I managed to avoid Celia for more than a month after I began my rehabilitation. I got pretty good at excuses—business, travel, family obligations. She called and showed up at the loft, and I dodged.
Eventually, I had to face her. Dr. Alberts required it. Or encouraged it, rather. He insisted that as long as I kept the option to “game” open, then I could never completely leave it. He was right, of course. Only problem was that I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to completely leave the game. Actually, I was entirely sure that I didn’t want to.
It was at a session in my office that I finally admitted that. “It’s not that I miss playing. Well, not only that I miss playing.” Strangely, I didn’t miss it as much as I had imagined. There were other things, it turned out, that filled my time just as easily. I enjoyed the arts—the symphony, the ballet, the opera. So much so that I arranged a number of scholarship and charitable contributions that benefited these newfound interests. And work was a more than suitable substitute. The manipulative strategies I’d perfected proved useful in the boardroom. It even gave the same rush that I’d found from my experiments.
“Then what is it that keeps you from letting go?” Dr. Alberts’ approach was always kind and understanding. Never pushy or judgmental.
“I don’t know.” I did know. Saying it was difficult. “It’s just…who am I without the game?” It was a silly crisis of identity, really. Everyone knew who Hudson Pierce was. I could do an internet search and find several biographies that summed up my life more succinctly than I could ever hope to. I expected Dr. Alberts to give me his own list of my accomplishments and curriculum vitae.
He didn’t. Instead, he said, “That’s what we have to figure out, Hudson. Luckily, you’re young and healthy. You have plenty of time to figure it out.”
There was something about his words that attracted me. He’d phrased it like a challenge—on purpose, most likely—and that was all it took to catch my attention. I’d never backed away from a challenge. And what a fitting replacement self-discovery was for the experiments of my past. Rather than study the effects of certain situations on others, I could study the effects on myself.
“But,” there was always a but with Dr. Alberts, “you will never be able to fully explore the future you if you are still firmly anchored in the past.”
Everything kept me anchored in the past. My mother, who constantly brought up Celia’s pregnancy.My father, who I couldn’t look at without remembering his betrayal to his wife, to me. My sister, who always looked at me with innocent eyes, yet, as it turned out, knew more than anyone about who I truly was.
But that wasn’t what—who—Dr. Alberts was referring to.
“Celia.” It was hard to even say her name anymore. There was no one who anchored me more than her. And, since I was ready to set sail, I had to let her go. “I’ll take care of it.”
It was easier said than done. Though I could clearly define the steps in my mind of what needed to be done, what needed to be said, the truth was that I’d never broken up with anyone. And wasn’t that exactly what this would be? The ultimate breakup? I’d studied breakups with other couples, of course. I’d been the cause of quite a few. I knew what to expect from them—crying, yelling. Sometimes they were less emotional.
But what would it be like with Celia? Would there be a passionate display? If she still felt things as deeply as she once had, she hadn’t shown me for quite some time.
As for me, I’d thought I was immune to the whole feelings thing. Dr. Alberts corrected me there. “If you were truly incapable of affection, then how did your sister manage to convince you to see me? Was it not because of affection for her that you agreed?”
So I wasn’t completely devoid of emotion, though I still believed that the typical levels of love and devotion expressed by most people were not within my reach. And what I felt for Mirabelle…well, she was surely an exception. But there was something between me and Celia. Even if it was simply a shared affinity for the same pastime, it was a strong bond.
“You are connected to her, Hudson.” Without ever meeting her, Dr. Alberts had a fairly clear picture of our relationship just the same. “It may not be the form of love that you imagine when you think of the word, but there is emotional involvement. It will not be easy to cut her from your life. You need to be prepared for that.”
So I prepared as well as I could. I made arrangements to see her through her assistant, and I chose the location. Not the loft—I could never have her in the loft again; I knew that without Dr. Alberts pointing that out. Her apartment was better. I’d been there once or twice, but it was never a point of meeting for us. I set the appointment for seven on a weeknight. Usually when we met, our time was generalized. “I’ll be there after dinner.” Or, “I’ll stop by on my way to the gym.” These changes to our typical behavior would throw her off, give me the upper hand. Before we were even face-to-face, I’d already set the environment to work specifically in my favor.
It didn’t escape me that I was, yet again, manipulating the situation. Funny that I was supposed to be in recovery from that very thing. This time, however, I was pretty sure Dr. Alberts wouldn’t disapprove.
I arrived late. On purpose.
“Hey, stranger.” Celia’s greeting felt strained as she seemed to debate whether to hug me or not, evidence that my setup was going as planned. In the end, we didn’t embrace. She swept her arm in invitation. “Come on in.”
I stepped into her air-conditioned space and then stopped. Problem with dealing with Celia on new ground was that it was new to me as well. My eyes darted around her immaculate apartment. I hadn’t thought about it before, but her Gramercy Park location wasn’t cheap, and she lived in a building with all the amenities. Her interior design salary didn’t pull in enough to pay the premium price. She was obviously digging into her trust fund. Or getting help elsewhere. Briefly, I wondered if she was scamming people on the side.
Then I dismissed the thought. It wasn’t my business. Not anymore.
“Well, are we just going to stand here twiddling our thumbs or would you like to take a seat?” She smiled, but her hands fiddled nervously with the edge of her blouse.
“Sit, of course.” I started toward her living room.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure.” I paused. “Actually, I’ll get it.” Her bar was off the dining room—this I remembered from previous visits. I grabbed a glass from her dish rack.