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Slowly, he settles back into his seat, saying that he’ll tell me the rest later and that he hopes the other information helps.

It does. Or it will. Later. When I’m somehow capable of thinking about anything but him. And his hand. And his lips.

I don’t think of much else during the movie. Scarlett professes her love for Ashley. He turns her down.
He’s still holding my hand.
Scarlett’s first husband dies and she dances with Rhett.
Hands haven’t moved.
Scarlett marries another man. He dies.
Hands sweating a little but still together.
Scarlett marries Rhett
. I hope my leg isn’t sweating under his hand.
Rhett whisks Scarlett up in his arms and carries her up the stairs. They—

My phone rings.

SHIT.

I have to find it. Stop the ringing. Stop ruining the movie for everyone.

I unceremoniously let go of his hand and immediately begin digging in my purse, quickly realizing that my phone is not in its normal spot. I frantically search every inch but have no luck so I begin ripping items out of my purse and dumping them on my lap. My wallet. My Band-Aids. Keys. Deoder—

I drop my purse on the floor just as my phone stops ringing.

DAMN IT.

Instinctively, I reach down to grab the top of my purse. But I bump heads with him. Because he has the same idea.

“Let me get it, Callie,” he whispers, our heads only inches apart.

I let him because I don’t even know what to do right now, and it seems a lot less scary to have him make some decisions. 

As I try to sit back up in my seat without bumping into him again, I lose my balance and involuntarily grab the top of the seat in front of me.

Oh my God.

I am touching gum. Sticky, disgusting gum that some idiot put on the back of this chair. As I rip my right hand away from the chair, from the gum, I feel something like a dry heave. My body wants to throw up, but nothing comes out.

His questioning eyes look up at me at this point, and I merely nod to the chair in front of me. As he leans toward the chair to investigate, I look down and try to hold my right hand, my fingers, safely away from the rest of my body.

When I look back up, I see my purse suspended in front of me. He is holding it up for me so I can get my stuff without touching the purse.

I don’t argue. Holding my right hand awkwardly up in the air, I dig out the remaining items with my left hand, grabbing my bitch of a phone last.

My lap is now a display case for the contents of my purse. Again only using my left hand, I carefully shove everything into my coat pockets, which are now in danger of spilling over. He then moves my purse aside, assuming that I am finished.

I am. “I have to go,” I whisper, not looking at him or at my purse. I have to go home to my bathroom, my shower. Now.

“I know,” he says soothingly.

Ugh. Of course you do.

I stand up, and he follows suit immediately, stepping aside so I can walk first to the back of the theatre. I hear him follow me, but I don’t turn around. I don’t stop until I reach the lobby and hear him call my name.

I slowly turn around. I owe him that.

I’m sure my mouth drops open a bit. He is dangling my purse above the gigantic round trash can sitting by the concessions counter. His raised shoulders and eyebrows ask his question for him: Is this trash?

I nod firmly, once, and turn back around. Seconds later, he is in front of me holding open the door to the outside. I exit, and we walk silently side by side to his car. He opens my door for me before getting in the driver’s seat and starting the car.

I vigilantly keep my upturned right hand steady on my lap. Fingers not touching anything. For quite awhile, we ride in silence. What is there to say? Session One: Failure.

“I’m taking you home.”

His voice is firm. Resolute. There is no point in arguing with him. Besides, arguing would mean opening my mouth and trying to talk, which would probably also mean crying.

Soon I realize that he’s already going in the direction of my house, and he never asked me for directions. I wonder if he really did memorize my emergency form. I also wonder what he expects me to do about my car. I try to work up the strength to ask.

I don’t have much success, but it doesn’t matter. As he pulls up by my house moments later, he answers my question as though I had spoken it aloud.

“I can come get you in the morning and drive you to your car.”

No way. How mortifying would that be? Like some screwed up psychological breakdown walk of shame.

Words splatter out of my mouth. “Mandy will do it.” I don’t know if Mandy has plans for the morning or if she’ll have time, but I’ll just figure something else out if she can’t.

His response is soft, softer than usual. “If that’s what you want.”

He sounds hurt. Almost rejected. Oh, God. He’s taking this personally somehow.

I don’t know what to do. I’m sure I’ve somehow reminded him of his mother again. Unbelievably, my urge to fix this, to fix him, is almost as strong as my desperation to run into my house, strip down, and take a scalding shower.

I scramble for a quick way to make him feel better as he opens my car door and walks me to the front door of my house. Without taking time to count or think, I look him straight in the eyes and simply say, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, saying, “Don’t worry about it, Callie. You—”

And then the porch light turns on. The door opens and Mandy appears, dressed for bed.

“There you are, Callie. Do you know how late it is? I tried to call you.”
Ugh.

“I, um, was at therapy, and I have to—”

He interrupts me with a firm voice, “Go ahead in, Callie. Take your shower. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I don’t need to be told three times. I give him a quick nod, walk past Mandy, use only my left hand as I carefully unzip my boots to leave them on the towel by the door, and head right up to my bathroom.

AFTER TWENTY MINUTES OF SCRUBBING and rinsing, I am through enough of my sterilization process to be able to think again. I stand still, directly under the showerhead and change the water temperature from burning to just hot. And I think. About the evening. About before my freak out. The movie. Our hands. Him.

What is he thinking now that he’s been exposed to even more of my insanity? Will he even contact me to continue treatment?

That’s his job, Callie.

But he doesn’t normally see patients like me.

