Chapter 17

Therapy was not something Matthew looked forward to. He had never enjoyed it; the sessions that prodded and poked relentlessly at his soul, forcing him to acknowledge things he'd rather not, forcing him to speak on issues he'd kept buried for years.

Yes, he never enjoyed the therapy. But he had to admit, very grudgingly, that it worked. Therapy was the only reason that someone with deep emotional scars, like him, was able to function in the normal world. He needed therapy, now more than ever.

The therapy sessions were held in the study of the private residence of Simon Bevan, a Professor of Psychology. The study was large and filled with numerous bookshelves holding many books. There was a desk of black wood at one side of the room. There was a small round table placed near the largest window with two cushioned chairs on opposite sides.

That was where Matthew and the Professor usually sat whenever it was time to untangle the knotted mess that was his mind. The sessions would typically hold on a Saturday after the week had come to an end and things were winding down. So, it felt very strange for Matthew to be here on a Monday.

The professor welcomed him all the same. Walter had, of course, informed him about the reason Matthew was unavailable and Matthew was certain it would form the basis of their discussion today.

He had been able to dodge explaining to his mother and his father and Miranda, as well, though she was the one he gave something close to an explanation.

But he would not be able to do the same here. He would have to relive the entire experience, for good or for bad. Mostly for bad, as the mere recalling of the incident caused him to quake and tremble.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the large study as the professor reentered the room. He brought with him two steaming cups of Jasmine tea. The scent calmed him and lowered his heart rate to manageable. The professor was a small and portly man. It was easy to judge him as a person who spent a lot of time gardening and smoking a pipe.

Which he did but he also played the electric guitar with a skill that would rival any rock band in the world.

"You've had better days," the Professor said, taking a seat and sipping the steaming liquid. "You've lost quite a lot of weight since the last time I saw you. Which, I must point out, has not been long."

Matthew brushed non-existent lint off his black linen trousers. "A lot of things have changed since the last time we saw. Which, as you said, has not been long."

The professor nodded. He dropped the cup and stapled his hands under his chin. "How is the woman? Miranda Dunne."

Matthew frowned a little, not expecting that. "She's…fine. She's alright."

"That's good," the professor said, smiling slightly. "The last time we spoke. You said she was recovering from an attack.

"Yes, she is better now," Matthew said, reluctantly. This was the second thing he did not want to discuss. Miranda or the strange feeling that crept up his throat whenever he thought of her. Which was always.

"I'm guessing you'll want to discuss the incident and what led up to it," Matthew said, trying to divert the Professor's attention.

The professor, however, was not taking the bait. "I want us to discuss Miranda."

Matthew clenched his teeth, his jaw tight. "Why?"

The professor sipped the tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. "I think she is a major factor in your progress."

Matthew looked away. "I'm not interested in discussing her."

The scene of his hospital visit flashed in his mind and he cursed. He had touched her then. Had caressed her. and as he remembered the scene and its implications, his heart skipped.

It was progress, yes. And discussing it with the person in front of him was the only way he could get better; he knew that. Exhaling forcefully, Matthew crossed his arms and tried to pick the best words to express his thoughts. He was silent for a few minutes. Then, he dropped a bombshell on the old man.

"I… I think that I am in love with her. Miranda, that is." All that thinking and that was the only thing he could think of saying. And it was quite a shock. The professor jolted, kicking the table and shaking the teacups.

He gazed at Matthew for a while before realizing he was being unprofessional. He rearranged his features hastily and regarded Matthew carefully.

"That is…quite the powerful statement. May I ask what led you to this conclusion?"

Matthew ran his hand through his hair. That was what he was trying to ask himself. "I'm not exactly sure. I just… I find myself looking forward to her arrival. I want to talk to her, although I barely speak in her presence. I want to protect her, provide for her, eliminate any problems she has." He blew out a breath and gripped the arms of the chair.

"I want to touch her."

Silence followed his proclamation and Matthew was not surprised. This was the most he had ever said in one go, ever since this therapy began over a decade ago.

The professor coughed. "Have you spoken to her about your past? Or about your feelings?"

"Of course not," Matthew said, glaring at the therapist for even suggesting such a thing. "Why would I ever do something of the sort?"

Simon raised his hands, suing for peace. "I am just trying to find out what she knows and what she does not. When exactly did you realize that you felt this way towards her?"

"In the hospital. I touched her and I was fine with it." He looked down at his palms as if they were strange. "My hand didn't burn. I've… found myself wanting to touch her more and more lately. It was at the hospital that I put two and two together."

