“He didn’t touch me, but . . .” I swallow hard and continue. “He told me a prop was missing from the show, an expensive necklace. He said I had to lift up my shirt to prove I wasn’t wearing it.” A shudder runs through my body as I recall standing there in that claustrophobic, darkened room, trying to look anywhere but at him and what he was doing to himself, until he finished and dismissed me.
“I should have told him no, but he was my boss. And he said it so matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal.” I look into Dr. Shields’s light blue eyes and I manage to shake off the image. “That guy Scott reminded me of him for a minute. Just the way he said ‘Sugar.’”
Dr. Shields doesn’t respond immediately. Then she says softly, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I feel her hand graze mine again, light as a butterfly.
“Is this why you aren’t interested in a serious boyfriend?” she asks. “It isn’t uncommon, when a woman endures an assault like you did, for her to withdraw, or to change her relationship patterns.”
Assault. I’d never thought of it like that. But she’s right.
I suddenly feel depleted, like I did after our first session. I reach up and massage my temples with my fingertips.
“You must be exhausted,” Dr. Shields says, like she can see inside me. “I have a car waiting. Why don’t you take it home? I’d prefer to walk anyway. Text or call if you want to talk over the weekend.”
She stands up and I do the same. I feel oddly disappointed. A few minutes ago, I was furious with her; now I don’t want her to leave me.
We head together toward the exit, and I see the black Town Car idling by the curb. The driver comes around to open the back door and Dr. Shields tells him to take me anywhere I want to go.
I sink onto the seat and tilt my head back against the soft leather as the driver walks back around to the front of the car. Then I hear a gentle tap on my window, so I roll it down.
Dr. Shields smiles at me. Her silhouette is backlit by the bright city lights. Her hair is a halo of fire, but her eyes are in the shadows. I can’t see their expression.
“I nearly forgot, Jessica,” she says, pressing a folded slip of paper into my hand. “Thank you.”
I look down at the check, feeling oddly reluctant to open it.
Maybe this is all just a business transaction to Dr. Shields. But what exactly am I being paid for now? My time, the flirtation, my confidences? Or something else I don’t know about?
All I know is that it feels unclean.
When the driver pulls away, I slowly unfold the check.
I stare at it for a long moment as the car’s wheels spin almost soundlessly against the asphalt.
It’s for $750.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday, December 8
Saturday evening. Most couples call it date night.
Traditionally, it has been for us, too: dinners at Michelin-star restaurants, nights at the Philharmonic, a leisurely stroll through the Whitney Museum. However, after Thomas’s missent text, he moved out and these encounters were terminated. Gradually, after the counseling, apologies, and promises, they were reinstated, but with a new focus: An emphasis was placed on connection and rebuilding.
At first the atmosphere was infused with strain. If you were watching us from the outside, Jessica, you might assume a new relationship was unfolding, which, in a sense, it was. Physical contact was kept to a minimum. Thomas was solicitous, verging on overly so: He arrived with flowers, rushed to open doors, and filled his unwavering gaze with admiration.
His pursuit was more ardent than even during our initial courtship. At times it had a desperate, almost fear-laced quality. As if he were terrified of losing our relationship.
Over time, a softening reshaped the interactions. Conversations grew less stilted. Hands found each other across the table once the plates had been cleared.
Tonight, a mere twenty-four hours after the experiment at the hotel, progress has been reversed. It is clear that not all men are susceptible to the attention of a beautiful young woman. The man in the blue shirt resisted you, Jessica, yet Thomas was not immune when the opportunity was offered.
As a result, an invisible agenda has been superimposed over this Saturday evening’s encounter with Thomas.
An intimate location, the town house we once shared, is selected to eliminate outside distractions, such as an overbearing waiter or a boisterous party of six at the next table. The menu is carefully curated: A bottle of Dom Perignon, the same vintage served at our engagement party; Malpeques oysters; a rack of lamb; creamed spinach; oven-roasted baby potatoes with rosemary. For dessert, a variation of Thomas’s preferred sweet: chocolate torte.
Traditionally, the torte is purchased at a patisserie on West Tenth Street. For tonight’s meal, however, ingredients have been procured from two separate gourmet markets.
My appearance tonight is also a departure. Jessica, you were the one who illustrated how seductive a smokey shadow and sable liner can be, when applied correctly.
The makeup rests atop the dressing room vanity. Beside it is my phone. The device sparks a reminder: a solicitous text or call is the appropriate course of action following an incident in which an acquaintance or friend is unnerved.
Jessica, I wanted to check in and make sure you are feeling better after last night’s assignment. I’ll be in touch soon.
One more line is needed.
A moment of thought. Then it is typed and sent.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Saturday, December 8
If you need I’m always here.
Dr. Shields’s text arrived just as I was entering Noah’s building for his famous French toast. I began to type out a response, but then I deleted it and shoved the phone back in my purse. As I rode the elevator, I ran a hand over my hair, feeling the dampness of freshly fallen snowflakes.
Now, as I sit perched on a stool in Noah’s kitchen and watch him uncork a bottle of Prosecco, I realize it’s the first time I haven’t replied to her immediately. I don’t want to think about Dr. Shields and her experiments tonight.
I don’t realize I’m frowning until Noah asks, “Taylor? You okay?”
I nod and try to hide my discomfort. My first encounter with Noah at the Lounge, when I introduced myself with a fake name and fell asleep on his couch, feels like a lifetime ago.
I wish I could undo that decision. It feels immature; worse than that, it seems mean.
“So . . .” I begin. “I have to tell you something. It’s sort of a funny story.”
Noah raises an eyebrow.
“My name isn’t really Taylor . . . It’s Jess.” I give a nervous laugh.
He doesn’t look amused. “You gave me a fake name?”
“I didn’t know if you were a crazy person,” I explain.
“Seriously? You came home with me.”
“Yeah,” I say. I inhale deeply. With his bare feet and the dish towel he’s tucking into the waistband of his faded jeans, he looks cuter than I remembered. “It was a really weird day and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”
A weird day. If only he knew how much of an understatement that was. I can hardly believe I met Noah the same weekend I snuck into the study. That too-quiet classroom, the questions creeping across the computer screen, the sense that Dr. Shields could know my private thoughts . . . And yet things have only gotten stranger since then.