Two

Monday mornings mean Dr. Ward or, as she insists I call her, Doreen.

I’ve tried therapy before, but Doreen is the first psychologist who’s made me feel like I might actually get somewhere. Everything about her and her office is comforting. Instead of a sternly neutral face and a crisp suit, she always wears a gentle expression and flowing, colorful knits. Instead of a cold, clinical office, she meets with clients in a room of her own bright, sunny house, filled with potted plants and the African sculpture she collects. Most importantly, instead of lecturing, she listens.

“I didn’t know whether I was safe.” I sit on the cream-colored sofa, my bare feet tucked under me. Doreen asks patients to leave our shoes at the door; supposedly it’s to preserve her rugs, but really I think it gets us to let our guard down. “I could’ve been in danger, for all I knew. I didn’t know that he wasn’t going to hurt me. And I still fantasized about him . . . forcing me.”

“He didn’t hurt you,” Doreen says calmly. “He helped you, and then he went on his way.”

And he had an attitude about it. But that isn’t the point. “We were still out there alone in the dark. The danger was real, and I wanted him anyway. It’s like—like I wanted to get hurt.”

Doreen raises an eyebrow. “Ever consider that you wanted him just because he was hot?”

I laugh despite myself.

She leans forward. “Let me tell you what I’m hearing here. You were in trouble. You were scared. A very attractive man helped you out. While he was doing that, you let yourself fantasize about him. That’s not abnormal. In fact, I’d say it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

“What I fantasize about isn’t normal.”

“Rape fantasies are among the most common sexual fantasies women have,” Doreen says, not for the first time. As ever, shame lashes me when she says the actual word. Rape. “Some men fantasize about being forced, too. That’s not the same as actually wanting to get raped. Not all fantasies are things we want in reality.”

“I should know.”

That’s my attempt at a joke. Doreen doesn’t crack a smile; she’s not so easily distracted. “One of the reasons you came to me was that you wanted to stop having this fantasy. I understand your reasons. But I don’t think the fantasy itself is your most significant problem. I think your main problem is the way you beat yourself up about it.” Doreen sighs. “That, and the reason you’re fixated on the fantasy in the first place.”

I can’t talk about my reasons—not again, not now. My mystery man looms too large in my mind. His shadow falls across everything I say and do today. “If I’m having that fantasy at times when I might really be in danger—about men who really could—who might—”

“We’ve talked about this. Sometimes you tie yourself up in knots about what could have happened, instead of just dealing with the facts. For a little while, let’s stick to the facts about last night.” Doreen’s tone is kind but firm. “This guy changed your tire, and then he went on his way. That’s all.”

Am I overthinking this? Maybe. With a sigh, I let it go—or try to.

•   •   •

After my hour with Doreen is up, I take my Civic to the shop, buy a new tire, and drive to the north side of town, up to a small town house with empty packing boxes stacked by the curb.

“Anybody home?” I call as I walk up the path to the front steps. “Because I feel the need to unpack something today.”

Carmen appears at the screen door, a red bandana around her black hair and a broad smile on her face. She wears a T-shirt dress and rubber gloves; obviously I’m not the only one who wants to help out. “Are you a glutton for punishment?”

“No more than you are. Besides,” I say, gesturing to my cutoff shorts and heather gray T-shirt, “I’m dressed to work.”

“Then get in here and work, girl.”

As I walk in, I see Carmen’s younger brother Arturo with a hammer in one hand. “Vivienne! I can’t believe we didn’t scare you off for good on moving day.”

I give him a hug. “Not yet, anyway.”

Carmen and I were randomly assigned as roommates freshman year, because I didn’t have any friends attending UT Austin, and because her best friend from high school changed her college choice at the last minute. We were wary of each other at the start, because two people more different would be hard to find. I’m from New Orleans, from what my mother likes to call “old money” even though not much of the money is left anymore. Carmen is from a small town not far from San Antonio, the daughter of immigrants who worked their way out of poverty. I’m slightly taller than average, slender, and, as Carmen has told me many times, the whitest white girl in the world. She’s short, curvy, and proud of her Mexican heritage. My hair is honey-brown with just enough wave to defy any style I attempt, and my eyes are an uncertain shade of hazel, like they can’t decide whether to be brown or green or gold. Carmen’s hair is a deep, shining, perfectly straight blue-black that I covet nearly as much as her dark brown eyes. I love literature and history, and I littered our dorm room with paperbacks. She loves mathematics, the harder and more abstract the better, and loathes clutter. We hardly dared talk to each other for the first few weeks—but somehow by Christmas break we’d become best friends.

