actually laughs. The sound is so beautiful it hurts and hollows out my chest.
“So you see the point of me giving you my number.”
He’s teasing me, but I’m too stunned to care.
“Do you give your personal number to all of your patients?”
“No. I don’t take them dancing either.”
“Why me?”
The fingers on my chin move to my temple and then into my hair. “Because you’re special, Angel. No more waiting for me. Drive over, and I’ll meet you at the office now.”
He gets up, and I stand after him.
He thinks I’m special. What am I supposed to do with that?
I’m nervous as I drive over, park the car, and head into the building. But when I hit the elevator, that nervousness turns into anticipation, and I want to be with him again so badly I wish the elevator moved faster.
Tasha isn’t at her desk, and I thank Shane for bringing me in during her lunch break. I can’t stand the girl, and I don’t know if those feelings are fair. Probably not, but that doesn’t take away from my relief. I head down the hall and find his office door open; he’s still taking his coat off. I’m cold, but I do the same as I sit in my usual spot on the comfortable black leather and wait for him.
He sits across from me, and we just look at each other.
“Have you thought at all about our conversation last night?” he begins without any other preamble.
“Which one?”
He smiles as if he’s been caught. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking about all of them, the whole night.”
“And have you come to any conclusions?”
“None that aren’t depressing,” I say sarcastically.
His smile grows.
“I need to talk to you about a sensitive topic.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“Sex.”
“Why do we need to talk about sex?” I sound terrified, but part of me is just as eager to hear what Doctor Shane has to say about sex.
“Sex is the primary reason you came to therapy, isn’t it? And last night we were discussing all the things your life is lacking, all the things you can do for yourself, and this is one of them.”
“Do for myself?” I repeat. “You can’t have sex with yourself.”
“Of course you can, Seraphina. Virginity is nothing more than a social construct. Sex is a million different things, a million different ways. The important thing with sex is how you feel about it. And you can make love to yourself, fuck yourself, or anything in between. Sexuality can be spiritual and enlightening, primal and debasing. It can be whatever is right for you.”
“Right for me?”
“Yes. Exactly right for you whether you have no partner or many.”
My face is so red it’s painful.
“Many partners?”
He smirks. “You don’t need to have many if you don’t want to either. That’s kind of the point.”
“I mean, I don’t know if sex is really that important.”
I think I know how stupid I sound as I’m speaking, but if I have any doubt, it’s cemented by his expression as he watches me minimize myself and my feelings.
“Have you ever orgasmed, Seraphina?”
My mouth drops open, and my cheeks flood with heat. No, but I don’t say it. I’m breathing too loud, and I’m confident I’ve answered Shane’s question without saying a word.
“Masturbation?”
“Doesn’t work for me,” I admit through dry lips.
“So, you’ve tried?”
“A few times, yes.”
My fingers twist together, squeezing tight enough to keep me from bouncing in my seat.
“Can you tell me why it didn’t work?”
I think about the fumbling times I touched myself. Twice in the shower and twice more lying in bed. Neither produced results that were particularly pleasurable. Everything about it felt awkward, from the idea and planning straight to the execution.
“It felt wrong,” I decide because there are just too many complicated nuances to how awful I found the experience.
“So your issues are moral?”
I’m pink again, and my mouth is so dry it sticks to itself, “Not in the sense that I believe it’s wrong, no.”
“Then in what sense are they moral?”
I can’t help the full-body tingles I get from his attention. Tim has never anticipated a thing about me, and Shane hearing the disclaimer in my words, tells me he knows me better than the man who married me.
“It’s hard to feel sexy when a little voice inside you is screaming how sinful you are.”
He nods, “Was it just the mental side you found problematic or the physical as well?”
“Honestly? Both. I’ve watched porn and read a lot of websites, but every time I’ve reached down there and tried, it just feels weird and wrong. I’ve never felt anything close to enjoyable, and I think I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow them down. I stare at my fingers like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. I’m so embarrassed and overwhelmed by everything I’ve admitted, everything I’m feeling.
“Seraphina, look at me.”
I do as he says and meet the eyes that hold oceans.
“You are not broken. You are perfect.”
I let out an irritated huff. “Perfect as I am? As God made me?” I taunt, shocked at my animosity. I always keep it so tightly under wraps.
“No, Seraphina.”
I’m unsure if the heat in his eyes is anger or arousal, but it acts as a magnet, and I unconsciously lean toward him.
“You are perfect. Full stop. Perfection. No contingencies, no creators, just you.”
My mouth is hanging open again, and I can’t even force myself to close it.
“I am not perfect.” I manage to refute him.
“That’s a completely valid yet entirely wrong opinion, and you’re entitled to it.” I open my mouth to argue. “But I don’t think your low opinion of yourself is the issue this time. And you can orgasm.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I can prove it.” His tongue runs along his parted lips. “Do you trust me, Seraphina?”
