“Sorry. I, ah, was anxious to see you after being apart and—”
“Did you hear your tone? Accusing and reprimanding?”
“I...ah...”
“Seven angry voice mails and fourteen texts and then I see you at the restaurant.”
“So,” she said, throwing her shoulders back indignantly and lifting her chin. “Let’s talk about that! You were too busy for me but you were there with a woman! A very attractive woman!”
“That was Darcy Masters, a sales rep from the Philligan Neurological Institute, talking to me about a new state-of-the-art microsurgical robot. We’ve had the appointment for months and have had trouble getting together. I kept her waiting for a couple of hours and told her the only time I had was a break between surgeries but I was starving. She offered to buy my dinner if I’d fit her in. I had to go right back to the hospital.”
“Oh. Well, I was just getting some dinner on the way home...”
“You’re sure you didn’t make a special trip?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said, but her cheeks flushed with the lie.
“We have a problem,” he said. “Rather, I believe you have a problem and it’s affecting me in a very negative way.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, giving her hair a toss.
“Seven messages and fourteen texts, getting more sarcastic and angry by the minute, that’s what I’m talking about! It’s insane.”
“Okay, I won’t do that again.”
“You won’t do it to me again,” he said. “This is where we say goodbye.”
“What? Just because we have a slight difference of opinion? We’re just getting to know each other!”
“And in such a short period of time you’ve managed to make me feel like a caged animal. Like a stalked and captured prey. Listen, I’m going to do you a favor here.” He stood and reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to her. “Do yourself a favor and give this guy a call. He’s very good. He’s helped me and a couple of friends. He gets very high marks for taking on big egos and disbelievers.”
She looked at the card. She laughed out loud. Thomas Norton, PhD, Bradford Institute of Psychotherapy. Counselor. “My father was a psychologist,” she flung at him. “Believe me, if there was a problem—”
“And the cobbler’s children have no shoes,” he said. “Suit yourself. But I think you could benefit from a little assistance.”
“If I agree to see this guy, can we try again?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I know better than to get into a toxic relationship.”
“Toxic! How dare you say that to me!”
“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked.
“I don’t think so!” she snapped.
“Get together with some of your family and closest friends,” he went on, ignoring her. “Ask them if there’s been a problem communicating or understanding each other. Feel free to use our relationship as an example—I told you I’d be back in five days but would be tied up for a day or two longer, catching up on work and surgery here. It all worked out exactly that way and yet you somehow felt slighted and ignored. Ask the people you’re closest to if they have experienced this kind of disconnect. Get help. You don’t have to live like this.”
“But, Patrick! You’re done with me?”
“Yes, Jess. You’re in trouble. You may have a personality disorder. A lot of beautiful young women think it’s just part of looking for the right guy, but it’s more serious than that. You’re demanding and abusive.”
“That’s not true!”
“Sadly, it’s totally accurate.”
She felt herself crumbling. “I bought us a pizza,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Your favorite kind.”
“Think about yourself for a while,” he said. “Put yourself first. You don’t have to live with disappointment. Nor do you really want a man who is constantly bent to your demands. Believe me, it wouldn’t last. Talk to someone. Get help.”
“I’m a doctor!” she said, shouting. “I’m a busy doctor! And my father was a therapist! I don’t need help!”
“Being a doctor is no pass,” he said. “Trust me, I know that from firsthand experience. Doctors are as messed up as anyone. In fact, for some, with the pressure they’re under, they’re even more vulnerable. And sadly, least likely to ask for help. Do yourself a favor. Don’t be that doctor.”