October 31st

Tonight is the annual PPTH Halloween fundraising event, a must-attend function even for department heads on short-term leave. Normally Greg would blow it off like he does most non-essential stuff, but he has a reason for attendance this year: Dana has said she'll go with him. It's a generous offer. She's laying her professional reputation on the line with this action; he knows it's also a practical demonstration of her trust in him, as well as a chance to further his own therapeutic progress. And of course he won't pass up an opportunity to observe her behavior among relative strangers; he'll also analyze and dissect events afterward.

At least she doesn't insist on a costume. He'd really figured her for someone who would go all out, but no. "Putting on a character is an essential part of my everyday work," she says when he mentions it. "I don't really want to do more of the same to celebrate a holiday."

"About your everyday work . . . made any decisions?" He knows he pushes her good nature with that question. Over the last few weeks they've discussed her practice and how it affects their personal relationship. He knows it's every degree of unreasonable, but he doesn't want her to have sex with other people, even in the course of therapy. He's been honest with her about it; he will admit to a guilt trip or two in with the truthful discourse, because he plans to win this argument. In the last few days he's resorted to what could be considered nagging, mainly because she won't give him the answer he wants. The result has been something of a standoff. It's the first real disagreement they've had since they became lovers as well as patient and therapist, and it causes a good deal of tension.

Dana puts down her brush. She looks at him via the reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I'm still considering it," she says in a tone that warns him to go to a different subject. She looks tired, and there's a line between her brows he doesn't see often. Something else bothers her besides the discussion about her work, but she hasn't said anything; her silence makes him anxious. Their time together has been great, but he's known from the beginning it's too good to last. Might as well see what it takes to break the happiness streak.

"Not much to consider," he says. "I ask you to stop having sex with other people, you say yes or no. Simple."

She sits there, her expression inscrutable. After a moment she says "How would you feel if I asked you to stop conducting differential diagnoses with your fellows?"

"Faulty logic," he pounces on the obvious flaw. "I'm not having sex with them."

"Doesn't matter. I don't like having you work with them every day," she says quietly. "In my opinion it's fair to ask that you stop, because I'm jealous."

"Again, I'm not having sex with them," he says, and doesn't bother to deny the jealousy. He's always been possessive of the women he sleeps with.

"Faulty logic," she tosses right back at him. "You're deliberately missing the point. But let's discuss it anyway, since you've decided to see it as a priority. You and I make love because we care about each other—"

"You care about me. I just like sex on a regular basis," he throws in. Dana lets him speak, then continues.

"In my practice sex is a therapeutic tool, a technique for discovering problems like hidden fear and post-traumatic stress." Her voice is terse now, the soft tones strained. "You are implying I'm cheating on you when I'm simply using a method to help someone find healing. I might as well accuse you of cheating on me when you're in conference with your team."

"So let me see if I understand your abstract. You're claiming what we have between us is special, while sex between you and another patient is just mechanics. You only get off on fucking if it's you and me." He openly ridicules her now, even though that little voice deep inside warns him to stop.

"Gregory." She stands and turns to face him. Her expression is impassive, but he can see the pain he's caused; it's in that little line between her brows, the stormy grey of her eyes, the way her soft mouth doesn't hold its usual slight smile. "I refuse to defend how I do my work, to you or anyone else. You knew from the start that I use sex as part of my therapy, and by the way," her voice shakes a little, "I do not fuck my patients, or you either."

"Semantics," he says with a shrug.

"No it isn't, but you're not drawing me into a fight about it. Either you trust me to be faithful or you don't. I said I would give you my answer tomorrow. I'm not talking about this again until then." She goes to the closet and takes out a dress, a little black number. It's actually fairly modest, but he knows she'll fill it out nicely. "You should get ready, we'll be late."

"You've already made your decision," he says in accusation.

"No, I haven't. I'm still thinking about it. What are you going to wear?"

