It wasn’t Dayton.
The paranoia had been a result of her overactive imagination, no doubt intensified by spending the evening visiting the grave of someone whose life he’d touched.
And despite the dread coiling around her heart, Kenna prayed he had nothing to do with the claiming of it.
6
WHO IS SHE?
He didn't speak to Kenna the first four days she worked under him. Any necessary communication was passed along to her via text.
She never responded, but she did everything that was asked of her without complaint.
Though he had extended her the use of his station wagon, it seemed she hadn’t accepted the gesture in full. A different car picked her up and dropped her off every afternoon. Dayton supposed it was a valiant attempt on her end to rile him. Perhaps he deserved that silent condemnation after he’d snuck into her gig at Striker, though her avoidance of the Caprice predated that night. He should not have gone.
It was foolish. No, reckless.
The moment Kenna became his employee, they entered into a dance far more complicated than their initial contract with the university. This arrangement was muddled by more than any ethical consideration or the issue of power dynamics. It was their history that made it so.
He knew the old adage. Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Only, he wanted to repeat it, and this time, he’d be ready at every turn to rectify his original mistakes.
Restraint, as much as he could manage, was critical.
When the last patient left at the end of each day, he remained in the session space until he was sure Kenna had gone. It wasn't that he did not want to see her; rather, he was too eager. He wanted, more than anything, to walk out into the reception area veiled in nonchalance, pretending to go unaffected by her angelic face. The one that was emblazoned in his mind over the merciless months they were separated.
With unwavering certainty, Dayton understood that one look at her, one glance, would prove fatal. A split second that would reignite his obsession and seal his fate as a hopeless devotee of a love he didn't deserve yet coveted above all else.
So he remained locked away in the psychotherapy room, minding his patients and for once striving to do the right thing. To leave Kenna alone, to let her live her life, set her free. He was wrong. Their history did not need repeating. It was better off buried deep within the earth. Hidden and forgotten.
But, doing what was right had never been his brand and by the fifth day, he snapped out of the moral high ground kumbaya haze and set out to reclaim what was his.
His forest queen.
He made it a sort of game at first, stealing glances at her as he retreated to his office to file some paperwork. Dayton had nothing to file except the blurry peripheral snapshots of his assistant. The glimpse of denim and linen alluded that she’d not changed the way she dressed.
And the maddening, firespun hair. It was off her shoulders. How it was styled, he did not know. His fleeting peek painted an incomplete picture, one which was intriguing but lacked the finishing details that qualified it a masterpiece. Mona Lisa without her smile.
Hersmile, there's something he missed.
His 3 o’clock patient rambled about his fear of death, particularly dying alone, to die and to have never known love.
Dayton almost interrupted the session to release the man from his care citing an incident of countertransference until he realized he had not spoken and had merely been listening to Franklin Merrell’s eerily similar fears and felt a flush of relief that he hadn't spouted off his own mirrored thoughts.
The patient bid him adieu when the hour expired but he stayed glued to the armchair. His insides quivered at the short, high-pitched beep delivered by the security system as Mr. Merrell vacated the premises.
Though walls kept them apart, they were alone.
Kenna, himself, and 500 square feet.
His hand curled around the door handle. Adrenaline surged through him as he mustered the courage to turn it. The door retreated to reveal his darling stationed dutifully at the reception desk and the romantic, exaggerated opening crescendo of Etta James’ ‘At Last’ swelled in his head.
That is, until Kenna turned her head and fixed him with eyes that used to sparkle like jade but now reflected a dull green, leaves on the brink of fall’s fading chlorophyll.
“There's no 4 o’clock today. Mind if I leave early?" Her monotone voice matched her expression.
Had Dayton been totally ousted from her heart? Was there not a low-burning flame of passion roaring back to life when she saw his face?
Brushing off his hurt, he feigned annoyance.