TO: SCARLETT SHEPARD
FROM: DYLAN BRODIE
Beautiful.
I want that slot.
Thank you.
If the address on your website is current, I will see you there and then. I’ve heard good things, and I’m eager to get started with you. Looking forward to it.
-- Dylan
I mean.
Not necessarily compulsive, but he certainly does seem eager and impetuous.
It’s not necessarily flirtatious to use the word beautiful to convey a positive response to something in any context.
There are no photos of me online if you search for “Scarlett Shepard therapist” because the media always referred to me as Scarlett Bryce, and that’s what my Facebook account still says, since Noah’s last name is Bryce. There’s no photo of me on my website or any professional websites.
There’s no way he knows it’s me he’s emailing with.
And it’s not like either of us invented the term slot in the context of therapy.
But yeah.
This feels like him.
4
Dylan
Usually, when I’m sitting in a therapist’s waiting area, after I’ve flipped the switch to announce my presence, I take a seat and get into therapy mode. I sit and think. What’s my intention for this session? How do I feel right now? What do I want?
Right now I just feel horny.
I want sex.
I’m not thinking about my most recent ex, Elena. I’m not thinking about how I had a feeling maybe she wasn’t a great girlfriend when she ran out that time I was babysitting my nephew, just because he was having some dairy-related digestive issues. I’m not thinking about how long it’s been since I sent my last text to her, asking if she’s back from her vacation yet. I’m not thinking about the fact that she still hasn’t fucking responded.
I’m wondering what Dr. Scarlett Shepard looks like.
I’m thinking about how all three of the Scarletts I’ve met in my life were hot.
I’m thinking about a red dress that hit an inch above the knees of a pair of slammin’ legs.
I’m thinking about cocoa butter and vanilla and heartache transforming to longing.
I’m thinking about long, dark, sexy hair and the protein bar that gave me hope when I needed it.
It wasn’t my mama’s chocolate pecan pie and chicken-fried steak, but it was an offering. From a beautiful stranger. Out of concern. A small acknowledgment that she could see that I was hungry and that she cared about it. She wanted me to feel better.
That’s what I want.
That’s what I want from a girlfriend.
And it’s what I want to give to a girlfriend too.
Something real.
Sex and a sandwich is probably how Owen would put it.
Why am I thinking about my brother right now?
Shit.
I’m going to have to explain my whole deal all over again with a new therapist. About my family dynamics and my history with girls. I’ll have to explain the parts I keep playing, as an actor and as a boyfriend. It’s going to be like a first date but with zero chance of getting laid at the end of it.
I hear two voices—a man’s and a woman’s—and then the door to the inner office opens. A middle-aged woman in sweats walks out. Her eyes are puffy, and she’s dabbing a Kleenex at her nostrils. Behind her is a man in a business suit who’s looking at his watch. He bumps into her when she stops to stare at me.
She recognizes me.
Probably a fan of the series I did for AMC. When I dated Surya.
Or the period drama I did with Emma Thompson. When I dated Renee.
Or maybe she has a kid who’s watching That’s So Wizard! on Disney Plus. That show was the beginning of my professional and my love life. First girlfriend—Tabitha. Wonder what she’s up to now…
“Oh! It’s you!” The sad lady gives her nose a final wipe before crumpling up the Kleenex and stepping toward me.
The man—I assume he’s her husband—shuts the door to the inner office while looking down at his phone.
I give the woman a polite nod. “Hello.”
“From Poldark!”
Nope.
“Oh, my sister will be so jealous! Grant, get a picture of us, real quick! Oh, I like your hair like that. Grant! Take a picture! I had no idea you lived in LA.”
Okay, I look nothing like Aiden Turner.
He has brown eyes.
I’m definitely taller than he is.
And not Irish.
“That’s not him, Iris,” Grant grumbles. He’s right, but he seems like kind of an asshole.
“Yes, it is. You watched it with me that one time. The British show.”
“Let’s go. I have to drop you off and then get to a meeting. Come on.”
“It’s you, right? Aiden something?” She sounds so sad, filled with self-doubt, and she’s obviously been crying for fifty minutes or maybe every minute of her marriage to this impatient asshole. She’s pouting and pleading with her eyes, like her self-esteem depends on her being right about this one thing.
What am I supposed to do—not be Aiden Turner?
“Turner,” I tell her in my best Dublin accent as I stand up to shake her hand. “Aiden Turner. Lovely to meet you, Iris.”
I get a handful of crumpled-up snotty Kleenex, but it’s fine.
“Oh, I knew it. Oh, you sound different. My sister is such a big fan. She’s seen every episode of your show three times. It’s just riveting.”
“Thanks so much, Iris. Thanks for watchin’.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
I pull Iris in for a hug. “Have a wonderful rest of your day, love.” I lock eyes with Grant. He knows I’m not Aiden Turner and he’s still in a hurry, but he’s not going to tell Iris she’s wrong. Not this time.
Love wins.
“Oh. Thank you,” she says, giving me a little pat on the back. “You too.”
She hugs like my mama. Warm and genuine. But like she’s going to pull away any second because she’s got a roast in the oven and Pops is expecting her to go visit him on set, so no—she can’t stay to watch my little league practice today, but she loves me, Baby Boy, sooooo much… I’m never the one to pull away first from a hug. With anyone.
When she gives me a final pat on the back to let me know we’re done, I look up and see that the door to the inner office is open again and the most beautiful face is staring at me, with full red lips that are whispering the word, “Shit.”
“Bye-bye.”
“Bye now, love,” I say to Iris, but I can’t look away from Scarlett from Erewhon. The most beautiful Scarlett of them all. Her hair is pulled to one side over the shoulder, like when I met her but straightened. In a white blouse and fitted pants, she looks all put-together but still very, very hot. I can’t believe it’s her.
“Thanks again, Dr. Shepard,” Iris calls out as they exit to the hallway.
“Have a good week, you two,” Dr. Scarlett Shepard says, smiling after them. She clears her throat and glances back at me. “Dylan?”
“Hi.”
“I’m Dr. Shepard. Come on in.”