Vanessa found her way to the back door and looked through the windows before exiting to the patio. She saw Riley sitting at a small table looking out at the waves. Unfortunately shirted now, he sat leaned back in the chair, shoulders slumped. A sudden sadness washed over her, a gnawing in her gut that told her Riley was way worse off than he admitted.
She walked outside, pleasantly warm air ruffling her damp hair. She noticed he had changed into cargo-style khaki shorts, and his shirt was a nicer-than-a-t-shirt hunter-green polo that made his eyes even more irresistibly gorgeous.
When he turned her direction, she noticed his eyes widen slightly, as if she surprised him. Unlike last time, he stood up and moved toward her, pulling out her chair. This close up, she noticed he stood above six feet tall, maybe 6’3” or 6’4”. That, coupled with his very broad shoulders and large chest, made her feel very tiny without her high heels.
A polite smile hinted around his lips. “Feel better?”
She automatically brought her hand to her head. “Marginally. Thanks.” She sat in the chair and appreciated that he helped her position it close to the table. No one had ever done that for her before. She swallowed and watched him move back to his chair. “May we eat?”
“Sure.” He sat and picked up his fork. “I like the shirt you chose. With your eyes, blue is definitely your color,” he paused and smirked, “just not on your head.” His dimples fully displayed when she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, I’m glad you found something to wear.”
“Yeah, about that.” She poured syrup on her waffle; she decided to let both the very flattering compliment about her eyes and the tease about her lump on her head slide by. “If you are harboring those clothes for your plan to become a cross dresser, you might want to exchange them for a bigger size. I mean a size zero? That’s not a size; that’s a void.” She hoped a joke would offer an opportunity to open up about his reaction to the clothes without making him feel like she was prying.
He finished chewing and swallowed, watching his fork intently so he could not-so-obviously refuse eye contact. “You’re angling, Dr. Taylor.” He shoved the bite in his mouth.
Damn, observant, too. Add that to handsome and can cook? Double damn. End this now, Nessa.
“Not much to fish for, Mr. Tate.” She paused until he looked at her. “Apparently you have an ex-girlfriend. Ended badly. Probably because you found out she was a gold-digging tramp, which explains why the clothes are still here and not with her.” She carefully gauged his reaction. Judging by his surprised expression, her hypothesis was dead on. “What I can’t figure out is why you haven’t returned the toothpick’s clothes to the stores.”
His brow furrowed. “It’s complicated. And how did you do that?”
“Do what?” she innocently asked.
“Know exactly what hap... did Charles tell you?”
“No, Mr. Tate. Charles told generalities, not specifics. He honored your privacy. I am just very perceptive and know a thing or two about women. You are very hurt by her actions because you probably thought she really liked you, the real you, and feel pretty duped. You are trying really hard not to let it harden you, and you are probably wondering what is wrong with you since someone you thought you liked, someone you thought you knew, would use you for your money.”
He glared at her for a very long time. She tried to look nonchalant while she enjoyed her waffle, like pissing off actors is something she did every day. Just let that sink in, Mr. Perfect Tate. He’ll probably get so angry, he’ll ask me to leave. Then it’ll be out of my hands. I won’t have to think of an excuse to go. C’mon, dumb ass, say something. Stop looking at me like I just told you that I ran over your puppy.
As his expression softened, he laid his fork down and continued his stare. He finally looked away from her to the ocean, she assumed, in an attempt to think of a way to ask her to leave.
“I’m impressed, Dr. Taylor.” He turned her direction, nailing her eyes to his with his expression. “So, what do YOU think is wrong with me?”
“Nothing, other than you made a bad choice in a girlfriend. SHE was what was wrong, Mr. Tate. As for you, just based on what little time we’ve spent together, I can tell you are very sad and trying very hard to hide it.” He turned slowly as she spoke continuing to study her eyes, and she continued. “Based on what you meant by your question, though, I don’t think there is anything wrong with you. But until you agree to therapy, I can’t offer much else.”
“I really don’t see why I need a psychiatrist.” His statement seemed to be a challenge.
“First of all, I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“What’s the diff?” he asked.
“Well, about four more years of school, roughly an excess of $100,000 more debt, way more expensive malpractice insurance, and a prescription pad.” She smiled. “They’re medical doctors. Most psychiatrists treat the severely mentally ill. I wanted to treat people with everyday problems.”
