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Another week, another visit to the office of Dr. Chris Coxley.
It's not an ideal situation, but you're making it work. It doesn't help that waiting rooms have always made you nervous. It's that lingering sensation of desperation in the air—people just sitting around, biding their time, awaiting tests or answers, praying it won't be bad news. No one's here because they're feeling brilliant, and it shows.
And your schedule's been so hectic lately. There's that situation at work you're avoiding, and you're willing to work all kinds of strange hours to not have to see them. It's made it tough to make these appointments the same day each week, but lately, you've been making an effort.
You've picked Tuesdays. You're lying to yourself when you say it's not because that's the day Vinnie also has his weekly appointment.
You only know his name because you've asked Chris. To your chagrin, he's refused to tell you anything else. Still, you wonder about him. Most people don't see their GP every week. Maybe you two have something in common.
And while you wish he would reveal more, you reckon it's good that he's been so tight-lipped. If another patient were creeping on you, after all, you wouldn't want him revealing all of your medical history and deepest, darkest secrets to them. The doctor already knows too much about both, and based on what he's told you about his personal life, his filter seems to be nonexistent.
Usually, you only catch Vinnie leaving just before you head into the office yourself, but lately, delays with other patients mean you've been seeing more of him. Today, it's you, and him, and three little old ladies who look anything but friendly with their scowls and rude remarks about waiting.
He's acknowledged you a few times—usually just a polite nod—but you don't know if he's really noticed you. You've never considered yourself anything special. In all likelihood, he's never thought twice about you.
But you've thought twice about him. No, that's a lie. Lately, you've been thinking about him every day.
Maybe it's the way he sits while he waits. His legs are usually crossed, and he's constantly shifting, like it physically pains him to sit still. And when you watch him, you can see that his mind is elsewhere. You wonder if he's reliving the past—the little arguments he wishes he'd won and things he'd do differently given a second chance—or considering the future, and where the hell we all go from here. Wherever he is, he's not here.
You're not unfamiliar with that feeling. Mindfulness has never been your forte, as much as you've been trying, and you're already wondering if the short, short skirt and long stockings you wear here every week ever catch his wandering eyes. They're far from what you'd typically wear to the GP's office—but Dr. Coxley isn't your average GP.
And today, you're noticing something else about Vinnie. There's a sunken quality to his eyes, a listlessness in every breath. A sharp, unpleasant sensation settles in your stomach. Something's wrong. Even wronger than usual.
You wouldn't dare approach him, normally, but today, you feel emboldened. Maybe it's your new meds. Maybe it's something else.
He's sat in a different row of chairs, perpendicular to your own. When no one's looking, you rise and take a seat at the other end of his row. You count to 10 in your head before you gather the courage to move again, doing so one seat at a time, until finally, with one very deep breath, you take the one beside Vinnie.
He's low in his chair, ass barely on the seat, almost laying rather than sitting. His legs are bent at the knees, forming a wide angle from each other. It's a strange rush when you accidentally bump one of his knees with your own, and you silently chide yourself for thinking of such things at a time like this.
"Sorry," he apologises dully, even though you're the one who's encroached on his space. He minimises the sprawl of his body, re-crossing his legs before swinging them away from you, and sits up completely straight. A deep sigh escapes between his lips as he rolls his shoulders.
Everything in his closed body language tells you to leave him alone, but you've already come this far. In fact, not speaking your first words to him feels impossible at this point.
"Don't tell anyone this," you whisper, your voice nearly trembling, "but I see Chris once a week for talking therapy."
Wordlessly, he nods once. You see his eyes up close for the first time, and there's a sense of understanding in their honeylike grey-green. It's that look that encourages you to continue.
"I don't have too many friends these days. Not since…" and your words trail, because you have no desire to completely scare him off. "Anyhow, I get to talk to Chris about my problems—he's surprisingly insightful sometimes, you know—and he… well, he gets to look at my knees."
Vinnie lets out an audible groan, and you know you've gotten his attention.
"Oh, c'mon, now, love," he says with a grimace, even as that last word gives you butterflies. "You shouldn't let him do that to you."
His words aren't scolding, just cautionary, and you laugh them off.
"I said look at, not touch," you clarify.
"Still…" he starts.
"Or," you suggest, interrupting him, "I'm a grown woman who can make my own decisions about how I get my mental health care."
Vinnie heaves another great sigh.
"You're right. You're right, I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "I'm actually in a similar boat, y'know. We talk about everything, me and him. It's just the things he tells me about these women and their bloody knees…"
"Has he told you about my knees?" you ask.
