Heart Conditions (The Breakup Doctor Series Book 3) (11 page)

He laughed. “No, I mean what makes you say that?”

“Oh…Well, the vet said his health is fine—perfect, actually. But I told her how you said he’d been acting—lethargic, low appetite. The doctor asked if anything had changed or there had been any stress in Jake’s life lately, and all I could think of was that your mom is out of town and he usually stays with her during the day.” And also that Ben had recently brought an interloper into their lives, and it was very likely that Jake was making his disapproval known. But I’d kept that theory to myself then, and deemed it politic to do so again now. “She said that suddenly being alone a lot could be enough with a needier dog to bring on a mild depression. And I think we can agree Jake is on the needier side.”

Ben sighed, leaning back against the counter perpendicular to the one supporting me. Inches away. “I should never have gotten a dog, with my schedule. It’s not fair to Jake.”

“Are you kidding? Look at him. That’s a happy dog.” We both glanced down to where Jake was now lying between us on his back, wiggling his body this way and that like a bear scratching against a tree, his tongue lolling out almost to the floor.

Ben gave a wry smile. “That’s just because he’s been spending time with you.”

I wanted to take that as a thinly veiled statement of Ben’s own feelings, but I suspected he just meant Jake had had a warm body and available petting fingers nearby all day.

“When does your mom come back?” I asked.

Ben sighed. “Not ’til next Monday. Poor Jakie. Hang in there, buddy,” he said, gently rubbing his belly with the side of one workbooted foot.

I took a sip of my beer, playing out the words in my head to see if it was a good idea to say them, considering that I still had no clear idea about the Pamela situation. “Well, why don’t I take him during the days ’til Adelaide gets back?” I said before I’d actually made up my mind.

Whoops, now it was out there.

I’d expected Ben to protest that it was too much trouble, but to my surprise he seemed to be considering it. “Really?”

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure. I’d love to have him.”

His face eased into that warm smile I loved. “That would be great. I can drop him off in the mornings and pick him on the way home.”

I took a long sip of my beer, my heart quickening its pace. That meant we’d be seeing a lot more of each other—twice a day, for a week. “Or I can bring him to you at night. Either way.”

Ben held his bottle up to mine. “You’re a lifesaver, Brook—thanks.”

I clinked with him, then took a long swig, trying to cool the flush of guilt heating my face.

When my phone rang as I was getting ready for bed, I was surprised at the way my heart lifted at Michael’s name on the caller ID. I hadn’t heard from him since Friday, and I’d begun to think he might have left town at my ambiguous response to his wanting something more. Michael wasn’t a “let’s be friends” kind of guy—it was all or nothing with him. But there was a part of me that had hoped he wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Hey,” I blurted. “I wondered why you hadn’t called.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” he said. “You told me to wait.”

“I…Yeah, well, I’m glad you did. Call, I mean.”

It was the truth—but I still had no idea what to say to him. I didn’t want Michael to keep trying to win me over until I knew what it was I actually wanted—but I also didn’t want him to stop. I kicked off my jeans and pulled on cotton boxers, my usual sleepwear, as I listened to him breathing on the other end of the line. I wasn’t used to this awkwardness between us, the weight of things left unsaid.

“So, what do you think…?” he said finally, and my breath hitched. “Do you want to get together? Sometime?” he asked, as I unhooked my bra and let it drop to the closet floor.

I crossed my arms over my bare chest at the naked earnestness in his tone, my stomach lurching like a faulty elevator.

I wanted to see him—I couldn’t deny that. But that stubborn flame of hope with Ben refused to go out. It wasn’t the only thing keeping me on the fence with Michael, but it was the one clamoring the loudest. Now that I’d be seeing a lot more of Ben for a while, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that that door might still be open.

But even though I knew it wasn’t fair of me…I wasn’t ready to let this one close.

“I don’t know, Michael,” I said finally, wanting to offer him at least partial honesty. “I’m sorry, I…I still don’t have an answer for you.”

There was a beat, and then: “Okay. Well, I’ve been working on some ideas to show you for your business. How about if we meet to talk about them?”

Business. That was my comfort zone—I could keep things on a professional level for now with Michael while we got to know each other again…and at the same time not close off any possibilities with Ben. The best of both worlds.

I was meeting tomorrow with Sasha, so Michael and I made plans to get together Wednesday evening at a seafood restaurant we used to like near downtown, on the river.

After we hung up I lay awake in the dark for a long time, Michael’s soft, “Good night, Brook,” thrusting me back to the hundreds of times he’d crawled into bed beside me after a gig and murmured the same phrase sleepily in my ear before gathering me close in the night.

Ben dropped Jake off early the next morning—he had to leave Fort Myers by six a.m. to make it to his Marco Island build site by seven. I’d offered to come pick the dog up, to save him at least a little time dropping by my house, but he said he was already inconveniencing me enough. “Although that’s pretty early,” he’d said last night as we discussed the logistics of the week. “If you’d rather, I can—”

“No, it’s fine, actually,” I said quickly. “I’m a really early riser.” Not exactly a lie, as I
did
get up at four thirty a.m. to do my radio show on KXAR Monday mornings, but it wasn’t like I was habitually conscious and perky at sunrise.

But damn skippy I was this morning, rising at my radio time so I could be showered, dressed, with hair and makeup carefully done by the time Ben arrived. I’d brewed extra coffee, and I met him at the door with a travel mug of it.

Ben’s face brightened when he saw it. Or maybe when he saw me? Either way, I smiled back. “One sugar, no cream. Have a good day,” I said, waving him off as he grinned and toasted me with the plastic mug. “See you tonight!” I called, trying (and failing) not to feel too giddy at the lovely intimacy of it all.

