“Don’t tell me. Some guy hit on you?”
“No!” I said, because technically he hadn’t.
“Stay away from them,” she warned.
“Don’t worry, I won’t get cooties,” I teased, but I knew she was serious. She might as well have said, ‘don’t get pregnant and ruin your life like I did.’ The guilt was crushing at moments like that.
“I’ve got a meeting,” I said, “talk to you later.”
After my staff meeting, I saw a few patients and then worked on follow up activities for my group. My thoughts kept drifting to Tyler. I didn’t know what to do about him. He opened up in the group and scared the hell out of me. I didn’t want to think about what he said to me, that I knew why. He needed my help, and I had a duty to help him no matter how personally difficult it might be not to distance myself from him due to the attraction I felt. I would have to overcome that, to reach out to him. I steeled myself and called the number he’d listed on his paperwork.
“Hello?” he said.
“Tyler, it’s Layla Mayberry from the public health department,” I said quickly.
“Yeah?”
“How are you today?”
“Right now? Hot and sweaty. How about yourself?”
He was incorrigible. How could he say hot and sweaty as if it were nothing, as if it weren’t enough to kick my imagination into high gear. I bit my lip.
“I wanted to know how you were feeling after last night,” I said, “when you opened up in the group session.”
“A little restless, I guess. Once I started talking I didn’t want to stop.”
“About what?” I said, “I have a few minutes now.”
“Thanks. I just—there have been some stumbling blocks to getting back to normal for me.”
“There is no normal, and no going back, I’m sorry to say,” I told him.
“You sound like my other doctor,” he said wryly, “but there’s things I think I miss. I know I’m not…recovered. I just think there are parts of my old life I’d like to have back.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Sleep,” he said, “sex. Ice cream.”
“Wow. Okay,” I faltered.
“I miss those.”
“It’s promising that you miss something, that you notice its absence and want to fix that. If you didn’t care, if you were apathetic, that would be concerning,” I said. “What specifically do you miss? Like ice cream-wise?” I managed.
“I liked salted caramel pecan. It was rich and sharp and unexpected. It looked plain beige, but there was so much to it, you know?” he said. It was like listening to ice cream porn.
“What kind do you like?” he asked.
“Me? I guess vanilla,” I said, not really considering it.
“That’s a cop-out answer. I’m baring my soul here. At least share your ice cream flavor,” he teased.
“I don’t really care. Not about ice cream. I didn’t have it a handful of times growing up, and by the time I had my own money to spend on stuff like that, I just didn’t care anymore. I liked popsicles as a kid. Grape popsicles.”
“Popsicles are a lot cheaper than ice cream,” he said knowingly. “I remember. I had this kind of orange push up pop with ice cream in it once from an ice cream truck.”
When he said it, I knew that he knew. That he grew up rough like me. That the one time he got ice cream had been a big deal. That he talked about it with the wistfulness you’d discuss a lover. I felt something tear at my chest then.
“Exactly that,” I said.
“Single mom?” he asked. “No money, all stress?”
“Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“Takes one to know one,” he said wryly. “I know the sound, the way you talk about ice cream like it was fucking diamonds, like you learned not to want it. My brother, he was bound and determined to get rich, to get everything he ever wanted and couldn’t have.”
“And you thought you were a badass,” I finished for him, quoting what he’d said in group.
“You remember that,” he said, not sounding as shocked as I would’ve thought. Most people are surprised to be listened to at all in this day and age.
“I’ll take you for real coffee later if you’ll talk to me. It sooths me.”
“You should make an appointment through the public health department. Caroline, the secretary, can get you on the schedule.”
“I don’t want Caroline. I want you,” he said stubbornly.
“It is unorthodox for me to counsel you outside the health department.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said, his voice flirty and confidential. “Talking with you makes me feel better. But if you’re not brave enough to meet me outside the office…” I knew he was teasing, baiting me. It didn’t matter.
I wished I wasn’t the competitive person I am, that I could walk away from a challenge like that. Or that I could tell him no. Instead, I agreed to meet him after work one day.
Two meetings with him had been taxing. I couldn’t imagine how intense coffee would be. I put off calling him for a few days. When I did, I looked up his number in his paperwork and used the health department phone. I didn’t want him to have my personal number and didn’t want to put his number in my phone.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi. This is Layla Mayberry from the health department,” I said crisply.
“Do you use that pick-up line on all the guys?” he teased.
“Way to be smarmy. Makes me want to hang up,” I said, before I forgot I wasn’t being salty with him. I was being professional.
“So, coffee?” he said.
“I was thinking maybe next week.”
“It’s only Tuesday. There’s group tonight.”
“I know. It’s---a busy week.”
“You’re stalling,” he said, his voice teasing.
“Maybe I am,” I said, “so, next week?”
“Are you busy Friday night?”
“This Friday, yes. I’m super busy,” I lied. Super busy doing laundry.
“Next Friday,” he said. “You already said this week won’t work.”
So we agreed to meet for coffee on Friday night. Which was probably a date night for most people, but I wasn’t going to think about that.
I spent the next two support group meetings guiding my patients—more of them every week—through a series of assessments and activities relating to childhood trauma. The abuse victims and Ben found it helpful, and it effectively left Tyler Leeds on the sidelines, with very little to contribute. I had planned it that way. Now, obviously, I told the group that we were starting from the beginning, going chronologically as many trauma sufferers were dealing with Adverse Childhood Experiences. We started with abandonment and then moved on to food insecurity and substance abuse in the home. Apart from raising his hand when I asked who was raised by a single parent, Tyler didn’t really participate. I felt like I’d dodged a bullet.
Still, I found myself wanting him to speak, to open up more. But not then. To me. He still lingered after the sessions. I made myself scarce, barely greeted him. I didn’t stand around the coffee urn waiting for him to make me cream my panties. It was bad enough I was thinking about Friday’s coffee like it was an upcoming orgy or something. I kept having to plug my vibrator in to recharge it because I was running down the battery, using it before work and after. The days I had support group with Tyler, I had to use my suction vibe as soon as I got in the door. That way I could make it to the shower and a more leisurely session. If I hadn’t taken the edge off as soon as I dropped my keys in the dish, I would’ve called him. I would’ve said, come over here, let me give you my address.