"Well, no. He hasn't mentioned you at all, actually."
"Or shown you pictures?"
As Vinnie takes a long, somewhat analytical look at your legs, you tense them slightly to flaunt them in their best light. They may be your finest feature, after all.
"No, I don't believe he has," he finally answers, averting his gaze—though you wouldn't mind if he looked even longer.
"Then he's respecting my privacy," you answer. "And honestly, that's good enough for me."
"Aren't there … laws?" Vinnie wonders. "About relationships between doctors and patients?"
"I don't think knee-gazing quite qualifies as a relationship," you answer. "There are probably laws about seeing patients weekly and off the record, though, and personally, I'm quite glad he's breaking that one."
Vinnie cracks a smile, and his posture seems looser as he leans in ever-so-slightly toward you. Seeing him get more comfortable feels good, even if the misery hasn't entirely left his countenance.
"I'm glad he is, too," Vinnie says, nodding. "It's my bipolar. Don't know if it's a bigger nightmare for me or the people who care about me, honestly."
"But you do have people who care about you," you repeat. "That's one thing. They haven't given up on you yet."
He doesn't answer, just considers those words as his sharp eyebrows furrow. Finally, with a pained look in his eyes, he speaks again.
"I have a son," he reveals, and his words are brittle with hurt. He's never seemed like the type, and you try to conceal your shock as tears wet his eyes. "I love him more than I ever thought I could love anything. But his mum took him someplace, maybe someplace far away, so he can live a better life."
A single drop falls from his eye, and he wipes it away with a thickly tattooed thumb, shaking his head.
"And I know it's right," he continues. "He deserves that. A better life than either of us had here. God, he's a fucking great little kid. But them leaving… It broke my heart, it really did. And I promised him, again and again, I wouldn't ever leave him… I understand I haven't, but it's as good as if I had. And even knowing there was a good chance they'd up and leave someday, it feels like the earth's been pulled out from under me…"
He goes silent, and it feels there's nothing you could say to make any of it better.
But if you've learned anything in your sessions, it's that you'd pick compassion and empathy over empty solutions any day of the week.
"What's his name?" you ask.
"Tyler," he says, and he can't help but smile, even if you can see that it hurts. You blink away the tears that are threatening to form in your eyes.
He reaches into his pocket for his phone and pulls up a picture of the adorable little lad and a stunning brunette, both smiling from ear to ear in big, cozy coats.
"Her… and you?" you wonder, wishing you'd managed to ask about it more tactfully.
"Yeah," he nods, and his expression seems almost wistful. "Believe me, I was as surprised as you. I didn't even know for ages. It's a… long story."
"Well then I have no chance with you," you blurt out, with a laugh, immediately regretting what you've just said.
The comment seems to take him aback, and you're relieved when he doesn't have time to ponder it any longer, as that's when he's called into Dr. Coxley's office.
He rises to his feet, and you're expecting him to politely excuse himself before finding a way to never speak with you again, but instead, he poses a question.
"Would you like to come in with me?"
You struggle to string together anything coherent before a, "What?" squeaks out of your lips.
"Group therapy, maybe," he says, shrugging. "Could be good for all of us. We each get a little something out of it—and the good doctor doesn't get to perv on your knees."
"I… yeah. I'd like that," you answer, and as he gestures toward the office door with the tilt of his head, you follow.
"Good afternoon, Vin," Chris begins cheerily as Vinnie steps into the office, but his tone changes when he sees you stepping in behind him. "Hold on—what's she doing here?"
"Group therapy today," Vinnie says simply. "You're behind schedule, right? This'll get you caught up."
You have to conceal a laugh, prompted by the incredulous look on Chris's face.
"Vinnie, our counseling sessions are… specialised. Targeted," Chris argues. "Your issues are quite different, so this really isn't such a good idea…"
"Targeted? That's bollocks, and you know it," Vinnie sneers. "Now stop being such a deviant, and let's get on with it."
"And you're alright with this?" he gestures to you, and you can tell he thinks you're going to rescue him from the situation.
And as much as you've never liked discussing the particulars of your life with anyone outside of your private therapy sessions, Vinnie's different. You feel like it could all pour right out of you at any moment.
"Of course," you answer, knowing Chris won't be able to tell you're just putting on the cool demeanor. "Basically my idea."
His scowl puts another smile on your face, and he sighs and gives in.
"Alright, should we all get in a circle, or…" Chris suggests.
"Scoot yourself on over here, mate," Vinnie gestures. You take a seat in one of the two uncomfortable plastic chairs he's moved back as Chris wheels his expensive-looking, plush office chair over to sit across from you. It's more of a lopsided triangle than a proper circle, but it'll do.
