MEGAN

THURSDAY, MARCH 21, 2013
MORNING
I don’t lose. He should know this about me. I don’tlose games like this.
The screen on my phone is blank. Stubbornly,insolently blank. No text messages, no missed calls.
Every time I look at it, it feels like I’ve been slapped,and I get angrier and angrier. What happened to mein that hotel room? What was I thinking? That wemade a connection, that there was something realbetween us? He has no intention of going anywherewith me. But I believed him for a second—more thana second—and that’s what really pisses me off. I wasridiculous, credulous. He was laughing at me allalong.
If he thinks I’m going to sit around crying overhim, he’s got another think coming. I can live withouthim, I can do without him just fine—but I don’t liketo lose. It’s not like me. None of this is like me. Idon’t get rejected. I’m the one who walks away.
I’m driving myself insane, I can’t help it. I can’t stopgoing back to that afternoon at the hotel and goingover and over what he said, the way he made mefeel.
Bastard.
If he thinks I will just disappear, go quietly, he’smistaken. If he doesn’t pick up soon, I’m going tostop calling his mobile and call him at home. I’m notjust going to be ignored.
At breakfast, Scott asks me to cancel my therapysession. I don’t say anything. I pretend I haven’theard him.
“Dave’s asked us round to dinner,” he says. “Wehaven’t been over there for ages. Can you rearrangeyour session?”
His tone is light, as though this is a casual request,but I can feel him watching me, his eyes on my face.
We’re on the edge of an argument, and I have tobe careful.
“I can’t, Scott, it’s too late,” I say. “Why don’t youask Dave and Karen to come here on Saturdayinstead?” Just the thought of entertaining Dave andKaren at the weekend is wearing, but I’m going tohave to compromise.
“It’s not too late,” he says, putting his coffee cupdown on the table in front of me. He rests his handon my shoulder for just a moment, says, “Cancel it,OK?” and walks out of the room.
The second the front door closes, I pick up thecoffee cup and hurl it against the wall.
EVENING
I could tell myself that it’s not really a rejection. Icould try to persuade myself that he’s just trying todo the right thing, morally and professionally. But Iknow that isn’t true. Or at least, it’s not the wholetruth, because if you want someone badly enough,morals (and certainly professionalism) don’t come intoit. You’ll do anything to have them. He just doesn’twant me badly enough.
I ignored Scott’s calls all afternoon, I turned up tomy session late and walked straight into his officewithout a word to the receptionist. He was sitting athis desk, writing something. He glanced up at mewhen I walked in, didn’t smile, then looked backdown at his papers. I stood in front of his desk,waiting for him to look at me. It felt like foreverbefore he did.
“Are you OK?” he asked eventually. He smiled atme then. “You’re late.”
The breath was catching in my throat, I couldn’tspeak. I walked around the desk and leaned againstit, my leg brushing against his thigh. He drew back alittle.
“Megan,” he said, “are you all right?”
I shook my head. I put my hand out to him, andhe took it.
“Megan,” he said again, shaking his head.
I didn’t say anything.
“You can’t?.?.?. You should sit down,” he said. “Let’stalk.”
I shook my head.
“Megan.”
Every time he said my name he made it worse.
He got to his feet and circled the desk, walkingaway from me. He stood in the middle of the room.
“Come on,” he said, his voice businesslike—brusque,even. “Sit down.”
I followed him into the middle of the room, put onehand on his waist, the other against his chest. Heheld me by my wrists and moved away from me.
“Don’t, Megan. You can’t?.?.?. we can’t?.?.?.” He turnedaway.
“Kamal,” I said, my voice catching. I hated thesound of it. “Please.”
“This?.?.?. here. It’s not appropriate. It’s normal,believe me, but?.?.?.”
I told him then that I wanted to be with him.
“It’s transference, Megan,” he said. “It happens fromtime to time. It happens to me, too. I really shouldhave introduced this topic last time. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to scream then. He made it sound sobanal, so bloodless, so common.
“Are you telling me you feel nothing?” I asked him.
“You’re saying I’m imagining all this?”
He shook his head. “You have to understand,Megan, I shouldn’t have let things get this far.”
I moved closer to him, put my hands on his hipsand turned him around. He took hold of my armsagain, his long fingers locked around my wrists. “Icould lose my job,” he said, and then I really lostmy temper.
I pulled away angrily, violently. He tried to hold me,but he couldn’t. I was yelling at him, telling him Ididn’t give a shit about his job. He was trying toquieten me—worried, I assume, about what thereceptionist thought, what the other patients thought.
He grabbed hold of my shoulders, his thumbsdigging into the flesh at the tops of my arms, andtold me to calm down, to stop behaving like a child.
He shook me, hard; I thought for a moment he wasgoing to slap my face.
I kissed him on the mouth, I bit his lower lip ashard as I could; I could taste his blood in mymouth. He pushed me away.
I plotted revenge on my way home. I was thinkingof all the things I could do to him. I could get himfired, or worse. I won’t, though, because I like himtoo much. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not eventhat upset about the rejection anymore. What bothersme most is that I haven’t got to the end of mystory, and I can’t start over with someone else, it’stoo hard.
I don’t want to go home now, because I don’tknow how I’m going to be able to explain thebruises on my arms.