We scramble to our feet in a breathless blur, Griffin lurching up a second before I do. He offers a hand, but I jerk back and put a few feet of distance between us. With Soph staring, the last thing we need is more physical contact.
What the hell was I thinking?
The girl asks a different question as she cocks her head and looks from me to her father. “Were you guys kissing?”
Griffin drags a hand down his face. “What is the emergency, Soph?”
I silently applaud his redirect while inspecting the girl for damage. “Did something happen?” She doesn’t look injured, but if anyone laid a hand on her, I swear to God I’ll—
“Can we have a bird?” Soph makes pleading hands and flashes a sweet-little-girl smile I’m positive could melt any male heart. “A parrot, Daddy—please?”
Griffin looks like he might ground her until she’s eighteen. “What are you talking about?”
That’s when I remember the Cox family has a menagerie of pets. Dogs, cats, lizards, and yes—I’m pretty sure a parrot.
Soph drops her hands and lifts her chin. “They already had another parrot, but they adopted a new one, and he doesn’t like their other bird, and they’re worried about fighting, and Daddy could I please have him? Please?”
Griffin shakes his head slowly, looking dazed as he drops back down on the couch. “Why am I only ‘Daddy’ when you want something?”
“Please?” She settles on the sofa beside him, leaning against his shoulder. “He’s an African Gray named Leonard, and I’ll feed him and clean up after him and—”
“Soph, African Gray parrots live to be sixty.” Griffin shakes his head. “That’s a huge commitment.”
“I know, and I’m very committed.”
She’s so sweet I’d have trouble saying no, but this isn’t Griff’s first rodeo.
“You’re heading to college in six years, baby,” he says. “They’re not going to let you have a parrot in the dorms.”
“He can be my emotional support bird.”
I hate to be the one to rain on a girl’s parade, but—
“Protections through the Americans with Disabilities Act don’t cover emotional support animals,” I interject. “Especially if they’re not trained to perform a specific task like a service animal would.” I offer an apologetic shrug as Soph frowns. “Sorry. I’ve seen this a few times in my practice. It doesn’t end well for the animal.”
Soph’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t lash out. A good sign, even if I’ve overstepped. I inch back another step, needing more distance between me and the man who has my brain whirling like a pinwheel.
What the hell was I thinking?
I’m starting to wonder if I should tattoo the phrase on my wrist as I grab my keys and sweater and try not to make eye contact with anyone. “I’ll leave you two to hash this out.” I stuff my arm into the wrong sleeve of my cardigan and have to start over again. “Griffin, Soph—thank you for the lovely dinner. I’ll be in touch.”
Of course I will because we live on the same damn compound, and what on earth was I thinking making out with one of the cast members of a show I helped develop?
That’s the least of my concerns, though. On a scale of missteps I’ve made today, that one hardly registers.
What the hell was I thinking making out with an ex-patient’s ex-husband?
Not that the double ex status justifies it. The professional implications are—are—I don’t even know what they are. That’s why I need to talk with Susan. She’ll know how to guide me, how to extricate myself from this ethical disaster.
Griffin rounds the sofa and stops between me and the door, concern etched on his brow. “Is everything okay? If you hang on just a second—”
“I really do need to go.” I glance at my watch in the universal sign for “our time is almost up” every psychologist perfects the first year in practice.
“Thank you for the kiss.” Hell, that’s not what I meant to say. “Kolsch!” I practically shout the word as I yank open the door. “Your Kolsch was great and so was your radler and your porter and—”
And I need to shut up instead of yelling words that sound alarmingly like body parts. “Good night.”
I pull the door closed before he can reply and take off running down the path.
Holy hell, what the hell was I thinking?
I don’t stop running until I reach my cabin. By the time I get there, I’m breathing hard and shaking and wondering if I need Xanax.
But no, I need to be clearheaded for this. I shove the key in my front door, recalling the exact reason I insisted on an upgraded lock system for my cabin. Three locks, always. A deadbolt and standard key on the front door. Another one on my office, which I sprint toward with my heart pounding. A third on the cabinet where my laptop lives, and technically, my password protection provides a fourth lock. I store clinical and process notes separately, just like Susan taught me.
Powering up the laptop, I drop into my office chair, navigate to the patient records platform, and start scrolling through files.
Gabrielle Julia.
She never gave her married name, which wasn’t uncommon. When you specialize in working with celebrities, you learn quickly to use the name they give. Forget what you’ve seen in headlines or movie credits and call them whatever the hell they call themselves.
Not that Gabrielle had many credits to her name. Not then, not when she was my patient. Christ, I never even knew she had a daughter. And she used a different name for her husband—Greg or Gary or something?
I should have put the pieces together. Even with the different names, I should have—
Stop.
Breathe.
Think.
I take a few calming breaths as Gabrielle’s file flickers to life on my screen. I start with the clinical notes. These are the basics—the ones lawyers and insurance companies can request. Just the rough overview of symptoms, treatments, and outcomes.
I skim those quickly, refreshing my memory.
Thirty-four year old female, referred by a friend of a friend who’d produced several hit shows.
“I’ve got this up-and-comer who could use a shrink,” he said when we met backstage after I taped a segment for the Ellen DeGeneres Show. “I don’t suppose you’re taking new patients?”
I wasn’t, and I didn’t have time for her in my schedule.
But I was hungry to see Shrink to the Stars picked up by a major network. I was lonely and desperate, and I’d been on the fringes of the family business long enough to know how the game worked.
“Of course,” I told him, crossing my legs beneath a too-short skirt that made my hips itch. “Give her my number.”
So he did, and a week later, I sat perched on the vintage velvet chaise in my office listening to Gabrielle Julia share her deepest hopes and dreams.
“I feel like I’m being ripped in half.” She’d swiped at her eyes with her shirt sleeve, waving off the tissue box I offered. “I’ll be fine. It’s just—is there any way out once you realize you’ve taken a completely wrong turn in your life?”
“Of course there is.” We spent the next hour talking about being true to your dreams, finding power within yourself.