Checked Again (27 page)

I
stand…frozen…feverish…and watch the back of him…watch him pick up his shoes and
open my door and leave…leave for now.

After
the door clicks shut, I just stand. In silence. I don’t move. Can’t move. And—

And
I hear my phone buzzing in my purse.

I
turn slowly and move over to the bed, right over to where my purse is sitting.
I pull out the phone and see that I have a new message. From
him
.

One.
Two. Three. Open.

By the way, don’t
worry when you get to the door-locking part of your routine—I really did clean
the whole door—including the safety bolt…the lock…the handle. No one has
touched the inside of the door since then…except me. And I’ve been told that
I’m not considered to be “dirty.”

He
ends his text with a smiley face.

My
face smiles back at the little emoticon as I quickly reply with a “thank you.”
I send my reply, put my phone back in my purse, and head back over to the door.
Still smiling.

And
then it’s time for a modified night routine. Night Routine Hotel-style.

Thermostat
(right inside the door): already at 70 degrees (coincidence? Or his doing? I
don’t know). Stove: nonexistent. Door: locked and deadbolted. Blinds: I don’t
think there are blinds. The curtains are drawn, though. The window is covered.
That will work. Alarm (on phone): set. Teeth: brushed with a brand new
toothbrush and a brand new tube of toothpaste found in my travel bag (thank
you, Mandy). Pictures: there is one big picture of a flower over the bed. It
looks pretty straight. I don’t know if it’s been cleaned…he didn’t say…so I’m
not touching it. It will have to do. Clothes for tomorrow: out (I found my
green wrap-around dress and black pumps in my bag). Mandy’s room: well, I hope
it’s clean. I hope Mandy hasn’t fallen asleep with stuff all over the floor. I
hope she doesn’t get up in the middle of the night and trip and fall and—

Mandy’s
room: pray that Mandy’s room is clean. Pray that she doesn’t trip. Pray that
she doesn’t hurt herself. Nails: painted (Thank you, thank you, thank you,
Mandy. Great packing job). Email inbox: empty (I did get an email back from Dr.
Hause, confirming the delivery of my article). Laundry: can’t do laundry
here…well, I think that some people do send laundry away to be cleaned at
hotels…to be put in washers and dryers that have held the dirty clothes of
countless other people…that—

Callie!

Laundry:
n/a. Entire hotel room: not dusted by me, but it looks like it was recently
taken care of…probably during the sanitation process this afternoon. Kitchen:
no kitchen. Bathroom: recently sanitized by a “reputable cleaner,” I’ve been
told…told by a reputable doctor…a doctor who doesn’t want to be my doctor
anymore. Because he wants to be something more. Perhaps because he
----
worries about me. Maybe because—

Callie!

Bathroom:
I can’t bring myself to clean bathrooms that are not mine, so this one is done.
Evening shower: actually taken (I actually manage to take a hotel bathroom
shower…probably has something to do with the sparkling white tile…the smell of
Scrubbing Bubbles…the price tag hanging off of the shower curtain…) Body
lotion: applied (Mandy was really on top of things). Pajamas: (Okay, well,
Mandy was on top of toiletry-type items…with her pajama-packing decisions—not
so much. She packed two pairs of flimsy, silky pajama sets, pajamas from the
very bottom of my dresser drawer…ones she bought for me years ago—back when I was
just starting out as an undergrad in college…and dating Tony. I’ve never worn
them. Until now, I guess).

Pajamas:
on. Green silk cami and matching shorts. SHORT shorts. Pierce hoodie (which,
thank God, was also in my travel bag): on over the skimpy, lacy pajama top.
Hair: dried (Mandy packed the hair dryer and straightener I normally take to
Mom’s house when I stay over). Prayers: said. TV: already on.

1:15
a.m. I climb into bed. Exhausted, I close my eyes and relax. Relax…and wonder.
Wonder what is going on across the hall in 317. Wonder if he is awake. Wonder
if he’s thinking about me…about us.

Wonder
what would happen if I could get up the nerve to go over there right now…

Chapter
17

main
conference session

FRIDAY.
5:00 A.M. MY PHONE ALARM rings. My eyes flip open, and I spend a few minutes
taking in my surroundings.

Soft
white pillows beside my head. A large flat screen television in front of me. A
big desk. A small bar in the corner of the room.

It
all starts coming back to me quickly. Last night comes back to me. Memories of
his voice…his words…his touch.

Simultaneously,
I feel both a flush and a smile creep onto my face. Both remain on my face as I
push back the covers, step out of bed, and get started on my modified morning
and leaving-the-hotel-room routines.

