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Most of your knowledge of Dr. Mary Kline comes from her book. It's the kind of book that sits on the shelf of a person who is trying to better themself but really just got more pretentious. It's no attack on the book itself, honestly, but it is true. You're not sure you've ever seen someone genuinely read a self-help book. Except for you.
It's heavy in your hands. Good quality. Your thumb skims over the cover every once in a while, feeling the smooth expanse. Candlelight flickers across the pages. The inconsistent light isn't too awful. You're barely reading the book anyways. As awful as it sounds, you don't really care. But Dr. Kline is an enigma. She joined your friend's practice a few months ago, never really stopping to socialize much. She seems very private and reserved. You want to know more about her.
She's young—relative to you at least. Her career is still budding, unlike yours. You've been around the block more than once. Her thesis was published a few years ago (you snooped through that too), so she must've recently received her doctorate. Dr. Mary Kline. You have to admit: it has a nice ring to it. Considering her schooling, you're sure this is one of her first serious jobs. You haven't gotten the chance to talk to her about that yet. You can tell from her book she's very optimistic. Lots of symbolism in there, actually (what's her thing with windows?).
Your eyes aimlessly wander the page. The moment you believe change is possible, you've already begun. You hook onto phrase, rereading it. You squint as if that would change the words on the page. You even turn on your lamp—ouch, too bright. You soldier on, slowly and steadily adjusting to the harsh contrast between the softer candlelight and the lamp's fluorescent light. You blink, once, twice, pupil's contracting to block out the intensity. Once you can see, you hold the page up to the light, skimming through the paragraphs until your eyes fall onto the phrase once more.
"The moment you believe change is possible, you've already begun." You scoff. "Bullshit." You snap the book shut and leave it on the nightstand with the blinding lamp. You shouldn't be so harsh on her; she's naive, clearly. She hasn't been exposed to the monsters you have. Her patients aren't convicted murders and other criminals of the like, they're just average people. They're average people with problems. Logically, that's her audience. Those people are the people that statement applies to.
It just doesn't rub you the right way.
You groan and press your face into your pillow. You so needed another reason for for your mind to latch onto Dr. Kline. She's been running through your head for more than you'd like. It was a juvenile crush at first. A few thoughts about how pretty she looks with her hair up, how cute it is that she's so expressive. Now all you'll be thinking about is her writing (and what a shame it is that she'll have to learn about human nature the hard way).
Maybe she's better as a concept.
Regardless, you need to get some fucking sleep.
"It'll be nice. She'll just talk a bit, sign copies, all that stuff, and then it'll be over," your friend attempts to persuade you. "You can even leave before the signing."
"Listen, Matt, I just don't think I'll have the time." You drum your fingers on the countertop. You're growing tired of this conversation, and I'm sure your friend's secretary is too. She's heard enough of it, probably. He's more than unrelenting on this matter, apparently.
"That's a lie." He rolls his eyes. "It's your day off and you certainly aren't doing anything. Besides, maybe you'd stop eye-fucking her and actually fuck her."
Your fingers still and you jerk your head over to his secretary. Her eyes are glued to whatever she's writing. Whipping your head back around at him, you whisper, "what the hell? Don't say that!" You shove his shoulder.
He shrugs. "No one's in here."
"Mr. Malek will be here soon," the woman behind the desk supplies.
"Yeah, well, it's still too early for Dr. Kline to be in," he says with a wave of his hand.
"She's been in her office for ten minutes now," she adds.
He clicks his tongue, head hanging low. "Sorry."
"Could you be any more facetious?" You tilt your head. "And I don't"— You glance over to Dr. Kline's closed door—"do whatever you're saying."
He gives you a pointed look. "Right. Sure."
This might be the day you kill him. Or his indiscretion kills you. You wouldn't mind either.
With a deep breath, you try to remember why you like this man. He is a good friend, and he is one of the few people you trust with the knowledge of your sexuality. He shares that side of him with you, too, and everyone he's close with. Shame alludes him. He may just be the most welcoming man you know.
"Okay, she's pretty, but I really can't go that thing. I wish the best for her, but I've read her book…" you trail off. You can't really find the courage to say that it's awful in her place of work.
