“You are the kindest person. I knew you’d go easy on me,” I said, sinking onto an overturned bucket to sit down.
“If you want him, and he wants you, have him. You’re both adults.”
“It’s not that easy. He’s a patient, Sarah Jo.”
“Have you been counseling him for months? Is there a deep trust of counselor and patient you’re betraying or is this something that just happened and you’re angsting like it’s high school?” she teased.
“You know me well. I never met him till last week. But he walked in to that group, and my first reaction was not professional.”
“Refer him to another therapist and jump him. Quit arguing with yourself,” she laughed.
“I basically scuttled across the room to get away from him when we were talking after the meeting. He said he came to the group because of me. So I can’t just refer him to someone else. I don’t want to give up my trauma group to another practitioner when it’s my project and my specialty. And I can’t turn him away when he wants help, when he wants my help specifically.”
“Can you talk to him about it? Say you don’t think you can help him for personal reasons?”
“He won’t talk to anyone else. He said as much to me.”
“Talk to somebody at work about it, like a mentor. You trained with Sally Greer, right? Ask her about it.”
“She’s the director of mental health services. It took me a year to get her to approve this group project. I would be risking my job and losing the program for trauma victims. I just—I need to quit thinking about him.”
“Maybe you need to get laid. Knowing you, you’ve tried a vibrator or six already,” she teased.
“Yeah, no joy,” I groaned. “I appreciate you listening. I’ll have to figure something out. I just—don’t want to do what I know I need to. I have to turn him away. Because if I keep seeing him or talking to him, even in group—I’m an adult, nothing should happen, but it was just thick in the air, do you know what I mean?”
“Do I know what you mean? I married Luke!” she laughed. “Of course, I know what you mean.”
I went in to work early and emailed one of my professors about the situation, saying it involved a colleague and I’d appreciate confidentiality. “A new hire at the department is having an issue with a patient in group therapy. Since you’re the figure I respect most when it comes to therapy ethics, I was hoping for your advice in this matter as I don’t know how to help him in my limited experience with clinical practice,” I wrote.
I got back a reply with a long attachment detailing info on sexual harassment and ethics. There was no personal note, just a very clear message that this was hands off and forbidden. I had been trained in ethical practice enough to know that even thinking of Tyler Leeds in that way was prohibited. It made me sick to think of risking a career I loved and had worked my ass off for for years now. I felt resentful that he’d attended the meeting. If he hadn’t, I could just fantasize about the rude, hot Thor wannabe out at the vineyard with his big strong arms and his shaggy hair and the way he smelled. I wouldn’t have known about the Irish Spring if he hadn’t come to group, but I might have been better off going my whole life not knowing what soap he smelled like.
Anger was a good thing to focus on. I went to kickboxing class after work and sweat buckets, then showered and met the girls for margaritas at Cecil’s. Exercise and alcohol seemed like a promising solution until I had sexy dreams again that night. Damn Tyler Leeds and his thirst trap body and his low voice that licked up my spine.
Thursday’s meeting seemed like a minefield. So I dressed for battle. I braided my hair back tightly, wore a button up blouse under my taupe linen overalls, as drab as I could be, as strict, as determined.
7
Tyler
The same people were there from last time plus a few new ones. I didn’t know if the originals had told their crazy friends to come on down and get free cookies or what, but we were about two people short of a crowd I couldn’t tolerate. As it was, I felt restless and confined. The windows had those ugly plastic blinds covering them so I couldn’t see outside. At least I got a seat where I had a view of the door.
Layla was there, of course, looking like a pissed off librarian with her hair yanked back and her lips pursed. I didn’t get the seat beside her, and she wouldn’t look at me. I just focused on whoever was speaking at the time, like the lady whose son died in the wreck. The school shooting kid started talking next.
“I thought once it was summer break that I could relax, but I don’t know a lot of people. It freaks me out to go to the park pool because it’s just wide open. Like somebody could come up from any direction and---you know,” he said with a cough.
“And what?” Layla said gently, her voice careful.
“And shoot us. Just like if I went to the concessions to get a Gatorade or something, my back’s to the parking lot. Some guy could cruise up, roll down his window and waste us while we buy candy bars,” he said.
Layla gave a short nod, started to say something.
“Can I jump in?” I said, surprising myself. Ben looked at me.
“I didn’t want to be late this time because I need to sit where I can see the exits. So I get where you’re coming from. You got snuck up on, and you’re on high alert all the time now.”
“Yeah, exactly,” he said.
“I don’t have any answers,” I said, “I just wanted to say that I get that. I guess it’s kind of normal for what you’ve been through.”
“Thank you,” Layla said. “That is one of the most important things about this group. We don’t have any easy answers, but we can witness for each other, and see that we’re not alone. That’s powerful on its own.”
“Thanks,” Ben said. “What was your name? I don’t remember.”
“Tyler,” I said.
The boy nodded, and I went back to listening while his mom talked about being afraid to lose him. A couple new people talked and then it was my turn.
“Tyler, you just sat in last week, but when you spoke up for Ben earlier, I thought that was a very positive contribution. What would you feel comfortable telling us about today?” Layla asked, not even looking up from her clipboard.
She clicked her ink pen six times in the silence before I answered her.
“I went into the Marines right out of high school. I thought I was a badass, and I needed the structure, the discipline. I thought being a Marine got you respect, and maybe it does.” I stopped and looked at my hands for a moment.
“Did you like being in the Corps?” she asked.
“Yeah, I did. In a lot of ways it was easy. I was good at the things they needed me to do. Then they put me in charge of a patrol squad in Afghanistan. We did a whole lot of nothing for about eight months, keeping the peace, checking out a lot of fake bomb threats, crap like that,” I said. I looked up at the ceiling for a second, and I felt it. Her eyes were on me, teasing out a confession like a snake charmer or something.
“What changed?” her voice was so soft. You could hear a pin drop in that room.