“So you can’t prescribe meds?”
“Nope.” She resumed eating her breakfast.
“Dang. There goes my plan to sell Xanax on the set. I need the income to pay for all those clothes.” His deadpanned joke made her laugh. “So, how do you do it?”
“Do what?”
He studied her for a second. His intense stare was becoming uncomfortable. “Even though you’ve been here for just about an hour, we’ve really only spent about fifteen minutes together, where we were both conscious anyway, yet you know a lot that I didn’t give away.” He looked deep into her eyes curiously. “I want to know how?”
His staring made her feel self-conscious, as if he were trying to search for answers through her retinas. She looked at her plate, which sat empty in front of her. “Well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to reveal the secret to my trade, Mr. Tate.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together in front of him. “What if I told you I needed the information for one of my acting jobs, would you tell me then?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to see if he revealed anything other than what he said. Seeing nothing but true curiosity, she carefully continued. “Well, in college, I had the opportunity to take a one-semester seminar given by Dr. Timothy Philips, a prominent researcher in the subject of body language. Out of the 120 who applied for the seminar, only ten of us were chosen, so it was a pretty big deal. He spent weeks discussing and training us on how non-verbal cues are just as important as verbal ones, meaning that what is not said is just as important as what is said. One has to consider speech patterns, word choices, tone, inflections, as well as the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, body language. Also, one must pay attention to what happens when there is no speech. White space is what Dr. Philips called it. A little can tell you a lot, if you know what to look for, and we had some hands-on training with simulators and pictures and videos to see if we can tell more than what is said.” She took a drink from the water bottle he had thoughtfully provided. “Too many people don’t pay attention to anything other than what is spoken. That’s how so many people get swindled by con-artists or fooled by partners, both romantic or otherwise.” Oh God, please don’t take offense to that since you got yourself swindled by a trashy little gold-digging slutty bitch from hell.
“Sounds like an interesting seminar.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
“Oh, yeah. This guy is like a rock star in the psychological community.”
“And you took to this people-reading thing easily?”
She smiled shyly, but her voice remained strong. “Yes, it was very interesting.”
“You were his star pupil, weren’t you, Dr. Taylor?”
She blinked, trying very hard to not reveal it on her face. His question rattled her. He had flipped the tables, which was usually her move.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Tate.”
“Maybe not out loud.” He smirked. “But you did, just now, with the smile you tried to conceal. Is that the kind of thing the rock-star doctor taught you?” His eyes sparkled with amusement; she could tell that he enjoyed making her uncomfortable.
She paused in shock at his accurate assessment. “Well, yes.” She tried hard not to let her jaw drop. “Dr. Philips said I was a natural.” She felt herself get bright red. “Now I guess it’s your turn to impress me.”
“Let me see if I can do more.” He looked her up and down curiously. “I can also tell you are not from around here, not even from California. Based on the hint of the accent you have, which, by the way, seems to get more prominent when you are annoyed, I’m guessing somewhere southern.” He squinted. “Maybe Texas.” Tapping his chin, he added, “Probably from the Southeast part.” He watched her face closely, then nodded. “Tell me, am I right, Dr. Taylor?”
Dammit. “Yes, Mr. Tate. You are.”
“Specifically where in Texas?” he asked with genuine interest.
She opened her mouth to answer and had to stop herself. Crap. He can’t really be that good. Plus, you have to remember your code of ethics here, Nessa. No personal info from shrink to client. Even if you aren’t his shrink yet. Even telling him where I am from is not really that big of a deal, but once I start, I’ll keep going. I have to work hard to keep this professional. I gotta not start down that very slippery slope. I can’t resist those friggin’ dimples.
“Are you going to allow me to treat you, Mr. Tate? Because if you are, then I cannot answer that question.”
“Cannot or will not?”
She carefully measured how to answer that question. The non-doctorate side of her brain wanted very much to tell Riley everything about her past. She suddenly wanted to tell him all the naked truths about herself. Not just where she is from or about her dad’s scary job, or even about her niece and nephew call her “Aunt Messie.” No, she wanted to confess it all and admit how her obsessive-compulsive, bipolar mother went untreated for years, and how Vanessa’s older brother’s “abandonment” when he went to college had sent her mother into a tailspin of over-the-top stage mom from hell, all directed at Vanessa. And it wasn’t just the damaging emotional scars she wished to confess. She wanted to reveal her lesser scars, like past boyfriends, and the happy things, her likes and dislikes, her relationship with Emily, her favorite movies, books and music. She wanted him to know everything about herself.