7:40
A.M. AS I’M PUTTING MY phone into my purse, it buzzes. A new text.

And
it’s from Dr. Blake.

Please
don’t be in a bad mood again. Please don’t be sad. Please don’t change your
mind about us again.

One.
Two. Three. Open.

Good
morning :)

A smile in a text has to be a good sign. Hopefully a sign that he himself is
also smiling…

I
hit reply.

Morning
:)

As
I’m hitting send, my phone buzzes again. Another message.

Ugh.
From
Dr. Gabriel.

One.
Ugh.
Two.
Ugh.
Three.
UGH.

Open.

Good morning,
Calista. I can come meet you so we can walk down to our first session together.
What room are you in?

No
thank you.

I’m
surprised he doesn’t already know my room number, that he didn’t go ask for it
at the front desk or something. Maybe they don’t give out that information,
though. Maybe they have some sort of strict security policy. Or—

My
phone buzzes again. Unknown Number this time. Smiley, seemingly not miserable
this morning, Unknown Number. Open text.

Would you like me to
walk you down to the first floor for your 8:00 a.m. session? I promise to
disappear before we get even close to the lobby or conference rooms.

Hmm…two similar invitations within about two minutes. One creepy. One…perfect.

I
respond to the creepy one first.

I’ll just meet you
in the lobby in about ten minutes. Thanks.

Now…for
my Unknown Number response. Hit reply.

Yes.

Send.

I
put my phone into my purse and—

Then
there’s a knock at my door.

I
walk right over to answer it, certain that it won’t be Dr. Gabriel (since he
just made it clear that he doesn’t know where my room is), confident that the
deadbolt…the lock…the handle on the door are all clean. (Because no one has
been in my room since last night. I’m pretty sure that the murderers didn’t
make an appearance because, well, I’m still alive. But even if they had stopped
by, they wouldn’t have used the door. They are murderers. They would have
climbed in the win—)

Callie!

Unlock
door. Open door.

And
it’s him. He’s here.
{Damien’s here too.}

Dark
jeans. Brown, long-sleeved thermal tee.

He
looks different. Casual. Relax—

His
eyes grab mine with a…with a pretty gorgeous smile. He holds out his hand.
“Ready?”

My
hand lifts to meet his. One. Two. Three. Done.

{One.
Two. Three. Damien’s refrain.}

His
warm hand. Our entwined fingers. My erratic heartbeat.

He
tugs on my hand, pulling me out of the hotel room. The door shuts behind me.
Then he—

Then
he checks the door for me with his free hand. Handle twist. Handle twist.
Handle twist.

When
he turns back to face me, I give him a grateful smile. Then we start moving
toward the stairwell.

He
talks quickly as we move. “I know I only have you for a second, but—”

You
have me. You have me. You have me. {Bruce Springsteen comes back in with
“Secr
—
”
}

“I
did a lot of thinking last night, and I’ve come up with a few new treatment
options for you.”

I
don’t want new treatment options. I want you to treat me.

 I
want you. Period.

Walk.
Walk. Walk.

He
continues, looking over at me every few seconds as he talks, as we walk. “I
will text you each of the options. I want you to really think about each one. I
want you to decide which one is best for you.”

He
opens the door to the stairwell, and we go down the steps together. Steps.
Steps. Steps. Holding hands. Holding hands. Holding hands.

He
opens the first floor stairwell door, and we go through and…and he drops my
hand with a small, regret-filled smile. “I’m sure conference attendees will be
everywhere this morning.” He smiles. “No hand-holding babysitters allowed.”

I
nod and just walk beside him as we start down the hallway. When we are about
fifteen feet away from the visibly crowded lobby, he stops.

My
feet stop, and I turn to face him.

He
whispers, looking around to make sure no one sees us. “I’ll text you soon.”

He
smiles. I smile back while trying to memorize the relaxed look on his
face…never know when I might see such a thing again. Really, I—

“Oh.”
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans. “I almost forgot.” He pulls out
a breakfast bar. He whispers again, his face still smiling, but an
authoritative look now in his eyes, “It’s only two hundred and twenty calories.
You have to eat.”

I
take the bar from him and nod. And really, my nod is not a lie. I’m hungry. I’m
going to eat the—

“Okay,
Callie. I guess you have to go.” He stands facing me, lots of room
(unfortunately) now between us. He looks around again quickly and then turns
back to me, a glint now in his eyes. “I have a surprise for you later.
Tonight.”