"So—how would you like to begin?" Chris asks. "I thought you were feeling guarded around women, Vin."
He reveals that last bit pointedly, and the look on his face tells you that he hopes you both get stuck, that it won't work out and you'll throw this entire mad plan away. But Vinnie's not going to let that happen.
"I suppose I can go first," Vinnie says, ignoring the comment with a quiet exhale. "And you're going to need some catching up, aren't you?"
"You don't have to tell me your life story…" you insist, but he shakes his head.
"Context helps," he says. "And honestly, I don't mind. It's not so hard to talk about it anymore. It's good for me, really—if that's okay with you."
"It's okay," you say encouragingly. You're pleased your words don't sound desperate, betraying your true feelings, because you're a bit hungry for as much information as you can get.
"Well, I guess it goes back to when I was little," he says. "I was 7 when my mum left. She told me to stay, so I did. But she never came back. And when I found her, she didn't want anything to do with me. And that—well, it felt like shit, to be honest. And that tiny bit of closure it gives me, that feels good, just makes me feel more like shit. Because I know it should make me miserable. It's not like I don't have good roots here. People who love me. Great friends. But I still have to actively try every day not to feel completely stuck."
You've never been able to resist crying at a sad story—even 30-second adverts can get the waterworks going—and your tears are already flowing. And, even though Chris has reminded you again and again that it's the most unhelpful thing, you're already sizing up his problems against your own stupid issues and feeling like they're nothing in comparison.
That, and you're thinking about him and his little boy.
"You're not like your mum, you know," you say, as firmly as you can through the tears. "You didn't abandon him. You're still his dad, and… I'll bet you anything he knows it wasn't your choice for him to leave. That you'd do anything to have him back."
"Thanks," he says, with a little quaver, even as he smiles. "I guess I should mention his mum. Erin. I've been in love with her for… a while. We were just a one-time thing. I'd been drinking, so I don't even remember it happening. But Christ, she really is the best person I know. She's brilliant. Determined. Kind…"
"And beautiful," you add.
"Yeah, that too," he says with the shake of his head. "And I trust her with my life, more than anybody. I guess when I'd really think about it, I knew we were never gonna be together. I mean, you've seen her. But I'd get these little… glimmers of hope. That we almost could be. Maybe if things were different, it wouldn't be impossible. If my head were better. If Hawley wasn't such a fucking dead end."
He takes the time to consider it a moment with the shake of his head. You don't say a word, unsure of what you even would say. The part of you that isn't jealous wishes that things were different, that this Erin could see how much he cared, and love him back the same.
"And there was this other girl, Samantha," Vinnie continues, and there's a different kind of sadness in his eyes—the kind that's more bitter than bittersweet. “I really liked her. Not like I do Erin, but maybe I could have grown to. Turns out, she didn't want me as much as I thought she did. She was a cop. Only got close to me for information, to bust me and the people closest to me."
There must be even more to that story, but it's none of your business. He's gazing at you expectantly, like he's waiting for something, but you're still stunned silent.
"You're not gonna ask me what I did?" Vinnie wonders.
"Maybe it's better I don't know," you answer. "But… you don't deserve to be hurt like that. And… thanks."
"Thanks?" he wonders. "For what?"
"For trusting me enough to bring me in here," you say. "For telling your story. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't have it in me."
"Speaking of," Chris chimes in for the first time in a long while, "does that mean you're now going to tell your story?"
It's another trick to end this, because it's clear he'd much rather get back to our scheduled programming,
And as much as you want to do this, despite how open and honest Vinnie's been with you, you freeze. You try, and try again, to speak, but you can't seem to summon your voice. Maybe you don't know quite how to share your experiences with him. Maybe your own issues now seem trivial next to his. But you don't manage to mutter a word.
Vinnie can tell. Of course he can. But instead of getting upset, or feeling betrayed yet again, the space between his brows creases with understanding.
He rises to wheel Chris's chair back behind the desk before taking his own seat into the far corner of the room.
"Pretend I'm not here," Vinnie insists. As you look forward at Chris, it starts to actually feel like a typical visit to his office.
"Alright," you say aloud, not quite sure if you're agreeing with Vinnie or reassuring yourself.
"So, how've you been managing with… things this week?" Chris says vaguely, and the way his eyes occasionally glance over at Vinnie doesn't help, but you manage to continue anyhow.
"Not great," you answer. "You know I can't stand going into work every day, not with Mark constantly canoodling with the sous chef. I swear, he plays it up when I'm around, just to get under my skin."
