“Yeah, I went with Steve and Rodrigo and a couple other guys from work. I told you I was chilling with them that night.”

“Right, but you didn’t tell me you were going to a frat party down the street from me.”

“I said the boys and I were hanging out, and we were. We went to a few different places,” Nico says irritably. “Eventually we wound up there, but it was late and I didn’t see the point in calling you. I had a few drinks, joked around with the guys, and the only chick I spent any time with was Roddy’s sister Carla—that’s probably who they saw me with. I took her up to use the bathroom. The line for the other bathroom was ridiculous, so we snuck upstairs.”

This all sounds plausible. I’ve been in the Alpha Delta house before, and I’ve seen how popular that lone downstairs bathroom is.

“Carla did her business, I did my business, and then we left the room. I don’t remember zipping my fly.” His jaw tightens. “But if I did, it’s probably because I forgot to zip it up after taking a piss.”

He doesn’t sound defensive. He’s defending himself, yes, but I’m not getting any sense that he’s trying to convince me of something.

“Whoever told you this crap obviously read something more into the situation.”

“That’s what I figured. I only brought it up because…” I shrug. “Well, because it’s good to always be open and honest with each other.”

“I agree.” His body language is still a tad stiff as he picks up his fork and resumes eating. “But I don’t like the idea of people talking trash about me.”

“There was no trash talking involved,” I promise. “Just one friend watching out for another friend.”

“One friend trying to stir up shit, more like it. Which chick said this to you?”

“I told you, I don’t know the girl at the party.”

“But which one of the Thetas said it?”

“It doesn’t matter. She brought it to my attention because we look out for each other, but for what it’s worth she also didn’t think there was anything to the story,” I lie.

Nico looks pleased. “Good. And I’m glad you don’t believe that bullshit, either.” He reaches across the table for my hand, interlacing our fingers. “You know I would never do that to you.”

16

Demi

I’m tempted to cancel my session with Hunter the following Monday. We haven’t spoken since Boston last week, our only contact being when he texted to ask if we were still on for tonight. I feel like he was hoping I’d cancel. But this class is important to me, and I want to do well on our project. That means sucking it up and continuing to see him every week.

Maybe Hunter truly was looking out for me when he threw Nico under the bus, but for the past week everyone I’ve spoken to has assured me whatever happened with Nico and that girl was completely innocent. When we were at one of the campus bars a few nights ago, Darius had pulled me aside and said, “Listen, I wasn’t even there that night and I can still tell you it’s bullshit.”

I appreciated hearing it from Darius. Nico’s work friends all backed him up too, but I don’t know them as well as I know D. Also…I’d never say this out loud, but I find Steve and Roddy and those guys seriously douchey. I suspect they’d have Nico’s back regardless of his guilt or innocence, because they’re all about the bro code. Darius, however, is a good friend to both of us, so I know he wouldn’t lie to me.

Meanwhile, Nico has been extra attentive since I confronted him. Coming dangerously close to what I’d consider sucking up. I’m trying hard not to hold a cynical view about it, and even harder to put this behind us. He told me nothing happened and I said I believed him. That means letting go of any negativity, and not mistrusting him or questioning his motives.

I’m on edge as I wait for Hunter to arrive, stress-eating a bag of potato chips.

HUNTER: Josie let me in. I’m coming up.

He knocks on the door a moment later. I call out, “Come in,” between my loud crunching.

Hunter appears, his thumbs loosely hooked in the pockets of his ripped jeans. They’re not skinny jeans, but they’re fitted to his long legs, while his black Under Armour shirt is tight to his sculpted chest. His dark hair is tousled, and his cheeks are red.

“It’s windy out there,” he mutters, dragging one hand through his hair.

“It’s supposed to thunderstorm tonight.”

“Good. It’s mid-October—how is it still so hot out there?”

“Global warming,” I supply.

“Yeah, it’s a real problem.”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. We’re discussing the climate. And he’s not looking at me, but at his Timberland boots. The ease and humor that normally flows between us is nowhere to be found.

When Hunter takes his designated seat on the loveseat, he doesn’t lie down like he usually does. His big, muscular body remains seated—and tense. “Whatever, let’s do this.”

I grit my teeth. “You could sound a little more enthused.”

“So could you,” he shoots back.

I shove the chip bag on my nightstand. Fine. I guess this is how it is. I flip open the binder I’m using for the project and turn to the latest blank log.

After having done this a handful of times, I think I’m solidly in the Narcissistic Personality Disorder camp. “Dick Smith” fits all the diagnostic criteria from the DSM-5. But the problem with an NPD diagnosis is that narcissists customarily don’t know they’re narcissists, meaning that any analysis is only as useful as the info coming in. And the fact that narcissists have a tendency to rewrite events in their minds makes the whole process even more challenging.

This means the therapist needs to ask the right questions. Weed out important tidbits and search for any emerging patterns, such as the patient describing an interaction that doesn’t match their reaction to it. And don’t get me started on treatment. I mean, if a narcissist can’t recognize he’s a narcissist, how on earth do you treat his narcissism?

Ugh. I’m not super thrilled with this one. I would prefer something more straightforward, like an anxiety disorder. At least those suffering from anxiety tend to be aware they have a problem.

“So why do you think you’re in therapy?” I ask my fake patient.

“I told you, my wife wanted me to go.”

“So you don’t think you need therapy.”

“Nope.” Hunter crosses his ankles and gazes up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There doesn’t need to be something wrong with you, or anybody, for you to benefit from therapy.”

“People who see shrinks are weak. Only reason I’m doing this is to keep my marriage together.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

He scoffs. “Because no one in my family gets divorced. Divorce is another sign of weakness. An indication of your inability to work hard enough to achieve a goal.”

“The goal here being, saving your marriage.”