Chapter 123 Seeking Clarity
Alex：POV
I pulled into the parking lot of Evergreen Psychological Center, a sleek building with floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more per square foot than my entire apartment.
My hands were clammy against the steering wheel as I stared at the entrance, wondering if I could just drive away and pretend I hadn't made the appointment this morning.
"Fuck it," I muttered, grabbing my phone and wallet. "You've designed skyscrapers and faced down corrupt developers. You can handle one therapy session."
The waiting room was surprisingly busy for a weekday afternoon. A mix of people—some in business attire like me, others in casual clothes—sat scrolling through phones or flipping through magazines. I approached the receptionist, a woman with kind eyes and a practiced smile.
"Alex Hamilton. I have a four-thirty appointment with Dr. Thomas."
She nodded, handing me a clipboard with forms. "First time with us? Please fill these out and return them when you're done."
As I sat completing the paperwork, I glanced around. A guy about my age in an expensive suit was bouncing his knee nervously. A woman with red-rimmed eyes clutched tissues. A college kid with bright blue hair stared vacantly at the wall. I guess mental health issues were pretty universal these days.
It made sense, really. The pressure to succeed, social media showing everyone's highlight reels, the constant connectivity without genuine connection—we were all walking around with our own personal demons.
Mine just happened to involve recurring sex dreams about my male best friend.
"Mr. Hamilton?" A woman in a navy pantsuit appeared in the doorway. "I'm Dr. Thomas. Please come in."
I followed her down a hallway into a comfortable office with two leather chairs, a small sofa, and tasteful abstract art on the walls. No couch to lie on—Hollywood had lied to me again.
As soon as she closed the door, I blurted out, "How confidential is this? Like, seriously confidential or just 'we try our best' confidential?"
Dr. Thomas's expression didn't change. "Everything discussed in this room is completely confidential unless you express intent to harm yourself or others, or disclose abuse of a child or vulnerable adult. Not even a court order can compel me to release your information without your consent." She gestured to a chair. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
I sat down stiffly, my portfolio case clutched like a shield across my chest.
"So, what brings you here today, Alex?"
I stared at the geometric pattern in the carpet, my mouth suddenly dry. "I've been having these... dreams. About a friend of mine."
"Dreams can often reflect our subconscious thoughts and feelings," she offered. "What kind of dreams are these?"
I shifted uncomfortably. "Sexual ones. With a guy. My best friend, actually." My face felt like it was on fire. "But I'm straight. I've always been straight."
Dr. Thomas nodded without judgment. "Have you and this friend ever been intimate in real life?"
I winced, stumbling over my words. "Once. But I was... I wasn't thinking clearly. We were in the desert, there was alcohol involved, and I just... it was a mistake."
"What's your relationship with this friend now?"
"We're not speaking," I admitted, the words tasting bitter. "I left early the next morning. Couldn't face him. Then when he came to my apartment to talk, I basically told him I wasn't interested in men and wanted to forget it ever happened." I ran a hand through my hair. "He said we're done. No more friendship, nothing."
Dr. Thomas made a note on her pad. "That sounds like a difficult situation. How long have you known this friend?"
"Since college. Over seven years."
"And in those seven years, did you ever feel attracted to him before this incident?"
I started to say no automatically, then stopped. Had there been moments? Times when I'd noticed how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, or how confident he looked in the kitchen? I'd always chalked it up to admiration, not attraction.
"I don't know," I finally said. "Maybe? But not consciously."
Dr. Thomas nodded. "Human sexuality is complex and exists on a spectrum. Many people experience attraction that doesn't fit neatly into the labels they've assigned themselves."
"So what, I'm suddenly gay now? After twenty-eight years of being straight?"
"Labels like 'gay,' 'straight,' or 'bisexual' are just that—labels. They help us communicate, but they don't cover everything we experience." She leaned forward slightly. "The real question isn't what to call yourself, but how you feel and what you want to do about it."
I slumped in my chair. "I don't know what I'm feeling. Confused. Angry. Scared." I hesitated. "I keep having these dreams where I'm... enjoying being with him. But when I wake up, I feel ashamed and disgusted with myself."
"The shame you're experiencing—where do you think that comes from?"
I thought about my dad, a traditional man who made uncomfortable jokes whenever gay characters appeared on TV.
About the locker room talk in high school, where "gay" was the worst insult you could throw at someone. About my own identity as a "regular guy" who dated women and fit neatly into society's expectations.
"Everywhere," I said finally. "My whole life I've been taught that men should be with women. That anything else is... wrong."
Dr. Thomas was quiet for a moment. "Those messages can be powerful, especially when we receive them from an early age. But they're not universal truths." She set her notepad aside. "Alex, if your best friend came to you and said he was experiencing attraction to another man, would you think less of him?"
"Of course not," I answered immediately.
"If a client wanted to hire you to design their dream home, and mentioned they lived with their same-sex partner, would you refuse the job?"
"No. That would be ridiculous."
"So why are you holding yourself to a different standard than you hold others?"
Her question hit me like a punch to the gut. I didn't have an answer.
"I'm not saying you're gay or bisexual," Dr. Thomas continued gently. "Only you can determine your identity. But I am suggesting that the shame and disgust you're feeling might have more to do with societal conditioning than your authentic self."
I stared out the window, watching a bird land on a nearby tree branch. "So what do I do now? I've already pushed him away. Told him I wasn't interested."
"That depends on what you want. If you're interested in exploring these feelings further—either with this friend or just within yourself—that's one path. If you want to process the experience and move forward separately from this friend, that's another."
"I don't know what I want," I admitted. "I just know I miss him. As a friend, at least. And I feel terrible about how I treated him."
Dr. Thomas nodded. "That's a start. Missing someone you care about is natural, regardless of sexual orientation." She paused thoughtfully. "You might want to try a few things to sort out your feelings. Maybe date women again, see if that still feels right. Or just pay attention to how you react to other men naturally. These experiences could help you figure out what you're really feeling."
I nodded slowly, considering her words.
"Remember," she continued, "this isn't about slapping a label on yourself. It's about understanding yourself better. Some people find their attraction changes depending on the specific person, not just their gender."
"I never thought about it that way," I said quietly.
Dr. Thomas glanced at the clock. "Our time's almost up, but I'd like to suggest something before our next session."
"What's that?"
"Try to notice your thoughts without judging them right away. When you feel shame or disgust, ask yourself: 'Is this really what I believe, or just what I was taught to believe?'"
I nodded again. It sounded simple enough, though I suspected it would be harder in practice.
"And Alex," she added as I stood to leave, "whatever you discover about yourself, it doesn't invalidate who you've been all these years. Adding new dimensions to your identity doesn't erase the existing ones."
As I walked back to my car, her words echoed in my mind. Maybe I could try it tonight. With that thought, I drove to a bar where the owner wasn't Victoria.