Intimacy Issues

"Well, I know what you've written on the intake paperwork, but I always ask people to say it to start off - what brings you to therapy?"

His office isn't like the last therapist's office I was in. Andrew Laidlaw's tastes run to plaid and wood grain, with a framed print of autumn leaves behind his head on the wall. A framed diploma and a business license hang on the wall near the door.

"I need to talk to someone."

Andrew has a pleasant face, rounded and a bit plump; his smile looks more or less permanent, as if he'd been doing it since 1975 and can't help it. I guess that's part of the job, being easy to like. I should take lessons.

"All right. I can assure you that what you say in this room will be kept completely confidential, unless you give me a reason to suspect you are about to hurt someone, or if you have in the past abused a minor physically or sexually. In some cases I report emotional abuse of children as well. You might also keep in mind that if you talk to me about harming or taking advantage of a senior citizen or a disabled adult who is dependent on you, that would also be something I am required to report by law. Anything else you talk about stays between us."

I don't remember Meridian, that therapist I did away with years ago, ever telling me any of this. "So. . . anything I say? Unless you think someone's being hurt. Or has been hurt."

"Not exactly. If you have abused someone who cannot defend themselves, someone dependent on others for their well being, like a child or a person with Alzheimer's, the law requires me to call appropriate authorities or risk losing my license. If you have committed a crime in the past, say assault or theft, I can't report that, even if you've never been caught. It would be unethical."

He's still smiling. Maybe he's used to having questions about this, so maybe I can get away with pushing a bit out of nervous surprise. "Sorry," I blurt, laughing a little, mimicking anxiety - though at this point I'm more than incredulous at hearing what I think might be an opportunity I had no idea existed. "It's just not - I've never been in therapy before, and no one tells you - really? So if you had a serial killer in here, you'd only call the cops if they talked about their next victim?"

"Well, I don't know about that," Andrew said, hands folded on his desk. That smile didn't move. "A real serial killer would have proved he's dangerous, right? But it would have to be a threat to a specific identifiable person or people to be reportable."

"Seriously," I said, losing some of the nervous silliness. "So, hypothetically, if I told you all about the many crimes of my sinful youth, regardless of severity, I'd be safe?"

"I haven't lost a secret yet." Andrew leans back in his desk chair; a spring creaks. "Does that make it easier to tell me why you're here?"

Not satisfied yet, I ask, "Have you ever had a murderer in here?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry - I just have a difficult time believing you wouldn't report that."

Andrew shrugs. "There are probably mental health professionals who might do it, but I'm not among them. I'm more the sort of therapist who wouldn't testify on the stand if they sent me a subpoena. Or I'd appear, but limit what I say. And though it's certainly possible my notes might be included in a subpoena, I don't put everything in the notes. Those focus on the presenting problem and your progress toward your treatment goal, not the details of what you say in session."

"Do you routinely treat psychopaths?"

"These days they call that antisocial personality disorder, and no, I don't. But not all homicidal or cruel behavior is driven by a personality disorder. You seem worried about this."

"Curious, actually. Anyone else would be alarmed or frightened by having a murderer in the room. It's a bit shocking."

"Murderers aren't much different than the rest of us. I wonder at times if people react out of horror because something in them recognizes part of themselves they keep buried and forgotten."

I like this guy. He doesn't take things at face value.

I decide this might work after all.

----------------------------

"Last week, you said you were having difficulty sleeping. So how have you slept since our first session?"

"About the same. A couple hours or so, when I finally stop tossing and sighing."

Andrew has a new chair. This one's black fabric and doesn't squeak when he tilts it back. The smile is still here, though, and I wonder what it will take to twist that upside down.

I bet I have something that could do it.

"And your doctor must have had some reason to suggest this instead of handing you a prescription?"

Last session was a long gentle exploration of my doubts and fears about being in therapy at all, featuring my disbelief that confidential meant confidential even if it included dead people and a murder weapon. This one sounds like it's shaping up to be more like what I expected.

"He said he thought it was anxiety and I should try this first."

Andrew's smile actually changes - it gets bigger, and some of his teeth show. "What other symptoms are you having?"

"I feel lightheaded some of the time, and sometimes I get this. . . my stomach feels like I'm carrying around a lump in there. I think about my brother a lot." I pause, on the verge of revealing more than I want to, and certainly more than I gave the doctor. But he did say this was confidential. He did say I wouldn't be reported if I were to reveal more detail than I wanted to and Andrew figures out I killed my brother. Part of me rages against the chance I'm taking. Harry's voice still echoes down through the years.

