Chapter Two — The Second Session
1931 Words
I spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to wear to my second appointment.
Which was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I was going for manual lymph drainage.
Not a date.
Not an interview.
Not a first meeting with the love of my life.
And definitely not an opportunity to impress a twenty-eight-year-old man whose job involved helping my legs feel less like they belonged to a malfunctioning human.
Still, I stood in front of my wardrobe for almost ten minutes.
“Ridiculous,” I muttered.
I pulled out a loose black T-shirt.
Then put it back.
Too casual.
I grabbed another.
Too tight.
I eventually settled on leggings and an oversized jersey.
Comfortable.
Practical.
Completely unremarkable.
Perfect.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
“You're going there for treatment,” I told my reflection.
My reflection looked unconvinced.
“Not him.”
Still unconvinced.
“Stop it.”
I grabbed my handbag.
My phone buzzed.
Maya:Don't forget your appointment with Mr. Hands.
I stared at the message.
Me:I'm blocking you.
Maya:You haven't answered the important question.
Me:Which is?
Maya:Is he hot?
I sighed.
Me:He's fine.
Three dots.
Maya:FINE is never fine.
I shoved my phone into my bag.
Friends were supposed to support you.
Not conduct romantic investigations.
Especially when there was nothing to investigate.
There was absolutely nothing happening.
Noah was my therapist.
I was his client.
That was it.
Simple.
Safe.
Professional.
I repeated those three words to myself all the way to the clinic.
They stopped feeling quite as convincing when I walked through the door.
───
“You're early.”
I looked up.
Noah was standing behind the reception desk.
I frowned.
“I'm two minutes early.”
“Still counts.”
“You're keeping track?”
“Occupational hazard.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You're weird.”
“You came back.”
“Unfortunately.”
His mouth curved into a smile.
There it was again.
That smile.
I hated that smile.
Mostly because I liked it.
He walked around the desk.
“How have you been since last week?”
“Alive.”
“Good start.”
“My legs were sore for a day.”
“That can happen.”
“I blamed you.”
“I figured.”
“Then I remembered you have a nice face, so I forgave you.”
He stopped walking.
I stopped too.
His eyebrow lifted.
“Was that a compliment?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was an insult with excellent delivery.”
He laughed.
And something warm moved through my chest.
This was dangerous.
Not because he had done anything.
He hadn't.
That was the problem.
He didn't flirt with me.
He didn't stare.
He didn't make inappropriate comments.
He simply made me feel comfortable.
And after years of dating men who had made me question whether there was something fundamentally wrong with me, comfort felt dangerously close to intimacy.
He opened the treatment room.
“Come in.”
I walked past him.
“Do you talk to all your clients like this?”
“No.”
I turned.
“Why not?”
“Most of them don't talk back.”
I stared at him.
Then laughed.
“Fair.”
───
The second session was easier.
Much easier.
I wasn't as tense.
I didn't feel like I needed to explain every part of my body or apologise for taking up space.
I lay back while Noah worked.
The room was quiet except for the soft music playing in the background.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then—
“So,” I said.
“So?”
“You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Why did you choose this?”
He glanced at me.
“I told you. It's complicated.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It's the answer you're getting.”
I smiled.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You don't like talking about yourself.”
“Not particularly.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
“I've noticed.”
I laughed.
“Fine. I'll tell you everything.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“My first boyfriend cheated on me.”
His hands paused for half a second.
I noticed.
Most people wouldn't have.
I did.
“Second boyfriend lied about basically everything.”
Noah continued working.
“Third?”
“Emotionally unavailable.”
“Fourth?”
“Controlling.”
“Fifth?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Married.”
There was silence.
Then Noah stopped.
“I'm sorry.”
I laughed.
“Don't be. I didn't know.”
“When did you find out?”
“His wife told me.”
His expression changed.
“That's awful.”
“I know.”
“Why didn't he tell you?”
“Because apparently honesty is an optional feature in some men.”
His mouth twitched.
“You joke about everything.”
I looked at him.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
He didn't answer.
I looked away.
There it was.
That uncomfortable feeling again.
The one that came whenever someone got too close to the truth.
I swallowed.
“I've dated terrible men.”
“I gathered.”
“I have terrible taste.”
“I wasn't going to say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I wasn't.”
“You absolutely were.”
He shook his head.
“You're very defensive.”
I stared at him.
“And you're very observant.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I smiled.
“Fair.”
───
After a few minutes, he said, “You know you don't have to make jokes every time something gets uncomfortable.”
My smile faded.
