“Tegan is coming to see you this afternoon, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her after you’re done with your”—I make a flapping hand gesture—“shrinking.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” Mr. I Got My Bachelor and Master at Stanford corrects me. “And why don’t you want to tell her yourself?”

I hate that I have to show my vulnerable side to Lucas, but somehow, deep down, I also feel that I can trust him with my innermost secrets. “When it comes to that man—see? I can’t even bring myself to say his name—I don’t trust my gut reaction. I could get mad, spew evil, change my mind as I talk… I can’t do that to Tegan.”

Lucas stares at me for a long time before saying, “It’s good to know our limits, and there’s no shame in asking for help.” And with a cheeky grin, he adds, “Even if you hate asking me.”

And he’s charmed me into smiling. “So, Doctor, how do you want to proceed?”

“I’ll talk with Tegan this afternoon and then, if you’re okay with it, I’d like to bring you in for a controlled discussion with both of you.”

“Right.” The thought sounds terrifying, but I have no choice. “What should I tell Tegan about how things went down sixteen years ago? Everything? Nothing?”

Lucas leans back in his chair, thinking hard. Eventually, he says, “Let it be her choice how much she wants to know. If she wishes to rebuild a relationship with her father, it could be better if they started with a clean slate. He might be a very different man now.”

Now I’m positively cringing. The thought of Tegan going anywhere near that man makes my stomach tighten with so many knots I want to puke. I imagine them in the same dusty office where I used to meet him for our clandestine hookups—which doesn’t make any sense, because a dean will have been upgraded to a much grander space than a TA. But in my head, it’s how I picture the encounter, and the mental image makes me dizzy on top of being nauseated.

Lucas takes in my reaction, and his features soften in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s impossible to reconcile this side of him with the lunatic who barged into my office the day I signed the lease, yelling about stolen donuts and other nonsense.

“I know this is hard on you,” he says in a soft, low voice that sounds like honey. “But you’re doing the right thing for Tegan. You’re a wonderful mother.”

His words spread over me like a warm blanket, but this conversation is already cutting too deep. So I don’t let on I appreciate his metaphorical outstretched hand, and slap it away with sarcasm instead. “Careful, Doctor,” I say. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”