"I was there when he died six years ago. I didn't know he existed, and then we met - he looked for me and got to know me before he revealed who he was. And then he died."

"I take it one or both of you were adopted?"

"I was. He was put into an institution."

Andrew's smile falters, just a tiny bit. I've let him know what sort of ride he's in for. Finally. But, rather than keep asking questions, digging into what I'm sure he's wondering about, he shifts direction. "Do you have any other siblings?"

"My adopted sister."

"She's still alive?"

Unexpectedly, my throat seizes. "No," I finally manage. "She died in the line of duty. We both work for the police department."

"Parents?"

"No. My father died of cancer. Mom's gone too."

"What about other relationships? Girlfriend, wife, ex-wife?"

I tell him about Rita, her kids, and before I'm done it's about how she gave up on me after enduring my peculiarities for so long. Of course, he wants to know specifics about that. And about other relationships, which took no time at all as they didn't exist, other than that ill-fated fling after Rita left, and Lila, who I decide not to mention for several reasons. After some back and forth, he comes to a conclusion that startles me.

"You don't feel connected to anyone," he says, with a hint of questioning.

"Uh," I reply with all the wit and intelligence I can muster at that point.

"Well. You felt a connection with your sister. Your brother, and your father. I think you might have had one with Rita at some point, otherwise how would you sustain it for so long, but I think you were more interested in her children. You gave me more details about them than about her. I think it's safe to say you tend to be a loner. You don't sleep well - how has your appetite been?"

Now that I think about it. . . . "Not what it's been in the past."

"Has there been anything, hobbies, pastimes, that you no longer enjoy?"

He's reading off a checklist or something - I've seen them before. How to know when you're depressed. Masuka rattled off a bunch of these symptoms when Angel was going through his divorce, reading from some old issue of Oprah magazine in the break room.

But Andrew's right. It comes home to me like a punch to the gut.

It's been eighteen months since my last kill. It wasn't a good one. Nor was the one before it. Of course I'm depressed. I just don't want to think about myself that way.

"Yes," I tell him, expecting the questions about hobbies to begin. I only have one that I ever really enjoyed. I can feel my back muscles locking up even as I try to sort out answers that might be convincing without revealing too much.

Andrew leans back slightly in his new chair, glances at the alarm clock on the corner of his desk, and turns up his serene smile again. "Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"

"Suicide? No." The two words popped out like bullets. I wasn't expecting that one. Not yet, anyway.

"When was the last time you had sex?"

"God." Another one out of left field. "Is this something they teach you to do?"

"Ask questions? No, they generally expect you to have that skill already." Andrew smirks, but thankfully it fades again. "Have you had any sexual partners since Rita left?"

"One. It wasn't anything serious."

"You said her leaving was almost a relief for you. What was it that made you relieved?"

The immense pressure to be normal. To move in with her and be a stepdad. To playact twenty four hours of the day, which at the time felt like a death sentence.

"She was pushing me to move the relationship faster than I wanted," I say, with the practiced ability to provide a truthful-enough but evasive answer.

"You said you were with her for a few years. How slowly were you wanting to go?"

"I couldn't give her - I didn't feel I could give her what she expected. I mean, she really wanted someone who was more of a. . . cuddler. I really tried, because I liked Rita, but - "

"You liked Rita," he repeats, and it's hard to feel really alarmed by it. He's gentler than most of the women I've met. "I see."

"I guess I want to really be confident that I'm doing the right thing, before I commit."

"Of course. We all want the safety of the sure thing."

This is harder than I expected. Things I already know are resonating louder and clearer than before. How does he do that?

"Have you ever felt happiness?"

I can't think anymore. There have been times, I'm sure, usually when I've got someone on a table under plastic wrap. There have to be other times. "When I took Rita and the kids to the fair," I say at last, after frantic moments of searching. "Or Disneyworld. They were so amped about that." I even manage a smile.

"Pleasant memories." He matches my tone. The smile goes on and on. He's as taupe and neutral as the paint on the walls, and at that point I realize - that's how he does it. The therapist is a mirror, only better than that. A mirror with insight.

Do I smile all the time like that? Like I'm hiding something? Is that part of the mirror image?

"I guess I wasn't that happy."

"Is that surprising?"

"Not really. I. . . think I knew I was just trying to, you know, put on the appearance."

He nods, just a little, and I think his shoulders sink slightly. Relaxing a bit? "You indicated on the intake sheet you hadn't had mental health treatment before. I'm curious what make you wait so long, if you're not happy and you've had difficulties with relationships."