I looked at him.
He wasn't judging me.
That somehow made it worse.
“I don't.”
“You do.”
“Maybe I like joking.”
“Maybe.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Maybe it's easier.”
He didn't respond immediately.
“Easier than what?”
I swallowed.
“Feeling sorry for myself.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Silence filled the room.
I hated it.
I wanted to take them back.
So I laughed.
“Wow. That got depressing quickly.”
But Noah didn't laugh.
“You don't have to feel sorry for yourself.”
I looked at him.
“That's easy for you to say.”
“Maybe.”
He hesitated.
“But I don't think there's anything wrong with you.”
My throat tightened.
I looked away.
I suddenly became fascinated by the ceiling.
Because somehow those six words hurt more than an insult.
There had been so many moments in my life when I'd felt like something was wrong with me.
Too heavy.
Too emotional.
Too sarcastic.
Too independent.
Too difficult.
And here was a man I'd known for barely two weeks telling me there was nothing wrong with me.
I didn't know what to do with that.
So naturally, I made a joke.
“Are you secretly a motivational speaker?”
He smiled.
“No.”
“Because that was suspiciously inspirational.”
“Noted.”
“Don't do it again.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
I smiled.
───
When the session ended, I sat up.
Noah handed me my water bottle.
“Drink.”
I stared at him.
“Bossy.”
“Hydrate.”
“Still bossy.”
“You're welcome.”
I took the bottle.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
I looked toward the door.
Then back at him.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
The words escaped.
I froze.
He froze.
Oh God.
Why had I asked that?
I suddenly wanted the floor to swallow me.
His expression was unreadable.
“No.”
“Oh.”
I nodded too quickly.
“Cool.”
“Cool?”
“Yeah.”
I stood.
“I was just curious.”
“About my relationship status?”
“No.”
He looked amused.
“I mean…”
I scrambled.
“People talk.”
“People talk?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Probably.”
He folded his arms.
“You're terrible at lying.”
“I know.”
His smile softened.
“I don't date.”
I looked at him.
“Ever?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“I don't have time.”
“That is the biggest lie I've ever heard.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone has time. They just choose what to spend it on.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You're very opinionated.”
“I've been told.”
“I can see why.”
I smiled.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Maybe.”
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Something shifted.
It was tiny.
Almost invisible.
But I felt it.
His eyes stayed on mine for a second too long.
My heartbeat stumbled.
Then he stepped back.
Professional.
Controlled.
The moment disappeared.
“You're booked for next week,” he said.
I nodded.
“Right.”
I walked toward the door.
“Lena?”
I turned.
He looked like he wanted to say something.
Instead, he simply said,
“Have a good week.”
I smiled.
“You too.”
I left.
The door closed behind me.
I stood in the hallway for a second.
My heart was beating far too quickly.
I pressed my palm against my chest.
“Get a grip.”
I walked toward reception.
Then stopped.
Because for the first time in years, I had just met a man who didn't make me want to run.
And that scared me more than any terrible relationship ever had.
───
That night, I sat on my couch with a glass of wine and my laptop open.
I was supposed to be marking assignments.
Instead, I was staring at the same sentence for five minutes.
My phone buzzed.
Maya:How was Mr. Hands?
I sighed.
Me:His name is Noah.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Maya:OH.
I frowned.
Me:What?
Maya:You remembered his name.
I rolled my eyes.
Me:Because he's my therapist.
Maya:You remembered his AGE too.
I stared at the screen.
I had.
Twenty-eight.
I knew he was twenty-eight.
Why did I know that?
I tossed my phone onto the couch.
“No.”
I wasn't doing this.
I wasn't becoming one of those women who developed a crush on someone simply because he was kind to her.
I had standards.
I had self-respect.
I had learned my lessons.
I wasn't going to fall for another man.
Especially not one who wasn't interested in relationships.
And especially not one who was supposed to remain completely professional.
I picked up my phone.
Maya:You're in trouble.
I typed back.
Me:I'm not.
Her response came seconds later.
Maya:You are.
I ignored it.
Because I knew something she didn't.
Nothing was happening.
Nothing could happen.
Noah wasn't interested in relationships.
I wasn't looking for one.
And we were both adults who understood boundaries.
So why did I keep replaying the way he'd looked at me when I'd asked if he was seeing someone?
Why did his voice keep appearing in my head?
I don't think there's anything wrong with you.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time, I wondered whether the most dangerous thing about Noah wasn't that he might break my heart.
Maybe it was that he might convince me to open it again.
- Writer
