As the cab pulled up to the mirrored building on 59th Street and 6th Avenue, I slipped a diamond platinum ring onto my finger and sighed, promising myself this would be the last time. My therapist and I had a standing appointment for the past six months, Friday morning at 7:30, and I had made the same promise every week. But today was the day I would fire my therapist, because I was tired of pretending to be so many things I was not — a divorcée who was happily married, for instance.
Lawrence opened the door to his office, wearing a bright turquoise turtleneck.
I can’t do it. It’ll ruin him, I decided, before I even entered the room. “That shirt looks great on you,” I told him.