I don't remember saying I had difficulty with relationships. Just Rita. "I didn't have difficulty with family relationships, just with girlfriends."

"You didn't talk at all about your father or mother, who adopted you. No happy memories there?"

"Oh," I blurt, "I didn't realize you meant that far back. My parents are dead now. Of course, there were hunting and fishing trips with Dad, and Christmases, and I used to try to help Deb with her homework. . . ."

"You like to hunt. We have that in common." Andrew glances at the wall with the curtained window, which is always covered with slanted blinds, and for the first time I notice there's a rack of horns over it. Pronghorn, I think.

"We always went after deer. I had a twenty-two. I learned archery later on when I got older."

"What was your father like?"

"He taught me everything - the rules and how to follow them, how to date, what it means to be a man. Responsibility. He was a good cop. He loved Mom, my sister and me."

"I see."

It's an odd feeling - I keep tipping back and forth between not trusting this and feeling safe. He's not prying, but he is. He's not intrusive, but he is. I don't believe he cares but there's something I can't put a finger on that tells me he accepts. Dad always told me that being accepted was something I had to really work for, yet this didn't feel the same.

"I should tell you - there was one other therapist. I saw him a few times. It really didn't get anywhere and - sorry. Actually, I stopped going because he did this relaxation exercise that brought up all kinds of memories I didn't know I had, and it really shook me up."

"How many sessions did that take?"

"I think it was the first one - I didn't go back after the second." Technically true. I wonder if I told Andrew who it was, would he remember the therapist who disappeared mysteriously? It wasn't so long ago.

"That's unfortunate. Also irresponsible of the therapist - he didn't allow you enough time to build a relationship with him, which would have helped you feel comfortable enough with him to experience the pain in a safe environment. I hope that if at any point you start to feel threatened or that we're going too fast, you'll tell me so we can talk about it."

"It's uncomfortable, you know? Talking like this." About feelings I didn't have. But really, I hadn't done that yet.

"It always is, at first." Andrew glances again at the red numbers on the clock on his desk. "We're out of time. Next Tuesday at three all right?"

---------------------------

Midway through the fourth session, I hit the first real wall. The third session was devoted to discussion that I didn't think went anywhere; I told him so at the end of the hour, and he said that it wasn't unusual to feel that way. 'Everything is grist for the mill,' he said. Which led us to five minutes of discussing the metaphor of the mill, and how life in general can seem that way, and frequently people end up in therapy when they need an anchor to help them get out from under the millstone. The pressure, the burdens, become more than the friends and family can help with, and it's easier for an impartial person to carry it with you.

Then came the fourth session, which I foolishly began with Brian. I'd had a dream about him. Not the first one, just the only one I'd talked about with Andrew.

"He was sitting on the deck of my boat. Dad was behind me telling me to walk away, get in the car, and Brian was laughing, sort of kicked back and drinking a beer, like we were hanging out and everything was cool."

"Was Dad angry?"

"Alarmed. Worried. I think he usually was, when I did something without thinking about consequences."

"Tell me about Brian. What he was like."

Andrew's smile doesn't falter, but I can see that he's taking this more seriously now. I've said something that's going to lead me down the path I knew this would eventually take. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.

"I - can't really say much. I thought he was okay, had a sense of humor. I only knew him for a few weeks. . . ."

"But he was the sort of person you could sit and have a beer with."

"Yes. I think. . . I don't really know, but I did believe he would be someone I could really be me with. If you know what I mean."

Andrew's smile wilts at last. "I think so. Why don't we try something? Turn your chair to the left a bit, shift the chair next to you so you're facing each other. . . good."

The butterflies were back. What was this about? Was I going to put my feet up and pretend to be on an analyst's couch like in the movies? I stared at the other easy chair; like most other things in the office it was green, but a nice dark shade - forest, I think it's called.

"I'd like you to visualize your brother sitting in the chair. If he were sitting there, what would you want to tell him?"

"Uh." I could do that, all right - I just had to think about him, and there he was, the gleam in his eye matching the smile that said he knew me better than anyone, and we were the same. My brother, raised by an institution and untrained by Harry in how to protect himself. If he'd had Harry's rules, would he have made it?

<i>"I didn't make it because you stopped me, Dexter. I had them running around in circles. It was you, Dexter."</i>

I stare at the chair where the ghost of my brother holds up a Heineken and toasts the righteous brother who stopped him. Andrew doesn't realize, of course, that this exercise is working better than he thinks.