Jake had always been a crowd pleaser in my practice—most clients were delighted at the presence of the big friendly dog, and in some cases I swore that he helped loosen their tongues—and their emotions.

Sitting and stroking his soft fur as he lolled orgiastically at their feet seemed to calm churning hearts, and it gave people something to focus on in those moments when naked vulnerability made it hard for them to meet my eye.

When my last client left at six, I quickly let Jake into the backyard to pee before heading to Sasha’s. I could have dropped him off at Ben’s on the way over—he said he’d be working late again—but if I left him here instead and came back for the dog afterward, I’d reasoned, I’d get face time.

I had a finite window of opportunity for it. I wasn’t going to waste a second.

Time was obviously of the essence with Sasha too, but I knew I had to start slowly. Stu had agreed to stay at his own place when I suggested to Sash that we work one-on-one at her apartment for this, and tonight I was unveiling step one in what I was calling “Operation Bring It On.”

While she put together a tray of appetizers for us—now wasn’t the time to work on her maternity diet and address what passed for snacks to Sasha, which was generally crudité and air—I sat on her pristine red velvet sofa and opened the carry-on bag I’d packed with supplies, setting it so that the open top rested upright against the arm and concealed the bag’s contents from Sasha’s chair. Part of this strategy relied on the element of surprise.

But I was the one who was surprised when she came back into the living room with a tray bearing the expected raw veggies, along with sliced cheese and what looked like hummus.

I raised my eyebrows. “Wow. Calories.”

She shrugged. “Protein.”

The simple exchange pleased me all out of proportion. Sasha adjusting her diet was an excellent sign—but I knew better than to make an issue of it. Besides, the offerings suited my purpose admirably.

I leaned forward for a glass of orange juice she’d poured—another welcome sign. “So…I thought we’d start small,” I began. “You said you were afraid of the mess of a baby. Poop, spit-up, that kind of thing.”

She shuddered. “Please. I’m eating.”

I ignored her. “So in behavioral therapy with phobias, there’s a conditioning technique called systematic desensitization—you’ve probably heard of it.”

“You mean like working on my fear of kids by taking me to that observation-room thingie in the hospital where they keep all the crates of babies?”

“
Cradles
,” I corrected her.

She waved a hand. “Same difference.”

Maybe her maternal instincts were a bit more buried than I’d thought. “We wouldn’t start there—that’s too much.” I reached for a carrot stick and scooped up a blob of hummus. “Desensitization involves having the person with the phobia face the least anxiety-provoking stimulus related to the thing they fear. So if someone is afraid of spiders, let’s say, we’d start with a picture of a spider, then when they could tolerate that, perhaps a rubber spider, and so on, up to the real thing, until the anxiety has been dealt with successfully.” As I finished talking, I deliberately brought the carrot down to the seat of the sofa and, never taking my eyes off hers, smeared the glop of hummus against the velvet nap.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sasha yelped, jumping up with a handful of napkins.

I raised a hand. “We have to get you used to tolerating a mess,” I said calmly.

“But that sofa cost three thousand—”

“Don’t worry—I’m going to clean it. I promise.”

“But it’s going to ruin the velvet if it sits for—”

“Sash, you asked for my help.”

She stopped trying to reach past me with the napkins, and after a moment reluctantly lowered herself back into her chair. “What happened to starting with pictures,” she muttered. “Why not show me a
picture
of a ruined couch.”

“It’s not ruined.” I reached into my bag of tricks and held up the Oxy stain remover I’d brought. “This takes out anything—trust me. It’s gotten red wine stains out of several pairs of pants, and Jake vomit out of more places than I can count.”

Sasha grimaced. “Ugh.”

“How are you feeling?”

She glared flames into me.

“Okay, good! Let’s sit with that sensation for a few minutes.”

“I’ll give you a sensation to sit on,” she said darkly.

I tipped my juice onto the carpet.

Sasha shot up again. “Dammit, Brook—”

“Sit.”

She slowly dropped her rump to the chair, but looked like she wanted to chew through the cocktail table to get at me.

I smiled. “You’re really doing very well. Much better than I expected.”

Sasha grated out, “There will come a day when—”

In one movement I whipped out a squirt gun from my carry-on, took aim directly at Sasha, and pulled the trigger for all I was worth.

A thick stream of water shot out straight at her head and into her hair, down her face, and across the cream-colored silk tank she wore.

Sasha didn’t move. She was so still, in fact, that for a moment I worried she’d had a coronary. Finally her mouth opened, and she licked away moisture from the side of her mouth with one slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue.

“Get out,” she said with zero intonation.

“Sash, this is all part of the process that you asked—”

“You need to leave.”

“You have to trust—”

“Brook, if you don’t leave now, I’m going to beat you up.”

That got my attention. Sasha worked out like a fiend; she could inflict some damage if she was serious.

She looked very, very serious.

I straightened slowly, dropping my weapon into my bag, careful not to turn my back to her. I offered a conciliatory smile. “Maybe we call this enough for today. It’s a good start. I’ll just start cleaning up the—”

“Go. Now.”

I’d seen that homicidal look in Sasha’s eyes dozens of times after a bad breakup—but never blazing directly at me. The effect was terrifying. I flipped the top of my suitcase closed and zipped it so fast I pinched the skin of my index finger, but I didn’t dare stop to assess the damage—I’d seen what she was capable of when some man had lit this fury in her eyes.

“Okay, so I’ll call you later to set up our next session,” I babbled, already halfway to the door. “OxyClean’s there on the floor—good work today!”

I was already halfway down the walkway by the time the door swung shut behind me, and I didn’t slow down until I was safely in the car with my doors locked, speeding down McGregor Avenue.