"Oh, god, you hated it," he says incredulously.
"Don't be so loud about it. It just… our fields don't align."
"They do. What was so bad about it? Come on, it couldn't have been—" his next words are muffled by you press of your palm to his mouth.
Mary observes the scene as she walks up, a little apprehensive. Her brows are knit in confusion along with her lips parted just the slightest. She really is adorable. She stops in front of the desk, averting her gaze from the two of you and looking at the secretary.
Your hand is pushed away and you finally look back at Matt. He looks between the two of you with a shit eating grin.
You mouth the words, don't you dare.
"So, Mary, when is your little meet-and-greet?" he asks.
She looks at him with a small smile. It's just between genuine and forced in the most awkward possible way. You're beside yourself with how much you want to pinch her cheeks—what are you even thinking? You must be clinically insane. You should be the one booking sessions.
"It's at five-thirty," she says.
"Great! We were just talking about how excited we are. Her, especially." He throws an arm around you.
You nod and smile. "Yeah. I'm very excited."
"Oh." She seems a little shocked, but her lips perk up, and her face gains color. "You don't need to do that, but thank you. I appreciate the support."
That smile stays on her face as she continues her short interaction, and you're sure it stays as she goes back to her office. Your eyes linger on her door for a minute. You really wish she had stayed inside.
"Matthew?" You don't look his way. "You owe me so many drinks."
He pats your shoulder. "If my plan goes right, she'll be buying them for me."
You shove his arm away.
Does she have a favorite color? Would it happen to be blue, or is that her most hated color? Think she likes heels? No, no, it's a book store. Heels aren't meant for a book store. They could be, though… you'll place those aside for further consideration.
"Maybe you should just tell her I couldn't make it." You sigh into the landline.
"Funny. You have to be there," Matt replies. "I won't settle for you ditching me."
You push hangars around, looking for a perfect outfit that'll never appear. "I don't know what to wear. Everything feels wrong."
"You do realize that this is not that big a deal, right? Wear whatever."
"Oh, shut up. It is. She'll be there." You examine a blouse towards the back of your closet. "But, honestly, I don't think anything will come of this. Even if, by some miracle, she is into women, i don't think it will work out."
"Why wouldn't it? There is no way that her book turned you off that bad."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes. It's not the best thing ever, but as far as self help books go, it's solid. She has nice ideas in there. I like it."
You put the phone down to button your shirt. "I don't think we'll click based off of it, that's all."
He sighs. "Just try. Don't make assumptions—you should know this."
"I do know that." you bite your cheek in thought. "Maybe I'm too cynical for her."
"You suck for reasons besides your cynicism; you should worry about other things."
"Maybe that's true." You laugh and pick the phone back up. Stepping in front of the mirror, you fuss with your shirt, smoothing it over. "Okay, I found an outfit. You can come now."
"You do know I'm not driving her back to your place after we get drinks, right? I'm worried about what you'll do to my backseats."
"Not happening."
"Might happen."
You roll your eyes and hang up.
It's not a bad event. There's a sizable amount of people here, more than twenty, less than forty. It's a good turnout. You're proud of Mary, really. Speaking of which, she's signing books and making conversation while you stay with Matt towards the back of the store. You're traversing the shelves, looking around and talking.
"So, what was so bad about the book?" he asks.
"You'll laugh at me."
"I might, but I promise to hear you out."
"Some therapist you are." You shake your head. "'The moment you believe change is possible, you've already begun.'"
Matt stares at you expectantly. Whatever he's looking for never comes. "What?"
"She wrote that. She's wrong."
"That's it? Sure, change is possible."
You scoff. "Not even you can fix everyone."
"People aren't something to be fixed."
You wave a hand dismissively. "You know what I meant. People can't change, not really. They just get better at pretending."
"You can't seriously believe that."
"Do you think I wouldn't have wanted to come if I didn't sincerely believe her whole book is bullshit? It's wrong, Matt. People don't change—not in the way that she's implying, anyways. She's wrong."
"You don't think that's a little too cynical, even for you? You're skewed to your line of work. The average person change their behaviors."