"It doesn't have to make sense to me. Pretend I'm not here."

"I don't think I can do this."

"Nothing to say? Or just nervous?"

"I don't know if - this is sort of personal." He doesn't even have to say it - I chuckle right away at how it sounded. "I know, that's what it's about - things that are too personal to talk about elsewhere."

Andrew just waits. So I try it.

"I just wanted you to know - I don't know what I wanted him to know," I blurt, turning to Andrew. I know what I want to say, I just don't want Andrew to listen. <i>Why did it have to be Deb?</i> If I could have taught him the rules and if he'd followed them --

"Tell me about him."

"I was just doing that."

"Did you drink beer with him?"

"There was the time we took our girlfriends. . . my biological father left me his house. I'd never met him before, just got this notice that he died and I needed to make arrangements. Anyway, he went, and my sister and Rita came too, to clean out the house to get it ready for sale."

"You said your girlfriends, and then you said your girlfriend and sister?"

"Well. . . when I met Brian the first time he was dating my sister."

For the first time, Andrew's smile is completely gone. He's still pleasant but not smiling. I wonder if that means something. "Before you knew he was your brother? That's some coincidence."

"Actually, he sort of tracked me down. He didn't reveal our relationship right away."

"So. . . he knew about you, even though you didn't know about him, and went to all the effort to find you, only to date your adopted sister instead of confronting you up front? I'm confused."

"Brian was a complicated guy."

"Who was put in an institution?"

I couldn't help a little smile at that. Andrew has a sharp memory. "That's part of the complication."

"And the rest of the complication?"

I glance at the clock on the desk. Halfway to the end of the session and I have no idea what to say. I realize that this won't be helpful unless I tell the truth, and that he's reassured me it wouldn't get out, he won't do anything, and yet, Harry's warnings endure. Even if Andrew never wrote it down, it would live on in his head.

"Did your sister put him in the institution?" The smile comes back briefly, and I chuckle at it.

"No. He grew up there." I try to continue, and there I am, standing at a solid wall of resistance and frustration.

After a while - Andrew proving once again that he is comfortable with silence - he asks, "You've never really talked about this with anyone."

"Brian was the ice truck killer."

"Oh." Surprising, that Andrew's expression doesn't change; he's not smiling but he's not shocked. "I think I remember that case."

"Everyone does. It was in the news for weeks."

He waits again, and forces my hand. He's really good at silence.

"I don't know if I can do this," I say.

"That's what they all say. Most of them do it anyway."

I'm feeling too exposed now, and he's watching me with a ghost of the pleasant plastic smile, and I think this must be the most dangerous thing I've ever done - I never felt this way even when Doakes was tailing me; there were things I could control, like my behavior. I wonder if Andrew is able to see more in me than he's revealing.

"Would you like to stop?" he asks at length.

"Um," I blurt, glancing at the clock. That would mean twenty minutes I'm paying for that I won't be getting anything -- and now I'm wondering if the minutes I do stay are getting anywhere.

"It's your choice, of course," Andrew says, glancing down as he rubs his cuff between forefinger and thumb. Before he goes on his eyes return to me. "But people rarely find that therapy helps at all if they quit early. Especially when we're not trying to unravel something straightforward, like quitting smoking; hypnosis helps some people with that. The difficulties you're having aren't like that."

"I. . . thought you meant the session. Actually."

The smile comes back, finally. "Okay, but the question is still valid - do you want to stop?"

"Yes. No."

"I see." Andrew sits for a moment with his hands on the desk in front of him, fingers interlaced, pondering while his eyes focus on the air between us. "When did you find out he was the ice truck killer?"

"Um. . . when he tried to kill my sister."

"So the dream you had fits. A protective figure in your life tries to warn you repeatedly and you are sitting with a killer in a social situation. That seems to indicate you feel guilty that you didn't know who he really was sooner than you did."

He's right, of course. The trouble is he's right for the wrong reason. If I had known sooner I could have kept Brian from forcing me to make the choice between my sister and my brother.

No. Rationally, I know better. Brian was a monster, like the rest of them. I may not be following Harry's code to the letter any more, I may have moved on to making it Dexter's code, but I'm not stupid enough to pick people who will be missed. Monsters are still the victim of choice. And Brian wasn't a trainable monster, or certainly didn't seem to be.

Not that I'll ever know, really. But I still miss him.

----------------------

Andrew's a really good therapist.

That's my conclusion, anyway, after seven sessions of my dodging, hedging, and vague answers. He's slogged along, making suggestions that sometimes sound more like statements, and now I am starting to think about killing him.