When her younger sibling, Arturo, followed her to UT Austin two years later, I adopted him too. We took him to parties, made sure he studied for finals, even got him a fake ID. By now he’s the little brother I’ve never had.

So I understood how protective Carmen felt when Arturo got involved with his first serious girlfriend. I just can’t share her dismay about how it’s turning out.

“Hey, Vivienne.” Shay waddles down the stairs, her hands on the small of her back. Her Australian accent makes my name sound like Viv-yin. “Want a Coke?”

“Maybe in a minute, once I’m hot and sweaty,” I say. “Then I’ll be craving one.”

Shay laughs. “Just get them out of the fridge! I swear, the cans are taunting me.”

Shay’s doctor told her caffeine was a bad idea during her pregnancy.

Yeah, Arturo and Shay are young to become parents—only twenty-two years old, still undergraduates. But it’s as though they glow every time they look at each other. I don’t think they got engaged because she got pregnant; I assumed a wedding was inevitable from the first time I saw them together. Sometimes you just know. Whenever I see Arturo and Shay together, I smile.

Carmen, on the other hand, scowls.

After we work in the kitchen for a while, unpacking dishes, I glance sideways at Carmen. She’s staring out the window above the sink into the narrow backyard, where Shay and Arturo are giggling as they set up the charcoal grill. I say, “If you’re not careful, your face will freeze like that.”

She rolls her eyes at my dumb joke. “I’m just worried. That’s all. A baby . . . I mean, Arturo used to forget to feed our dog.”

I laugh. “He’s not a little kid anymore! And he’s got Shay to help him.”

“Vivienne, get real. They’re young. They don’t have a dime. Even with their part-time jobs, they can only barely afford to rent a place big enough for a nursery.” Carmen gestures around us.

The town house is modest, and I know Arturo and Shay already have to scrimp. That will only get tougher when the baby arrives in three months. Still—“Listen, if money solved every problem, my family would be the happiest in the world.”

“I’m not being materialistic. I’m being realistic. Marrying young, before he gets his degree—it scares me.”

“A lot of guys might drop out under that kind of pressure,” I admit. “But Arturo’s not ‘most guys.’ He’d never let anything stop him from taking care of Shay and the baby.”

Carmen presses her full lips together. “I like Shay—I’m trying to love her, as a sister—but I resent what she’s done to Arturo’s life.”

“She didn’t make the baby on her own, you know. Remember, it takes two to tango.”

“Oh, oh, gross. ‘Tango’ in that sentence means ‘have sex,’ and I know you didn’t suggest my baby brother actually had sex.” Carmen’s smiling now, which counts as a positive sign. “They got pregnant via . . . osmosis.”

“Definitely osmosis.”

From outside we hear Shay’s laughter, and we look outside to see Arturo dancing her around the backyard. Arturo is the male version of Carmen: compact, dark, attractive in a way that has as much to do with charisma as appearance. As for Shay, her bare feet are almost hidden by the high green grass as she spins around; her pixie cut is dyed to a shade of red that’s almost maroon. She isn’t easy to cast in the role of Evil Temptress. Instead she’s straight-up Alternative Chick from her horn-rimmed hipster glasses to the roses tattooed around one ankle.

Carmen says, “I’m trying harder with Shay these days.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

That wins me a glare. “I am. I even asked her to invite a few friends along to my party Friday night. You’re still coming, right?

“Are you nuts? Of course I’m coming to my best friend’s party.”

“Well.” Carmen’s expression turns guilty. “I should tell you I invited Geordie too.”

I take a deep breath. “That’s fine.”

She gives me a look.

“I swear.” Geordie and I promised we’d stay friends. After a whole summer away from each other, we ought to be able to hang out again. The party could be awkward as hell, especially if he drinks too much—but I can handle it.

“You agreed faster than I thought you would.” Carmen grabs the box cutter to get us started on our next round of unpacking. “Have you been missing him? Thinking about getting back together?”

“No.”

That isn’t entirely true. I miss Geordie, not as a lover but as a person. Plus I miss sex. I really, truly, definitely miss sex. Maybe the lovemaking with Geordie wasn’t the best, but at least it was something. Since the beginning of the summer I haven’t even had that.

Our lack of chemistry in the bedroom isn’t the reason Geordie and I split up, but it didn’t help. Even though the sex was okay, he hadn’t given me what I really want. What I need.

Once again I think of my rescuer—the tall, dark, dangerous man who’d had me at his mercy and walked away—

I shiver.

But Carmen doesn’t notice, and I start talking with her about school, the weather, whatever. I try to sweep away my dangerous thoughts along with the dust on the floor.