I
open my mouth to ask about the surprise, to ask for a hint as to what it is,
but then I see a group of conference badge-wearing people coming toward us. And
they, I’m sure, don’t know me…don’t care what I’m doing, who I’m talking to…but
they might know Dr. Gabriel. And if he finds out that my psychologist (who
doesn’t want to be my psychologist) is here babysitting me, it will get back to
my advisor and probably the whole Pierce faculty and the Dean, and then…then,
I’ll never be taken seriously, never get into a PhD program, and—

The
conference people are getting close.

I
move my eyes purposefully toward them, trying to silently tell him that there
are people walking up behind him.

He
nods his head very quickly, somehow actually getting my message.           

A
blink of his eyes, another smile, and he turns and heads back toward the
stairwell.

Forcing
myself to not just stand still and watch him leave, I turn and head toward the
lobby…toward Dr. Gabriel.
Ugh!

10:00
A.M. FIRST SESSION…BORING SESSION about the history of the written word: over.

Still
sitting in my session seat, I see Dr. Gabriel talking to that rather
young-looking professor from yesterday…the one that I’m pretty sure he took to
dinner last night…or was going to take to dinner…if she said yes…and it looks
like she probably did. She’s standing rather close to him. Yes…they probably
did have dinner. They probably did a whole lot more than have din—

Callie.
He’s talking. He’s engaged. Use this opportunity.

I
get out of my chair and walk out of the conference room. I don’t know if Dr.
Gabriel notices or not. I don’t care.

As
soon as I get out into the hallway, I wonder if being out here might actually
be worse than being in the same room as Dr. Gabriel.

The
hallway is so crowded. And loud. And really rather narrow considering the
number of conference attendees here.

I’ve
gotta get out of here. Preferably before someone inevitably bumps into me.

I
look around and see an empty-looking conference room. Door open. Light on. Just
about nine steps away.

I
move toward the room, cutting across the hallway carefully, somehow managing
not to brush up against any of the sport coats and business casual dresses
walking around.

Three
fast counts of three and I’m in the conference room. Alone.

Okay.
Okay. Okay.

I
pull my phone out of my purse, ready to type in some questions about my
post-conference surprise. Before I type anything, though, I see that I have one
new message, one new Unknown Number message. Sent an hour ago.

Open
text.

Treatment Option
#1—There is another psychology practice about five miles from Pierce. I can
refer you to a doctor I know who works there (Dr. Lyst), and he can create a
new, personalized treatment plan for you.

No,
no, no. No new doctor.

I
hit reply right away, more than ready to tell him that I despise Option #1.
Before I can type any words, though, my phone buzzes again. I click out of my
reply message and over to my new text.

Him
again. Open.

I’m sure your first
session just ended and that you just got my text with Option #1. Don’t reply
now. Really think about this option first.

Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Stop knowing what I’m going to do.

I
hit reply again.

But I already know
how I feel about Option #1.

Send.

My
phone buzzes again a few seconds later.

Open
text.

Think
more.

It
buzzes again. Open text.

Tell me what you
think after your next session.

So
bossy.

Reply.

Yes,
sir.

Before
I send my message, I add a smiley face…just in case my message somehow makes
him sad. Like if he thinks I’m—

Callie!
No time for this.

Okay.
Send.

Time
to move on to my next session.

Still
holding my phone, I step back out into the hallway, the now rather empty
hallway. I start toward Conference Room D, to my 10:15 a.m. session, and—

And
my phone buzzes in my hand.

I
stop to check it.

One
message. From him. Open.

:)

12:15
P.M. ANOTHER SESSION OVER. LOTS and lots of listening to the presenter. Lots
and lots and lots of notes taken (all about literary deconstruction). Also,
lots and lots of time spent thinking. But not about Option #1. About my
after-conference surprise.

I’ve
pictured countless surprises ranging from some miraculous situation where I
don’t have to get on a plane again tomorrow (especially with Dr. Gabriel), to a
double secret back way to my hotel room that allows me to avoid using the
crowded hallways or lobby, to a simple dinner with him where he actually talks
to me.

Still
thinking about that last option, I leave the conference room, once again
leaving as Dr. Gabriel talks to the young female professor.

Perhaps
she is my surprise—a person to distract Dr. Gabriel…to keep him away from me.
She’d make a great surprise…but somehow I don’t think she’s it…I don’t think
Dr. Blake could’ve arranged that… 

She
must just be some awesome extra surprise…a bonus surprise…an answered prayer…a
result of some much needed karma. Something like that.

If
only I could get some uncrowded hallway karma right now…

No
such luck. I take a step out of the conference room and immediately see a swarm
of badged people—some talking on cell phones, some eating, some standing in
line to go to the (I’m sure, gross) bathroom, etc.

Ugh.

I
count to three, hold my breath, and start walking, squeezing myself
together…trying to take up as little space as possible…trying to be invisible.