You shake your head. "You don't get it. The extreme side of the spectrum really highlights that people only suppress themselves when they 'change.' I just don't think that it's right."
"Have any of your patients really believed that change is possible for them?" That's not Matt's voice. It's too high, not gruff enough, and it certainly isn't coming from the man in front of you if you hear it behind you. Ah, shit.
You turn around. "I'm sorry. I don't mean any offense by it, I just disagree."
Matt raises his hands in surrender. "I'll leave you to it."
You don't bother giving him the nasty look you're so desperately holding back. It's damage control time. You really can't handle Mary hating you.
"It was a genuine question. I want to talk about it. I don't know much about criminal psychology."
Oh, Mary, why would you dig the hole any deeper? Pride is an awful thing that you have too much of. You can't just let this go.
"They have every resource to change. Correctional facilities aren't perfect—God no—but if they wanted to take do with the resources available, they could. They know they can change, and they don't. I don't believe everyone can change. It's just not applicable to all people." You shrug. "That's it. I'm sure your argument holds true in your field."
"Believing and knowing is different. Do they believe change is in the cards for them? Do they have faith in their transformation?" She presses on. "Take the placebo effect for example. The power of belief can do a lot."
You pause. "You don't need to have faith in facts. That won't change them. Yes, the mind is a powerful tool, but we're not talking about the mind, are we? It's bigger than that. Therapy is involved along with other treatments."
She shakes her head. "You do need faith. To do anything, you first have to believe in making that happen. You could… quit your job and go pursue any passion of yours, but do you believe in yourself enough to place all faith in that path?"
"…I suppose not," you relent. "But I just think that you don't see what I do. It'll hit you one day—the fact that not everyone is savable. You can't fix everyone. Sometimes their psyche is just too tattered and mangled to be salvageable. Everyone needs to know when to quit."
"That's a very big claim to make." Her arms cross. It's less out of frustration than it is out of disappointment. The subtle kicked-puppy look she exhibits hurts more than anything.
You bite back a retort (she did make an even bigger claim, saying that everyone can change), and then you feel worse for still wanting to argue with her. You don't need to rub salt in the wound, and you should really stop before you say anything worse. "That's just my experience." You take a step back. "I should, uhm, go fetch Matt. He drove me."
You turn before you can let her reply. It's a moot point to argue; you two are too stubborn. Though, you do think you should've let her have it. You'd rather sacrifice your pride than her happiness. Some serious groveling is needed, but you'll have to think on that later. With a sigh and a shake of your head, you head outside. Matt was probably having a smoke or some other bullshit while he fed you to the wolves.
The smoke is noticeable, and the mop of hair you're looking at is recognizable. He's facing away, leaning back on his car. Coward.
You approach. "Those will kill you someday, you know."
"Like your job won't?" He turns around with an easy grin. Smoke sweeps away from his mouth with the gentle night breeze. His lips turn down when he sees your downcast look. "Sorry. That's a touchy subject. I didn't mean to bring—"
"Can we just leave?"
He nods, throwing you a sympathetic look. "I take it that insulting her book wasn't a good conversation starter?" He crushes the half smoked cigarette under his heel.
"Not really. We just agreed to disagree." You hop in the passenger seat. Matt gives you a sideways glance at your rigid posture, but otherwise makes no comment. He fishes out his keys and pushes it into the ignition. It's an old car, too shitty for a man who owns his own practice. People aren't too fond of therapy, so you suppose it's about right. Still, you think the guy would splurge on a new car.
"I am sorry. I pushed a lot of this on you, and it didn't work out," he says. "I shouldn't have done that."
You shrug helplessly. "It's fine."
"We don't have to go out for drinks tonight."
"I want to go. We haven't really gotten a chance to hang out anyways. It'll make me feel better."
"You sure? We could always just stay in."
"I'm very sure."
Matt gives you the luxury of silence for the rest of the ride. It's nice to be able to recalibrate in silence after being thrown off by Mary and his comment. Your gaze is cast to the window. Traffic in San Jose is a bitch, for sure. You're at a standstill currently. It's not too far a drive to the bar you're going to. It's a gay bar, of course. The two of you are nothing if not predictable. Queer nightlife has been doing too well not to go, honestly. Call it "supporting the community." You need community right now. The acceptance can make you forget it all at times, and you really need that.