•   •   •

The rest of the week goes like any other for a doctoral student at the UT Austin School of Art. Tuesday, meeting with my advisor and then going to the undergrad art history class where I’m a “teaching assistant,” that is, the person who actually grades all the papers. Wednesday and Thursday, long hours at the School of Information downtown, where I’m doing some research on document preservation. Friday, some actual studio time with my prints—and I get a couple of really good prints of my favorite etching I’ve done so far this year, one of a man’s hands cradling a dove.

Why does this image speak so strongly to me? I’m not exactly sure, and in some ways I’d rather not know. Art is mysterious, sometimes; unconscious inspiration is often the most powerful. I need nothing more than the image itself: a man’s strong, large hands—rough, as if from years of labor or combat—cupped around the form of a dove, its bright eyes shining with both fear and life. The interpretation can come later, or not.

Once I’m done with my prints, I drive home to my little house, a tiny white one-bedroom place, small even among the modest, ramshackle homes just off First Street. Carmen says my place gives her claustrophobia, and Geordie always calls it “the dollhouse.” But I like my snug little hideaway. Built-in bookshelves line the bedroom walls, and a freestanding brick fireplace divides the kitchen and the living room. My dream home, basically.

Anyone who walked inside would know a few things about me right away. One, I’m a bibliophile—someone who collects everything from Jane Austen to John le Carré. Two, I’m a sensualist. Only someone in love with texture and color would buy a velvet couch on a grad-school budget, or drape richly woven throws over every other stick of furniture.

Three, I very much love a little girl named Libby, whose coloring-book pages decorate my refrigerator. One original drawing of hers I even framed and put on the wall. In each corner is the scrawled dedication: To Aunt Vivi.

No one could look around this room and guess that I don’t see Libby very often, much less why. That remains unknown, which is exactly how I want to keep it.

What to wear tonight? I don’t want to look too sexy, in case that makes Geordie think I want him back. But I don’t want to look frumpy either. Finally I decide nothing matters more than the heat. In Texas in August, temperatures are scorching even after dark, and bare skin is your best friend. I slide into a denim miniskirt and a black camisole, trusting my silver strappy sandals and dangly earrings to dress it up a bit. Then I swing by the convenience store to pick up a six-pack of beer and head to Carmen’s.

Her brick red bungalow is within walking distance of some of the great restaurants, clubs, and bars on Congress Street. I have to park my car more than a block away, because this party is one of Carmen’s rare blowouts; as I walk up, I see about ten people laughing and talking on her back patio. No doubt a pitcher of sangria is already making the rounds.

Arturo shows me in, hugging me with one arm as he holds his beer with the other. Another two or three dozen people fill Carmen’s tiny house, all of them talking and laughing at once, without quite drowning out the thumping of the music from her stereo. The lights are turned down, and a few candles flicker from atop the speakers and the coffee table. Through the glass door that leads to the back patio, I can glimpse a few of the solar torches lighting the yard as softly as fireflies. “About time you got here!” Arturo calls over the din. “We’ll have to catch you up. Do you know everyone?”

“I don’t think I know anyone.” This is a little bit of an exaggeration—I recognize a couple of faces—but both Carmen and Arturo attract new friends with constant, magnetic appeal. Me . . . it takes me a lot longer to trust people. To let them in. I have my reasons, and I don’t think it’s a bad way to live, but it’s lonelier sometimes.

Also, it makes parties awkward.

Shay comes up to me then, hugging me from behind; the swell of her belly presses against my back. “Introductions time! This is Nicole Mills—hi!—she works with Arturo. Then I’m sure you know Anna Dunham, from Carmen’s department? And Jonny is one of Carmen’s neighbors.” I try to at least wave to everyone as they’re introduced, but Shay is already guiding me toward the kitchen.

Carmen’s tiny galley kitchen is cramped even for one person. In the middle of a party, with everyone trying to get to the fridge or the plastic cups, it’s a tight squeeze. Laughing, I try to shimmy between two figures in the darkened kitchen, get pushed right up on some guy—and then go completely still.

Shay continues, oblivious. “And this is Jonah Marks. He’s a professor in earth sciences. You know that’s where I’m doing my work study this semester, right?”

The last time I saw him it was late at night, and headlights shone from behind him like a halo. Doesn’t matter. I’d know him anywhere. Only one man ever made me go instantly hot and flushed and weak—or wore such a cool, appraising smile while he did it.

He’s smiling at me like that right now.

Tall, Dark, and Dangerous is named Jonah. He’s here with my friends, here in my life. And all my fantasies about the stranger on the road feel even scarier now that he’s not a stranger anymore.