I wonder if he treats all of his patients the same way he treats me…

The evening sessions. The hand holding.
Stop it, Callie.

I shut off the water and get out of the shower to begin my night preparations right away. As I go through my checking routine, I silently pray that I have not contracted any diseases tonight. And then I pray again. And again.

Then I remember his words about my odds of truly catching a disease.

But that was only one disease. What about Hepatitis? Or SARS? And, really, what about HIV? What if someone put that gum there right before we sat in the theatre? And if that person had a sore in his mouth and got some blood in the gum? If my fingers have some miniscule cuts on them that I can’t quite see, I could easily have gotten HIV or even full-blown AIDS tonight.

I know that he said the virus can’t live very long outside of the body, but, really, where did that information come from? He could have been making it up just to calm—

My phone buzzes on my dresser.

I finish straightening the picture to the left of my bed and go over to check my phone.

A text. From him. Unknown Number.

Count. Open.

Callie—Please check your email. Right now.

Jeez. Right now?

I seem to have no self-control so I walk over to my computer and turn it on. I log into my account and click on the email from DA Blake.

Callie,

You are fine. Please do not spend your entire night thinking about a little piece of gum. Don’t let this incident take away your whole evening.

I am attaching a list of websites and medical documents that confirm the information I gave you tonight. I really want you to understand that I’m only giving you valid, well-researched facts. Hopefully, you won’t feel the need to seek out other websites and articles on your own; reading unfiltered details about diseases may be more harm than help to you. However, if you do feel you must do your own research, please know that I will be available to discuss any questions or concerns that arise. I know this is long (and probably boring), but I really want to help you find some personal value in my information. I’ll text you in the morning to set up tomorrow’s session. I hope you still want to come.

Good night,

Aiden

I read his email two more times, and it seems to have somewhat of a soothing effect on me. Much like his hand.

I get up from my chair to continue my routine, feeling a strange sense of calm. However, it’s unclear if that’s because of his words or because I know I’ll get to take another shower in about an hour.

After plowing through my routine, I’m back under a cascade of clean water by midnight. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

When I feel sufficiently clean (for now), I apply my lotion and flip on the television.

Pizza around the world tonight.

As a petite chef with a heavy French accent describes her pizza making strategies, I write myself a note for tomorrow.

CAR

I’ve got to talk to Mandy about taking me to campus tomorrow morning. She was asleep when I went in to clean her room so I’ll have to catch her as soon as I wake up. I’m sure she won’t mind driving me.

I hope not since I already shot down my only other possibility. And made him sad. Again
. {Damien Rice.
“The Blower’s Daughter.”
}

I grab my phone from my dresser and start a new message to Unknown Number.

Thanks for sending me your research. It does help to know that stuff, even if it takes me a while to convince myself to believe it. I will see you tomorrow for Day 2 of treatment. Good night.

One. Two. Three. Send.

Chapter 16

day two

ON TUESDAY MORNING, I WAKE up one minute before my alarm rings. My car pops right into my head so I bolt over to Mandy’s room. She is surprisingly awake, furiously typing a paper that must be due at her 10:30 a.m. class today. She doesn’t even look up as I stand in her doorway.

“Hey, Mandy. Sorry to interrupt, but do you mind driving me to campus today? My car is—”

“Already taken care of, Callie.” She looks up with a cheesy smile. “That hot doctor boyfriend of yours told me all about it so we picked up your car last night.”

She did? They did? He drove her back to my car while I was—

“He was all worried about you, Callie. First he was worried that you wouldn’t make it to campus in time. Then he was worried that you would be worried. So I just decided to help him.” She pauses, looks at me, and breaks out another toothy grin. “Believe me, it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice sitting in a leathery Lexus next to him in silence. You know, having nothing to do but stare at his muscles and that super intense look on his face while breathing him in. The man smells like the freaking pages of a fashion magazine, like one of those high-end cologne samples. Delicious.”

She winks at me this time as she smiles. “Good choice, Callie.”

“I-I’m not dat—”

“I know. I know. There’s nothing there, right? The late night appointments, trips in his fancy car, and terribly concerned looks on his face are all just part of your treatment package, right?” She rolls her eyes dramatically and then holds up a set of keys. My spare keys. She must have taken them from the kitchen drawer before leaving with him last night. She tosses them to me.

“Do you have another ‘session’ tonight?” Her voice is rather suggestive.

“Yes, well, I do, but I don’t know where or when yet.”

“I bet you’ll find out something soon,” she says before turning back to her laptop.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.” She doesn’t turn back to me as she talks. Clearly, she won’t be saying any more about it.

After thanking her, saying goodbye, and leaving her room, I get to work on my routine right away. Can’t be late for my 11:00 a.m. class.

10:40 a.m. When I get into my car, I see it right away. Positioned carefully on top of my steering wheel is an envelope with my name on it. Taped to the envelope, a yellow rose.

I know that it’s from him. And that he obviously had some help from Mandy.

But where did he get the rose? When? And why did he remember that little bit of accidental information about my favorite flower?
{The opening chords for Bette Midler’s
“The Rose”
begin to play.}
I can’t wait any longer so I tear open the envelope.

Count. Unfold. Read.

Dear Callie,

I’m sorry our first session ended the way it did. Whether you realize it or not, we definitely made some progress. You entered a movie theatre for the first time in many, many years. You sat down in a theatre seat. And you made it through a pretty large portion of the movie (and let’s face it—Gone with the Wind is a LONG movie). Please start Day 2 by focusing on these accomplishments. I’ll contact you soon with more details for tonight.