"And… who is Mark again?" Chris asks. It's clearly a question for Vinnie's benefit, and I try not to get more annoyed at his obviousness.
"My ex," you say. You're surprised how easy it is to talk now, and you're relieved Vinnie is way behind you, because if he wasn't, you'd be tempted to keep turning back to see his reactions. "Turns out his ‘Til death do us part' was more of a 'Let's call this marriage thing off in 10 months.' And all of that after four years of being together and a two-year proposal. Left me for our new business partner. Maybe I didn't ever quite love him, but I did get attached. And if we didn't still work together, it'd be easy to let this all go, but seeing him, day in and bloody day out, is misery. Makes me wish I didn't have to wake up every day and get out of bed to face him."
"And you've been exploring other options?" Chris asks, like he always does.
"Yes, I'm applying for jobs every day," you say through gritted teeth. "It's not easy, though. I've invested way too many years in specialised skills that don't have many applications."
"Can you explain that to me again?" Chris asks. This time, he's not playing dumb. He really doesn't understand what you do, and you've gotten more and more frustrated each time he's asked you to explain.
"It's a vegetarian farm-to-table concept," you say, "with the majority of the produce grown in-house. And I pride myself in growing the freshest, tastiest veg. That part, I really do enjoy. But I'm not really a farmer, not really a gardener, and definitely not a cook. I'd love to bring down his business, but I just can't afford to if I'm going to keep living on my own. I'm not going to make half of what I do anywhere else."
"And how have you been coping with that?" Chris says.
"Doing everything you suggested," you answer, trying not to sound totally defeated. "Exercise, journaling, practicing gratitude and the like."
"How about your sleep?" he wonders.
"It's been up and down," you say. "I'm getting my eight hours, but since you put me on the fluoxetine, I've been having bizarre dreams and waking up feeling a bit shit."
"Oh?" Chris says. This is a new development he hasn't heard about just yet. "What kinds of dreams?"
You're not sure where this newfound sense of courage has come from, but here goes:
"Sexual ones," you reveal. "About the one from the lobby with the tattoos that I keep trying to ask you about—Vinnie?"
And Chris just squints, like he's not sure if this is some kind of prank. It's not the first time you've brought him up in your sessions, but the questioning has always been vague. You've never told Chris everything, after all.
And now your ears feel red-hot, and there's a strange tingle swirling around in your head, but there's no taking it back now, so you might as well go all in.
"I don't even know if I'm fully attracted to him," you continue. "He's just got this energy about him. The kind that makes you want to get to know someone. I get the feeling I'd learn a lot just by chatting with him."
"You know you could just ask him," Chris says with a shrug. "He might be open to such a friendship."
"Maybe I will," you muse. "But first… can you answer a question for me?"
"Depends," Chris says.
"Well… does Vinnie have chest tattoos?"
Chris only laughs in response.
"I'm guessing he does," you say. "Just curious, is all."
"I can't tell you that," he says. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."
"Fine," you pretend to grumble.
"Maybe you should just ask him that yourself," he suggests.
"Maybe I should," you say.
The session ends after about an hour, at which point Chris has definitely had enough, and as you and Vinnie walk out, the doctor doesn't even try to hide a last long glance at your legs.
"So all of that stuff you said back there," Vinnie says quietly, "Is that all true?"
"Yeah," you admit, your stomach in knots, with your hopes suddenly far, far too high.
"Well, to be honest, I'm not looking for anything serious right now," he says, "but I do think you'd be a good mate, if you'll have me."
"I'd like that," you say. It's not what you were wishing for, but honestly better than what you expected.
"And do you know much about hydroponics?" he asks.
He squints slightly, like he's afraid it's a dumb question.
"Everything there is to know," you say. "That's my speciality. Why?"
"If I could offer you a profession as a master weed grower, with so-so pay, what would you say to that?"
What would you say to that? Any offer of a stable job is enticing, and one doing something you actually love? The illegality is the one turn-off—but not necessarily a dealbreaker.
"I'll have to think about it," you say, "but I'm definitely tempted."
"I get it," he says apologetically. "You don't want to get in trouble. I don't make the wisest choice for a business partner anyhow…"
"I'll do it," you interrupt him, despite yourself.
"You… will?"
"On one condition."
"And what's that?" he wonders.
"You show me what you've got going on under that shirt."
"Deal," he says, and a handshake seals it.
And though it'll be days before you get the chance to see that he does, indeed, have his entire test and torso covered in boldly lined tattoos, it's worth the wait. You're happy for the first time in a while, courtesy of the wondrous Vinnie O'Neil.