There really wasn’t an ethical problem regarding revealing tiny bits of personal information, only the ethical complications that her professors drilled into her head about becoming personally involved with a patient. She knew that sometimes revealing personal bits of information helped the patient connect to the therapist. However, after she took a class on ethics, she became weary. The class drew very detailed lines about how getting too personal was unethical. There were many cases they studied and discussed in detail just how far was too far. Where she was from was not too far, but she knew once the personal details, no matter how small, started rolling from her to Riley, she’d give into her urges and reveal all her ugliness, and that factoid scared her to death.
“Can’t. Won’t. Shouldn’t. It is unethical for a psychologist to reveal any personal information to a client.” Liar. “The therapy sessions should revolve around the client, not the psychologist.” That’s right, Nessa, smooth over the lie with a truth. “I shouldn’t have mentioned my college experience. But it’s not so personal that we can’t continue. We’ll say that you are vetting my education in an effort to see if I am qualified to treat you. But please, Mr. Tate, if you are even thinking about saying yes, then I will have to ask you to refrain from inquiring further about my personal information.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. After drinking a large sip of water and swallowing, he responded. “Alright, Dr. Taylor. I won’t ask personal stuff, even if I don’t understand if knowing where you are from is even all that personal, but I’m not agreeing to therapy… at least not yet. I am not sold on the whole idea of therapy. I was raised that people who go to psychologists are either crazy or weak.”
Nothing made her angrier than this train of thought, so she answered a little bitterly. “But that’s a misconception brought on by the…”
“But it’s the way I was raised. I am willing to allow you the opportunity to convince me that you can help me, without attacking my upbringing. You are asking me to go against one of my beliefs, Dr. Taylor. But I am giving you time to convince me; you must allow me the time to be convinced. Say, tomorrow night, over dinner?”
Her eyes widened, and she had to concentrate on not choking on her water. She remembered her stipulation Charles set forth in their agreement and then her promise to herself about not being seen in public with him. A date with him, pretend or not, would be heavenly. “Sounds too much like a date. No. I can’t do that.”
He smiled. “I have to be seen in public every so often; it’s a deal I made with Charles, to keep me in the press. I’m due for my weekly outing. And I believe Charles mentioned that you agreed to pretend to date me.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Consider it a dinner meeting, one where you convince me why I should be your client.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, his face suddenly turning a cute shade of red. “Plus, I feel the need to properly apologize and make up for, um, what I assumed earlier.” He bowed his head slightly and looked up at her through his lashes. “It was an honest mistake, Dr. Taylor, since I never in my wildest dreams thought my agent would hire me a shrink.”
“Offensive term, Mr. Tate.” She took a deep breath when another thought occurred to her. “So, you have no problem thinking he would hire you a prostitute?”
“You have no idea some of the stories of what agents do to keep clients happy. Hiring prostitutes isn’t even on the top-ten worst list.”
“I don’t want to know what is on that list.” She smiled. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Tate?”
He smiled. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
She paused and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m just wondering… if you thought Mr. Pickney had hired you a prostitute, why you thought it was okay to greet her shirtless. It’s not the attire of someone who was not ready for, how did you put it? ‘Sexual healing,’ to meet with a prostitute he intended to refuse.”
He shook his head. “Not my intention. Charles told me you would be here at 11:00 a.m. I had just finished my shower. I figured I had some time to kill video game zombies after getting out of the shower. Five minutes earlier and you would have caught me in my towel.”
Damn my punctuality!
Apparently, while eating the waffles, syrup dripped down her breasts, and her shirt was now stuck to her arm. She gave a gentle jerk of her arm, knocking her water bottle in her lap in the process.
“Dammit, why do I always end up wet and sticky around you?” Noooooooo!!!!!!!! What the fuck did you just say?
Riley laughed out loud, and the flush she felt from her neck to her hairline reminded her pretty intensely of the throbbing protrusion above her right eye.
Shit, Nessa. Way to be professional. Time to retreat.