Matt cuts the engine once he's parked. You both get out of the car, and Matt locks the doors.
You look over at him. "You're buying, asshole."
"I expected nothing less."
He makes good on his promise and purchases your first drinks for your sake (and maybe to peacock for the cute bartender). He isn't even looking at you know, too immersed in the bartender pouring shots just behind you. Ironic, considering he's your designated driver and only has some soda.
"And you say I eye-fucked Dr. Kline." You roll your eyes. "Hypocrite."
"A man can't enjoy the view?" He turns his attention back to you. "And I never said I blamed you for appreciating an attractive woman."
"Regardless, can you pretend you're here to have a night out with your friends instead of leaving me stranded while you go get lucky with the hot bartender? I bet he's not even all that hot." You look over your shoulder, disregarding all subtlety to get a better look at this guy. "It's just dark—"
An all-too familiar face stands in the doorway.
Your head whips back. "Oh my god, does she have to pop up the second we say her name? You think you'd be safe here, of all places—Matt, we have to go."
He tilts his head, playful smile dropping. "Why?"
"We're at a gay bar—she can't see us," you urge, palms on the counter, ready to stand.
Matt places his hands over yours. "She's at a gay bar. You don't think that's a little intentional?"
"What if she doesn't know? Didn't she just move here?"
"She grew up here. Besides"—Matt points at a man—"that guy's in leather. Kind of screaming gay, yeah? She knows."
You press your palms to your face.
A warm hand is placed on yours back. "Hey, we can still go."
You inhale deeply. It's just awkward. Nothing you can't handle. Your hands lower and you rest your forearms on the counter. "No, I'm being dramatic. We can still have a good night."
He clears his throat awkwardly, hand falling away. "You sure? The only seat is… next to you. That's the only one free at the bar."
You sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation. Thank you, world. You were praying for this—you so needed this right now. The world is totally not against you. You needed the smell of her perfume to plague your senses, the clash of her shampoo against said perfume, and to see the brown of her surely soft hair next to you. What does she use for that, anyways? If only you could touch it…
Mary looks over at you after ordering her beer. She has no intention to sit down; she's standing with her palms braced against the countertop. Her eyes are so pretty—she's looking at you, and you've been staring. Shit.
"Put her drink on my tab," you blurt, looking at the bartender (he is, in fact, immensely hot, even in better illumination). Matt's wallet can handle another drink, right?
Mary opens her mouth to retort. She turns to the empty space where the bartender used to be, then looks back at you. Her mouth snaps shut, teeth coming to chew the interior of her lip. "You didn't need to do that."
You shrug. "Sure, I did. I was being rude earlier."
"It's not an academic paper. It's just a book. I didn't put in theories I've spent a lifetime proving." They're facts, you know that, but she seems so uncertain.
"Take the free drinks. Exploit me for the evening."
Her lips turn up. "One drink."
"Yeah. One drink." You smile.
While her head ducks, you look over at Matt. He looks between you two questioningly. He isn't leaving you this time—not without you asking—so you're certain he's wondering if he actually should this time. You cast a glance out into the crowd. He nods and slides out of his seat. When you look back to Mary, she quickly dodges your gaze and looks away. Now she's the one staring. Adorable.
The seat is still empty. She leans against the counter still.
"You could sit."
"I don't want to intrude."
"On what? Matt left."
She looks past you. "Oh. He did."
"So… sit. Stay a bit," you encourage.
Her drink is placed in front of her. Her fingers rest on the glass as she weighs the options of staying or leaving. Her hand comes off the glass, resting on the wood. Her fingers drum, really considering her final decision before she can't take it back. Despite all her hesitation, she sits.
Her eyes are glued to her glass. Your eyes are glued to her. There's a question that's been circulating in your mind this whole time, one you can't let go.
"Mary, forgive me, but I… I just need to ask something." You clear your throat. "You seem hopeful. That 'everyone can change' thing looks more like a wish. So… who was it?"
