Hailey
My lips part, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can say anything without sobbing. So I let him go. The door whispers open and, after a moment, closes with an abrupt snap.

I crumple. My hands engulf my face, and I wail. Thoughts of Matt’s handsome face and his bright and tortured eyes haunt me. Sobs burn in and out of my lungs as though they might catch fire. I cry for what seems like forever. My abs cramp, and my fingers begin to tingle.

“Fuck!” I scream for all I’m worth, thankful for soundproofing, and wish I could have it installed in my brain. Where I could turn it on with the click of a button.

Sobs pull a vacuum on my lungs. My chest feels like it may cave in on itself. If I pass out, I can at least avoid this for a little while.

“Hailey?”

My epic cries stop instantly, caught in my shock.

The heavy whispering voice is still in the room and closer than ever. He’s just over my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

I leap from my seat and rush to the window, wiping at my tears and commanding control over my sorrow as I go. My legs wobble but hold me up.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” My shaking hands smooth down my pants. “The door opened and closed. I thought you were gone.”

“Your aunt…I was going to get her for you, but she’s not here.”

I’m nodding and not understanding anything.

Why is he still here? Why is Matt dead? Why couldn’t I save him?

I stare out at the endless sky.

Mr. Judge’s large frame fills my periphery. He stands no more than a foot away to my left. He faces the window.

“I could tell the call you got wasn’t a good one. I thought your aunt could help.”

No one can help.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminds me as if I’m the patient and he’s my therapist. It’s apt for the moment.

I swallow, knowing I shouldn’t say anything. Knowing I can corrupt his treatment more than I already have. If he knows I’ve failed one client, what would that mean for him? Plus, confiding goes beyond the realm of professionalism.

“I just lost a patient.” I choke down a sob. “My first.”

He stuffs his hand into nice slacks. “Patient or loss?”

“First patient and first patient loss.” He’s taller than me by a lot, and I’m not considered short.

“How long have you been doing this?”

I notice a cross-hatched design on the sleeve of his suit jacket before I force my eyes away and back to the sky. The sunset is just beginning to blend its colors into the clouds that are no longer heart-shaped but gray and droopy. They promise rain.

Cold. Darkness. Sorrow.

“Six years licensed with my PhD. Thirteen, if you include all the practicums and internships.”

“It’s never good to lose someone, but it seems almost inevitable in your line of work.” His words are soft.

Sure, colleagues of mine have lost patients. But I don’t specialize in suicide prevention. I’d tried to talk Matt into seeing a psychologist who does. I even set up appointments for him. Time and again, he refused to show up at a single one.

“I specialize in cognitive and behavioral therapy. In the beginning, I saw patients dealing with severe depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Slowly, that shifted into phobias, relationships, and sexual disorders. I’ve been lucky.”

“Or good at your job,” he offers.

My throat aches from my cries and screams. It’s thick and cumbersome. Because of his kindness, the threat of more raging sentiments sits on the precipice of erupting.

“Considering I left you raw and vulnerable with no resolution, cried in front of you, and told you things I shouldn’t, I’ll go with luck.”

The room goes quiet for a long time. We stand side by side, staring at the birds, the trees, the people, the nothingness and everythingness of life in front of us. There’s a calming reassurance in the silence, in his disposition.

“I am sorry.” His words vibrate with meaning.

“Whatever for? You’ve done nothing wrong.” I breathe.

He takes his hand out of his pockets. They hang by his side. He has long fingers, and when he balls them into fists, the veins and muscles in his hands bulge.

“I can’t offer you comfort.”

For a moment, I want to cry for him. For all the comfort and pleasure that he’s lost. For all the connections he’s been unable to make in his life. For his discomfort. For his perennial solitude.

“You don’t have to touch, talk, or even allow me to look at you to provide me comfort, Mr. Judge.” I pull my sneaking gaze away from him and focus on the horizon. The sky has turned dark, drained of all its color. For this moment, it looks brighter than it did thirty minutes ago. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness and presence.”

He nods. I can barely see the movement in my periphery.

“Can I call someone for you?”

There is no one to call.

“No. You’ve helped quite a lot. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

I nod. “Goodbye, Mr. Judge.”

He retreats from view. This time, I watch his silhouette as it appears in the light of the exit room in the reflection of the window. He stalls in the doorway.

“Goodbye, Hailey.”

Then he leaves and closes the door behind him.

 

Arlo
I’ve never been electrocuted, though it’d been threatened more times than I could count. I suspect it’s what her touch feels like. Like being electrocuted.

My life is on the line. I’m terrified. Yet the current courses through me, and I’m alive. I’m energized and frenetic in a way I haven’t been in a long, long time.

It’s nothing like the touches I’ve endured for the past eighteen years. Mostly, because I chose this. I sought this.

I sought her.

Dr. Hailey Fitzgerald.

I found her.

I’m touching her. She’s touching me.

She’s looking at me with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. They remind me of the garden in the back of my home. Back when it was a family home. Back when it was loved and cared for by my father and grandmothers. Her eyes conjure feelings of sunshine on my face and fresh-cut grass under my feet. Though they’re vibrant like the garden, there are skeletons under her soil. There are treasures too.

I want them both.

“Is this okay?” she asks as she gently slides her fingertips over my hot palm. Her mouth is so unique. One minute, it’s slicing and dicing me to bits, and the next, it’s soft as a breeze. I don’t know which I prefer.

“Okay isn’t the word I’d use to describe it,” I rasp through my broken voice.

“How would you describe it?”

“Indescribable.” It is accurate. I’d gladly try to put it into words, but I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t want to hear them.

“Anything to get out of a straight answer, huh?”

Her hand finally settles against my palm and her fingers wrap around my hand. I feel trapped in her grip. I’ve felt trapped many times before. Only this time is different.

I don’t want to be released.

My fingers engulf her hand in return.

A thrill pings off my fingers, to my heart, to my groin, and then into my brain, where it explodes, just as it did when I slipped her jacket onto her arm and noticed the barest hint of an outline of a massive tattoo.

I know I will be released. I must be. I have too many secrets. One more now than I had just an hour ago.

“Are you going to help me up or simply hold my hand?” She grins at me, and her cheeks are red from the chill in the air. “Either is fine,” she hastily adds.

I shouldn’t, but I like towering over her, looking down at her. “How long has it been since someone held your hand?”

Her gaze leaves me for just a second. It goes up and over while she calculates. Then it’s back on me in a blink. I like that too. This is all so surreal. Being close. Touching. Being present in my skin. Hell, even enjoying being in my skin while it’s experiencing touch.

“Four weeks. How long has it been for you?”

“Four weeks multiplied by two hundred forty-seven.”

Her eyes narrow for several seconds as though she’s trying to do the math, and she hates math. Then they go wide. Her fingers hold me impossibly tighter. The edges of her eyes glisten. She bites the inside of her cheek, which she does when trying to regain composure. Her lashes flutter like butterfly wings.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

I’d trust only one other person with this, but I can’t. If it went poorly, it would break him. I’d lose him forever, and that cannot happen. I’d never survive.

“Please, don’t take this the wrong way…”

My insides recoil. I’ve touched her too long. I’ve gone too far. My fingers relax around her hand.

“No.” She stands, and her hand holds tight to mine. Her head shakes. “It’s just…” She’s standing ten inches away from me with our clasped hands between us. “You were made to be touched.”

My teeth clench.

If I was made to be touched, I was made to be touched by her. The woman who doesn’t touch. The woman who won’t touch me, not even like this, once she knows just one of my secrets.

“Goodbye, Hailey.” I release her hand, turn, and walk away.