Page 21 of The KING Review

“Do you know how these sessions will work?” Grant asks. He sits back in his chair, hooking one ankle over the opposite knee. I try to resist crossing my legs, because frankly, how dare he? He rests his hand on his thigh, the other one swiping the clipboard from the desk.

“I’m the therapist, and you’re the patient,” I say. “You have a scripted set of responses, to which I’m reacting on the fly, and my ‘treatment’ is being graded.”

“That’s right,” he says, tapping his knuckles on the clipboard. “But not by me. Our sessions will be recorded—audio, not video—and you’ll be graded by a third party. It’ll be someone who hasn’t posed as the patient for any students in these sessions.”

“I understand,” I say quickly, trying to hide my disappointment that the sessions are recorded. Something flashes in Grant’s eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I wonder if he specified that it’s audio only for a reason.

“Are you ready to begin?” Grant asks, voice gone a little rough.

“Yes, Doctor King,” I demur.

His throat works with a swallow, and I track the movement, mouth quirking. Yeah, I called him that on purpose. I think he knows it.

He leans over to his laptop, tapping a couple of buttons. “The recording has now started.”

I clear my throat, trying to put myself in the headspace of the amiable therapist. I settle back in my chair, then lift my gaze to Grant, who is all but hiding behind his clipboard now.

“Thanks for coming in today, Doctor King,” I say, putting on my best professional façade. It feels almost silly, but I know this is what I’m supposed to be doing—even if right now, it’s like playing pretend. “How have you been this past week? Give me a score from one to ten, and let me know if anything in particular has been bothering you. We can go from there, and remember these sessions are always flexible.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my rambling, worrying that my ‘intro pitch’ might be a little too much.

“Thank you, Doctor Hart,” Grant says evenly. I try to hide my response to being addressed as if I’m my sister. I don’t know if I’ll end up getting my doctorate—I know my parents don’t think I’m capable of it—but I might. Maybe it would be nice to be Doctor Hart as well. I know Fia would encourage and support me. So would Cade.

I wonder if Grant would.

I shake my head, trying to refocus.

“This week has been a six,” Grant goes on. “I’ve been doing… okay, but not great.”

“That’s all right,” I say, offering a small smile. “Every week can’t be a ten. Sometimes you have to have the sixes, the threes, even the ones—or how would you know the tens?”

Grant stays quiet, but I watch his beard twitch, as if he’s resisting a smile. I try not to let myself believe I’ve impressed him.

“Is there anything in particular that you’ve been struggling with, or anything you’d like to discuss this week?” I ask carefully, glancing down at my notes about not guiding questions or trying to direct the session too much.

Grant does the same, looking at his script. His green eyes flick back up to me, going dark for a moment.

“My partner and I haven’t been sexually intimate in a while,” he says. “It’s starting to… wear. On both of us.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I’m honestly a little surprised at how much he’s throwing himself into the act. He glances again at his notes. “He’s not initiating, and neither am I, but it feels as if we’re both stuck.”

I nod thoughtfully. “And have you discussed this with your partner?”

He rolls his lips in. “No.”

“Is there a reason why?” I ask.

Grant sighs. “He’s not been receptive to that kind of discussion in the past.”

I open my mouth, intending to ask if his imaginary partner has become combative or aggressive, but stop myself. I’m not supposed to make assumptions.

“Is there anything in particular that concerns you about his lack of interest in sexual intimacy with you, or in his lack of receptivity to discussions on the topic?” I ask carefully.

Grant pops a brow, but he shutters the expression quickly.

He was definitely impressed then—he couldn’t hide it.

He scrubs a hand over his beard, then shakes his head, like he’s contemplating his answer, even though I know he has it written down in front of him.

“I’m worried about him being aggressive when I bring it up,” he admits, though it isn’t really an admission. “I’m safe—he’d never hurt me⁠—”