Her fidgeting stills. "What?"
"Who couldn't you fix?"
Her expression falls. She curls in towards her drink, shoulders falling, head down. You may have pushed it too far.
"You don't need to answer that, you know."
"My mother. She was extremely agoraphobic. She got institutionalized."
You nod. Your lips part to say something—condolences, apologies, anything. Nothing comes out. It's Matt's and her field to know how to react to these things, not yours. You don't sympathize with your patients.
"If something made me optimistic, what made you so pessimistic?" You'd have to be deaf to ignore the underlying bite in Mary's words.
"My friend was killed by a man she deemed fit to re-enter society. He was convicted of crimes for smaller than the real extent of them. He played everyone really well." You take a deep breath. "Then he became infatuated with her, started stalking her, and then… took her life."
She looks up, surprised. "Oh."
"And now I'm a cynical little bitch. Life happens." You down the rest of your drink. "And, for the record, Mary, you can't save them all."
Mary's gaze dips away.
"Well, all that aside, why are you here? Did you need a drink that bad?"
She flushes, embarrassed. "Yeah."
Your narrow your eyes playfully. "No, you're not. You're here to hook up with someone, aren't you? Mary, you dirty dog." You nudge her shoulder, relishing in the laugh that follows. "So, what are you looking for?" You turn around, eye scanning the floor. There's not too many women, more gay men. Her preferences won't be assumed, but if she's looking for women, she has some shit luck. And if she's looking for men? She should just leave. You could probably count the bisexual men in this place on one hand.
"I'm not looking for anyone."
"Oh, come on. There's a ton of people here, so one must be your type." You look through the crowd.
She mutters something—considering the noise, it might've just been a normal volume. You could barely hear her over the music before.
You lean in. "Repeat that?" A glance is cast her way. She's so much prettier up close. You're probably too close, in fact, but you'll soak up what you can get.
"I said, there is someone who has caught my eye," she repeats, maintaining the same volume. A brief flash of confusion crosses your face before you compose yourself. Does she want you to stay this close? No. Stop acting like a horny teenager.
"So, who is it?" You expect her to look at them, maybe point them out. Instead she shyly looks away.
"I told you that I didn't intend on going home with anyone tonight."
"That was when you didn't have the best wingman in the world. Now you have me, and I am at your service." You do the best bow you can muster on a stool.
"I don't think she'd be interested in me." She toys with the straw in her drink.
You bite back a grin. She. "Look who's pessimistic now. There's only room for one of us." You lean an arm on the counter, ducking into her line of sight. "You have to try! Maybe it won't work out, so what? Have some fun. Let loose, doctor."
"I'm not interested in trying my luck."
"I will fund the rest of your night if you just try talking to this girl." You place a hand over your heart. You do hope that you won't die on the spot for omitting the fact that really Matt will be funding her endeavors, not you. "I promise."
"I don't think the conversation thing is working. We were arguing the last time we talked."
Your hand falls, as does your face. "So, do you know her already? I'm kind of confused here."
"Never mind—"
"No, it's okay. I won't judge."
She bites the inside of cheek cheek. Her words come out hesitantly. "I've only argued with one person recently."
"I'm glad that you don't count our spat as an argument." You huff out a laugh.
"I count it."
You knit your brows together. "Who argued with you after I left?"
She shrugs, a sheepish smile on her lips. "No one."
You nod slowly, really thinking about whether or not she could be implying anything besides what you think. "I'd say differing views aren't always a deal breaker."
What bullshit are you saying? You're such a hypocrite—and a pushover. Yeah, sell out your values for a pretty woman. You're rolling your eyes internally at yourself.
She bites back a grin. "You think so?"
"I know so."
You notice an uncharacteristic hopefulness in your voice. You're not sure when the last time you bet on something with such certainty before.
Huh. Maybe you can change.
Doesn't hurt to try her method of belief, does it? Maybe she'll make it worth your while.
Your smile softens. "Besides, I think we have more in common than you think."
At the very least, you've changed enough to admit that you will be defiling Matt's backseat tonight.