It's an old habit, I know. I must be making progress if I'm starting to feel that defensive.

"I can't help but wonder what you're not saying," Andrew says in the middle of session eight, after I've been dodgier than usual.

"I had a dream two days ago. I dreamed I killed you."

And there we are, silently staring at each other, and a cat the size of a grizzly has just been let out of the bag. I know why I did it - if I don't dig in, totally commit, this will be a waste of time. I know that seven hours with him may not sound like a lot of trust-building, but I've put him through a lot in those hours. I know that if I don't find out for certain whether he's trustworthy or not soon, it won't be just a dream; that deeply-ingrained paranoia will take over and I'll be making sure he can be trusted. Dead men tell no tales.

"How did it happen?" Andrew asks, and the tone of voice is familiar, almost pleasant. He hasn't batted an eye.

"I brought in knives and wrapped the room in plastic wrap. I laid you out and took you apart."

"How did you feel in the dream? Angry?"

"Elated. Safe."

"You were completely in control, because I was dead and in pieces. Being safe makes you happy." One of those questioning statements of his.

"Yes, control is safety. As long as I'm in control of myself I'm safe."

Andrew waits, and by now I'm aware that he'll wait - and it's a contest today because now, I am working to control myself, and this is my test for myself.

"What do you think about the dream? Is it something you think will happen?"

"No." There's my leap of faith. Don't make me hurt you, Andrew.

"Have you ever killed someone?"

He really got to that quick, didn't he? And without flinching, or losing the color in his face, or even glancing at the door or the phone. "Yes," I say, ever so softly, perfectly aware and focused now that I made the decision to speak the answers I've given in my thoughts all along.

"You enjoyed it," he says, in the same even tone. He's hardly ruffled by this. I'm impressed.

"Yes."

"A very careful one, aren't you? But you'd have to be. Careless ones don't survive or stay free for long." The smile, practiced and yet sincere, reappears. "When was the last time?"

"About a year and a half ago." The words pop right out now, no hesitation, because finally I tell the truth, the first thing into my mind, and the rush of being able to do that makes me a bit dizzy. A sigh sails audibly from my lips.

"How do you choose victims?"

"I don't. They choose themselves. I only take out the ones who won't be missed, the monsters. . . . But I haven't done it in a long time. I don't know if I'll ever do it again." He said clear intent, before. I'm sure he did. He said he'd have to have a specific victim.

Don't make me kill you, Andrew. Please.

"Did you kill your brother? You said he was the ice truck killer."

"He was going to kill Debra. I couldn't let him do that." I expect him to comment on the calm way I'm speaking. Nothing like the hesitating, stammering guy I was just last session.

"You loved your sister."

A long moment passes. "Yes, I think I did. I miss her."

"Who do you love now?"

I think about the people I know, the ones I work with, the neighbors at my new place I hardly see. I can't say I ever really liked some of them; Masuka and Angel were the closest friends I had other than Deb, and now that Angel's moved on to another department and Masuka's moved up in the world and gone on to work in Los Angeles, there's a handful of up-and-comers I don't really associate with. There's the fling, not even a girlfriend, Carrie, who reminded me of Rita.

"I don't think there's anyone," I admit. "I miss Rita. I miss her kids - they're probably in college or beyond now, and I missed that. But I couldn't. . . ."

"You felt like you were lying, because you had to keep what you are a secret. You knew she wouldn't accept you as you were." Andrew pauses, and I nearly start to talk again, mistaking it for waiting, but then he goes on before I can speak. "How old were you when you were adopted?"

"Three? Four? I think." It's my turn to smile, for once a genuine one. "How long have you known I'm a psychopath?"

"You aren't a psychopath, Dexter. You're a sad and lonely man who suffered enduring trauma at a very early age. You loved your sister and your father, and you loved Rita. You loved your brother, briefly, as warped as he was by the same thing - I'm assuming a shared trauma that resulted in his institutionalization, and your adoption. You were probably also exposed to domestic violence as an infant or toddler."

A pause. "You're probably right - I mean, I know you are about some of it. So. . . when did you know?"

"That you were a killer? I suspected in the first session."

I glance at the horns over the window, at the fixed smile on Andrew's round face, and wonder if this is another like Meridian. But it's an idle musing that passes. Andrew isn't like Meridian at all. He's not like anyone I've ever known. Not Brian, or Harry - they accepted me, but it was different. Brian wanted me to indulge. Harry eventually came to regret making me what I am. Andrew just. . . sees me.

