#thighgap (My Dark Library Book 2) by Chandler Morrison

Author:Chandler Morrison [Morrison, Chandler]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cemetery Gates Media
Published: 2022-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13 – Kerosene Lamps

Hal spends the first twenty minutes of our session crying because his set was apparently “a disaster” and none of his “so-called friends” he invited showed up. Even as he sobs, he doesn’t take his sunglasses off. The lenses get fogged up as the tears collect behind them and spill over the sides. He keeps blowing his nose into a Versace handkerchief and calling me “cruel, just so fucking cruel” because I didn’t come and support him. I make a lame, halfhearted attempt to excuse my absence, muttering a lie about a night shoot followed by a party I couldn’t get out of, but he doesn’t buy it. “It’s just so typical of you,” he whines. “You only ever think about yourself.”

When he regains some semblance of composure after doing a couple bumps of coke, I ask if we can talk about me now. I cite the rate I’m paying him. “Sure, yeah, whatever,” he says, sniffling. “I mean, fuck, if it’s just about the money for you, then go off, I guess.”

Already exhausted, not really following him, I say, “If...what’s about the money? What else would it be about?”

He sniffles again. Wipes his nose with the handkerchief. “This,” he says, spreading his arms, gesturing around the office. “You coming here, talking to me. I guess I thought we had a more complex relationship than something transactional. I thought we were supposed to both be there for each other.”

“But you’re...my therapist? And I don’t think that’s how it’s...supposed to work?”

“Oh, really. Interesting. Tell me how it’s supposed to work.” He uses his fingers to draw air quotes around “supposed” and “work.”

Shifting on the couch, adjusting my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, I say, “I pay you to...listen to me? And you’re supposed to...I don’t know, fix me?”

“Babe. No one can fix anyone. Besides, you don’t even need fixing. I keep telling you, you’re hot. You’re a bombshell. You’ve got literally nothing to worry about, so I don’t know why you’re always so fucked up about everything. One of these days you’ll listen to me and just...fucking...chill. And then you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t actually think this is working out.”

“Oh, please. Honey.” He puts a hand to his chest. “Don’t be so dramatic. This is normal. This is healthy.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not.”

“What are you even going to do, huh?” His face darkens. His voice becomes edged with hostility. “Find another therapist? Start over from scratch? I mean, get real. You’ve been seeing me for how long? I know you. We have rapport. I know you better than anyone. The problem here is that you don’t know me. I think these sessions would be a lot more productive if you took the time to listen to me for once.”

“I really don’t think that’s...what the problem is. I don’t think you ever listen to me. I’m lost and afraid and I don’t know what to do.” I can feel the tears coming, and this helpless knowledge fills me with an impotent rage.

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