Simon nodded. "Anything else?

"Do you need any more than that?"

Instead of answering Matthew's question, Simon asked another. "Do you want to tell her about your past?"

Matthew exhaled. "Yes, eventually. I do want to tell her about everything."

"Is that so?" the Professor said, leaning back and looking pensive. "Do you want to invite her here? For a session of therapy."

"What?"

***

Matthew pulled the car into his preferred spot in his garage and switched off the engine but did not exit the car. He tapped a finger against the steering wheel, thinking deeply.

Invite Miranda for a session of therapy?

His first thought of the idea was one of horror. What would unfold in the session, he pondered. It would take her all of five minutes to figure out the horrible things that went on in his perverse mind. And then what?

She would run, never looking back and he would lose the only person he loved, apart from his parents.

On the other hand, he wanted to come clean. It was a desire he could not explain. He wanted to tell her everything. Maybe it was a stupid thing to hope for, but he wanted her to accept him the way he was. He wanted her to understand him.

He banged his head against the wheel and closed his eyes. He was a mess. Breathing deeply, he finally exited the car and entered the house. As he undressed and thought about the work he still had to tackle before the day ended, he gazed at the small house out of the corner of his eye.

It was getting late but there was no sign of her in the house. The windows were all shut, and no lights were on. After the unfortunate incident with the woman that forced Miranda to go home on her own, he had commanded Walter to find a driver that would drive her home whenever she could not go with him.

He picked up his phone, about to call her but the gate opened, and he saw her walk into the compound.

She walked briskly, head bowed, clutching her handbag. She looks worried, Matthew said to himself. She had been at the company for over two weeks. Was it getting too tough for her to handle? Was she getting stressed?

He watched as she walked past the main house and disappeared. He walked across his room, his pace mirroring hers and he watched as she reappeared at the back of the house, walking down the stone path that led to hers.

She opened the door and entered the house, closing the door behind her. He stared at the small house. How would he ask her?

"Hey, Miranda. Want to join me in a therapy session? Yeah, I have some serious mental illnesses. You want to come see the doctor dissect my warped mind?"

Or… "Have you ever attended therapy? No? Well, would you like to join me in my therapy session? You may need to sign a non-disclosure agreement first."

He slapped his forehead and walked away from the window. He had no idea how he would ask her, but he wanted her to come. Deciding that it would be better for him to tackle the issue now before it ate away at him, he walked out of his room and out of the house.

He trod slowly on the stone path, tossing the words he planned to say around in his head. He stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and raised his hand to knock. Miranda's voice sounded from behind the door, and he paused, hand suspended in the air.

"I don't know how to get the money. How much do you want?"

Matthew froze. That was Miranda's voice. That was a certainty. What was she talking about? And why did she sound so desperate?

"That's a lot of money. I don't have that kind of money anywhere. I really don't."

A pause. Then… "No, I cannot ask him for the money. I can't."

Matthew did not have to ask who the "him" was. Did she want money? He lowered his hand and dropped it to his side. There was some explanation for this. There had to be. He listened carefully, hopeful that it would all make sense.

"I'll get it to you somehow. I have some things I can pawn. I'll pawn them and get back to you. I'm sorry that's the best I can do. If I get more money, I'll send it to you."

"I-I know. I'll get the money."

Silence. No conversation could be heard; the only sounds coming through the door shuffling and hurried footsteps.

He waited and the sounds came again. Louder this time around. The door opened and Miranda stood there, hands full of shopping bags. She took one look at him and reeled back, shock and then guilt clear on her face.

Out of nowhere, a bitter feeling grew like a cancer and covered the entirety of his soul. As he looked at her, he no longer saw her beautiful, freckled face. The only thing he saw was a vulture, circling and searching for his wealth. Like all the women before her.

"Where are you going with all of that, Miranda?" Matthew said, his voice low and controlled, much unlike his emotions.

She averted her eyes and bit her lip. "I-I was… I was…"

"You need time to think?" He asked sardonically. "Think. Take your time. Find the perfect lie."'

Eyes pleading, she took a step towards him. "N-no. Mr. Devin. I can explain."

"Explain then. Explain all of this!" he shouted. She reeled back, clutching her chest. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the words seemed stuck in her throat.

"Don't take me for a fool. I heard your phone call. You need money. My money. What else do you need to explain? I heard it all!"

Matthew panted, his emotions running wild. "You lied to me. You lied to me."

"No, Mr. Devin. I…"

"Pack your things and leave my house."