"You aren't afraid of me."

"Should I be?"

"No." I shrug. "What now?"

"That depends on you. Do you feel you can continue to work on resolving the depression, knowing that I am aware of your darker side, or is this feeling too exposed? I'd guess that you feeling unsafe tends to be rather unsafe for others."

"Well, we've established that I'm a loner and have intimacy issues - where do you think I can go from here?"

"If you decided you wanted to change your identity - go from monster killer vigilante to something less likely to result in a prison sentence, say, a forensics expert with a girlfriend or a wife and kids - it would seem to be a way out of your predicament. Because you've suffered a long time in silence, and it's brought you to me out of desperation. It's doubtful attempting intimate relationships while you are still identifying as a killer will be enough; you've tried that. Silence - secrets, and the burden of keeping them - is dragging you under. Which is not to say I'd advocate telling any prospective mates or friends about your past. You're entitled to maintain your privacy. But I do advocate relationship skills, and perhaps some work on processing your traumatic past, and a fresh start. There are ways to be intimate without killing the person."

On the one hand, it's like a punch to the gut that he really gets it. On the other, for the first time, I can hear the therapist at work. I wait for the inner turmoil to settle before responding, and he waits with me.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"I didn't say you could. I don't know that. It would be a lot of work. But if you continue on the path you've been on, I could easily see you getting sloppy and getting caught out of some subconscious wish to do away with the secrecy. You've got that incredulous expression - you'll never get caught, you're too smart, you have it all worked out. But you wouldn't be the first one to crack. It's human nature to want to be known. We're social animals. And you're not a true psychopath, Dexter. You needed Rita. You loved your sister. You may not have been able to access the impulses, the feelings, but they were there. Neither of them would have loved you if they couldn't sense that it was returned in  kind. Psychopaths don't connect with other people. They can be charismatic and fool others easily, but intimacy isn't something they can do. And it's what you're missing."

Another punch to the gut. I glance down, to the right, to the left, and there's Brian again, in the empty chair I couldn't talk to, holding his bottle of beer, eyes twinkling.

He wanted to connect with me. He was like me. I didn't give him a chance - he didn't give me a choice.

"Dexter?"

"It's like he's just around the corner, just out of sight, all the time," I say, watching Brian smirk. "He killed all those people just to get my attention. He wanted to meet me. He wanted - we were brothers, and we went through it together, the death of my mother. He was my big brother. He wanted to - so did I. But Deb -- "

Andrew lifts the neglected box of tissues that's been sitting on the corner of his desk near his alarm clock, swings it across, and drops it on the edge of the desk in front of me. It's at that point that I feel the tears, one per cheek. He sits back in his squeakless chair, gripping the arms and watching me with a sober, concerned expression.

"He understood you, better than anyone else, and you lost him. Did you mourn him? Have a funeral?"

"I couldn't."

"No, I could understand why that wouldn't work. Did you kill him?"

"I told him he was the only one I ever wanted to set free."

"What would you have done, if you had?"

I think about it, but not for long. "Sit down and have a beer. Teach him the code. How to be selective and stay free. But. . . that was then. I think that every time someone dies, there's a risk. I nearly got caught before."

"You want to avoid capture."

Another long, long exhale. It feels like years of stale secrets being pushed out. "You're right. I'm tired of being lonely. It's not the risk, it's the loneliness. Do you think if I stopped completely and focused on relationships it would work? If I found. . . other ways of being intimate?"

Andrew's smile changes; now he's wistful and almost whimsical. "Again, that's up to you to find out. I'm afraid I loaned out my crystal ball."

"I don't know. It's a bit too much to think about right now."

A glance at the clock. "Next week? Or do you need more time to think?"

I take inventory, and discover that this doesn't feel dangerous now, nor do I feel exposed the way I did early on. Andrew's warm eyes still hold an interest that I'm going to trust isn't fake. This is a connection. It may be one I'm paying for out of pocket, but if I truly want relationships as I said I did, back when Rita gave me that second chance, this is the first step in that direction I've taken in a long time. Since I took all those steps backward when Rita finally gave up, in fact. Carrie had been a short-timer, a rebound, and a mistake. She hadn't wanted the relationship the way Rita had. Funny how it takes so long to really recognize these things.

I rise, and hold out a hand. Andrew responds in kind and we shake firmly over the tissue box. It's the first time I've touched him, or he me. It was automatic, yet I never shake hands unless someone else initiates it. Interesting.

"Next week."