Every Breath You Take by Bianca Sloane Read Free Book Online

about it even, out of sheer desperation.
    Well, that all ended today. Flynn was right, of course. He
’
d done this all wrong, all backward. He
’
d given them too much credit.
    He thought about his doctor, a stern, pale string bean of a woman with her tight grey topknot, thick glasses, and chronic frown. She was probably what mama used to call an
“
old maid.
”
He
’
d bet anything she sure as hell never had a man in love with her, no man willing to go to the ends of the earth for her. Hell, if that was crazy, that was fine with him. Tell him he was crazy all damn day long.
    Dr. Wexler swept into the room on a cloud of tuna fish and Diet Coke. That sour and sweet scent bled from her pores. Like maybe she bathed in it or something. Sometimes he wanted to ask her to take a Tic Tac before she met with him. Or change it up and try eating a salad or something. Drink some iced tea. Something. Then he wouldn’t have to breathe through his mouth every damn time he saw her.
    “So,” she said, tapping her blue felt pen against the surprisingly thick manila folder she balanced in her lap, her faint German accent trilling against his ears. Was that whole file about him? “How are we today?”
    “Fine,” he nodded. He hated when people said that. How are we today. How the hell was he supposed to know how “we” were doing? He could only worry about his damn self.
    And Natalie, of course. Always, Natalie.
    Dr. Wexler screwed up her face, like she had sucked on a lemon and couldn’t quite decide if she liked its tart marrow. “When we met last week, you indicated you were still having rather
provocative
dreams about Natalie. What about this week? Are you still dreaming about her?”
    He swallowed and rubbed his hands together. Another stupid question. Of course he was. He dreamt about her every sleeping hour and thought about her every waking hour.
    Tell them what they want to hear.
    “You know, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t. I mean, not this week. What do you think that means?”
    “What do
you
think it means?”
    “That maybe . . . I’m finally starting to . . . let go.”
    Dr. Wexler scribbled something in her notes and nodded. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. That is progress. Now. When you think about Natalie right now, right this moment, what are you thinking?”
    He couldn’t tell her what he was really thinking, which was to wonder what she was doing right at this moment. Was she eating? What was she eating? What was she drinking? Was she by herself? Was she eating with other people? What was she wearing? Pants? A skirt? High-heeled shoes or flats? What kind of perfume was she wearing? How was she wearing her hair? Was it long? Was it short? Was she talking? Was she listening? Was she laughing? Was she sad?
    Whenever he’d said any of those things, the corners of the doctor’s mouth would push themselves down into rigid little curlicues and she would shake her head and tell him he was obsessing. She would draw the word out on a long string—obbseeeesssing, with a little hiss. Then she would sigh and make a notation in his chart.
    “I think maybe . . . maybe what you’ve been saying all this time is right. That I have to start accepting that. . .” he hung his head down. “That I can’t have Natalie.”
    He wanted to laugh. Oh, he’d have Natalie. He’d have her. Draw that out on a string.
    The curlicues turned themselves upward, like the ends of a handlebar mustache, and he could only imagine what Dr. Wexler was scrawling in his file now. Probably something like “breakthrough.”
    Dr. Wexler clasped her hands together. “Good, good. Very good! Now. Let’s talk about what that means.”
    He licked his lips and tried to keep the smile off his face.
    Just tell them what they want to hear.

Chapter 10
SHE
    N atalie popped a piece of gum in her mouth, relishing the crack of the hard, red shell as she bit into the spicy cinnamon square. If there was anything better, she hadn’t found it.
    She