Callahan Prescot held the metal stylus between his thumb and forefinger, poised above a sleek tablet on his lap. The cursor in the notepad app blinked, waiting for input.
The woman across from him watched, offering nothing but a cold gaze.
âSoââshe looked around, eyeing the modern roomâânew office.â
âNew office,â affirmed Cal, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
White vid-walls, metal and wood furnishings; a single plush white rug beneath her plastic chair and his large minimalist desk.
âNicer than the old place, I guess.â
âYou guess?â Cal scoffed. âI certainly paid enough for it to be.â
âItâs cold.â She toyed with the fray at the edge of her black skirt. âFeels like a tomb.â
Cal fought to keep his face calm, but prickling heat rose anyway. He considered ending the session; decided against it.
âIs my dĂŠcor really what you want to talk about, Mara?â
âWhy not? Thereâs nothing else to say.â
âAre you sure?â Cal pressed. âThereâs nothing to talk about?â
Mara snapped to face him with a glare. âYes, Iâm sure.â The surge of anger dissipated as quickly as it arose.
âTherapy is supposed to be cathartic,â he said. âBut it canât be if you wonât talk to me.â
âYou know,â Mara began, standing from her chair and striding in slow, purposeful steps across the room, âmy mother told me once if I couldnât have an honest conversation with someone, I should reevaluate my relationship with them.â
âSmart woman,â muttered Cal.
âDo you think this is an âhonest conversation,â Dr. Prescot?â Mara crossed her arms, tapping one stiletto-heeled shoe against the thick white rug. âDo you think any of this has been?â
âDo you?â
âNo.â
âWhy is that?â
Mara walked forward until she was only a foot or so away from his desk and glared down at him with anger so hot he imagined she would have set him on fire. âThe release agreement,â she spat, teeth clenched.
He shifted in his seat; craned his neck to look up at her. âWhat about it?â
âThe court-mandated therapy period is up. Sign the release.â
With a sniff, Cal jotted down a note on the tablet; more for something to do than anything of relevance. Mara watched him, taking it all in, giving nothing back. When he didnât answer, she spun and returned to her seat.
âWhy do you want to go?â asked Cal, his foot tapping ever so. âI would have thought youâd enjoy the extended duration.â
âNot that I donât adore these conversations,â said Mara, the last word like a soft curse, âbut it was supposed to be ninety days. Itâs been six months.â
âWell, it wasnât your therapy session, now was it?â Calâs foot began, against his will, to tap faster. Maraâs gaze slid to the crossed leg on his lap. Even behind the desk, he knew she would see the bubbling anger he was trying to hide. He put both feet on the ground; resettled his tablet on the desk. âIt was mine. Government-mandated because of what you didââ
âAnd it was supposed to end, Cal. Three months ago.â
âWell then.â He leaned forward, irritation sluicing through his well-practiced professional voice. âI want to talk about it.â
âNo,â said Mara. âI already told you, no.â
âYou owe me that.â
âI donât owe you anything,â she spat. âYouâve taken everything from me. How much longer are you going to keep me here?â
Cal chewed the inside of his cheek, his foot still tap-tapping against the rug. âAs long as it takes to get answers. To have closure, Mara.â
âRight,â Mara said with a bitter laugh. âYour closure, not mine.â
âYouâre here for my therapy. This is your fault.â
âOf course. Itâs all about you. Always has been, always will be.â
âJust tell me,â Cal insisted, sucking in a deep breath, âwhy you had the abortion.â
Mara flinched at the word; shook her head, gaze hollow.
Cal settled his stylus next to the tablet and laced his fingers in his lap. âWhoâs incapable of having an âhonest conversationâ now?â
âFuck you, Cal. Youâre an asshole.â
âAnd youâre a withholding bitch.â
âNo,â said Mara, leveling her gaze at him. âIâm dead.â
Silence descended. Maraâs fingers twitched the way they did when she was jonesing for a cigarette. Cal considered pulling one out and smoking it just to spite her.
âFine,â she sighed. âNot once the whole time we were together did you ever considerâor even askâwhat I wanted or needed. Why should I expect it to be different now?â
âMaraââ
âSo what is it, hmm? What is it you want to know?â She ran her hands through her hair; wiped the tears from haunted eyes. âWhat sordid details will convince you to sign the release agreement?â
Calâs foot stilled. âI want to know why,â he whispered, âyou got rid of my baby.â
Mara barked out a laugh; eyes narrow with rage. âUnbelievable. That you can still manage to make this about you. Did it ever occur to you that it wasnât actually about you?â
âHow was it not? You were pregnant with my baby. You went andââ
âDid it occur to you,â Mara continued, unabated, âthat I wasnât ready to be a momââ
âI proposed to you!â Cal shouted, jumping to his feet.
âAfter I told you I didnât want to get married!â
âI was willing to be there for you and take care of everything, and you⌠you went and murdered my babyââ
âAnd you murdered me!â screamed Mara, standing and pointing an accusatory finger.
Cal glared at her. âYou knew the consequences when you got an abortion. Youâre the one who broke the law. I didnât âmurderâ you.â
âYouâre the one who turned me in,â seethed Mara. âSame thing.â
They regarded each other, wary, panting. Mara shook; Calâs hands curled into fists.
âI was going to break up with you. You know that?â she asked, voice soft.
âYes. From Bret. Sarah was upset when you told her what youâd done.â
âOh, I bet she was.â Mara swore; closed her eyes. âTell me something, Cal.â
âWhat?â
âDid the condom really break?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThat night. Was it really an âaccident?ââ
Calâs chest was still heaving when he replied, âYes.â
Mara smiled, but there was no joy in it. âCal?â
ââŚWhat?â
âYouâve always been a terrible liar.â
Cal reached into the drawer and pulled out the small canister that held her DNA remnants. It was no larger than his palm and yet contained everything sheâd been in lifeâeven down to the defiance. He stroked a thumb over the smooth metal box. Therapy was supposed to be soothing; at least, that was what theyâd told him. But he didnât feel soothed. He didnât feel anything but anger. When he looked up, Mara was crying, and it enraged him; filled him with indignation. He looked away and pressed the small button on the side of the box.
âCalââ
Maraâs projection faded from view.
Cal twisted the device in his hands and placed it on the desk in front of him. A few weeks more might make her sorry. He forced a grin and prepared to meet with his first patient of the day, then glanced down at the sonogram picture on the desk; wondered if sheâd seen it.
In just a few months, the government-appointed surrogate carrying his and Maraâs baby would give birth. He was glad heâd opted to get Maraâs eggs frozen before her destruction; at least some good could come of the life-giving gift sheâd chosen to squander.
He grabbed his tablet and stylus and settled into his seat.
Maybe after the baby was born, he could forgive her for what sheâd done. Maybe holding their child would finally soothe him, and he could release her once and for all.
Maybe.