"What I've got on," he says. "It's not black tie." He watches her put on the dress. There are no angry, jerky movements, but he knows she struggles to hold in her temper. Without comment she moves to the chest of drawers and takes out a small, worn wooden box, the one in which she keeps her jewelry. She opens it and removes a simple diamond tennis bracelet, clasps it around her wrist, and adds diamond stud earrings to complete the look. It's exactly right, just enough bling to make everything fall into place; she looks fantastic, sexy and alluring because she has classic good taste and beauty, both inside and out. She slips her feet into low-heeled patent pumps and leaves the room in silence. Greg follows her as she takes her coat from the hall closet. He picks up his pea jacket from the chair where he dumped it, and they're on their way.

The drive to Princeton is accomplished in silence, just the radio on. Dana dozes off about ten minutes in. Greg knows their extended argument has caused her sleepless nights; he's heard her up in the small hours, to play the piano with the damper down, or work on patient files. Now he sees there are faint smudges under her eyes, and the line between her brows is still in evidence. Something else bothers her, something she either can't or won't talk about with him. He should stop pushing her. So he pushes a little harder, to see what she'll do. "Gonna shop for new patients tonight?"

Dana blinks awake. It takes a few seconds for his words to register. Then she looks away, but not before he sees the hurt in her expression. "You know I take referrals only."

"Always a first time. But then that was a while ago. How old were you? Thirteen, fourteen? Or maybe you saw your destiny even earlier on."

She stares out the window. "If you want to call me a whore, just do it," she says quietly. "Is that what this is about? You really are so hung up on my work you'll resort to cruelty to get an answer?"

"It isn't cruel if it's true."

Dana is silent for a moment or two. "I was twenty years old when I offered my virginity to a wonderful young man. It was a joyous experience in every way. I will not allow you to walk through that memory with dirty feet."

"Quoting Gandhi just so you can take the high road and try to make me feel bad," he says, but she doesn't reply. For the rest of the drive she is silent, though he plies her with cheerful small talk; she's not an idiot, she knows when someone mocks her. As they pull into the valet line, she opens the door and gets out, waits for him. Greg watches her. Of course she wouldn't abandon him; while they're lovers, he's also her patient. She doesn't look angry, but he knows all the same that she's had enough. And he also knows he's not done with her, not yet.

The party is held at the Pavilion, an annex building to PPTH. It's mainly for individual practices taken over by or allied with the hospital, but it has an enormous conference area that's easily converted to a dance floor. When they walk in the place is full of attendees, some in costume, most in designer outfits—what passes for dressy casual among the wealthy. He catches a glimpse of Cuddy at a corner table as she chats with a prosperous-looking couple; she's there to cajole a donation, undoubtedly. Wilson's nowhere to be seen, but then he's probably humping a nurse on the plastic-covered back seat of his Volvo, or in the ladies room to fuss over his hair. There's a band battling the noise of talk and laughter, a five-piece group. They attempt to sound cool and sophisticated, apparently unaware no one pays any attention to them, though a few people are dancing.

Once they've crossed the floor and reached the cash bar, Dana turns to him. "I need to find a bathroom," she says quietly. Will you be all right here by yourself for a few minutes?"

Her willingness to care for him in the middle of a nasty argument is all the more impressive because he knows it's genuine. "Go ahead, dump me because you're pissed off," he says. Her expression changes from concern to pain, and then impassivity. Without another word she moves away and goes off into the crowd. He watches her. Her head is up, her back very straight. The knowledge that he's alone should fill him with panic. And yet while the anxiety is there, he can handle it. He knows that's down to his therapist and her immense skill and patience. She's shown him how to acknowledge the fear, then set it aside. He feels a moment of deep shame at the way he's baited her, and decides to numb his guilt with some alcohol.

He nurses the evening's first shot of whiskey when someone says "Greg." He knows who it is before he turns around. Stacy stands a few feet away, smiling. She comes up to him. "Fancy meeting you here. You look . . ." She gives him a top-to-bottom perusal. "You look great." She sounds surprised. "How are you?"

"Where's the ball and chain?" He downs the rest of the shot and nods at the bartender. Stacy moves to the spot next to Greg and puts a ten on the counter.

"Bourbon on the rocks please," she says to the bartender, and turns to face Greg. "Mark and I . . . we divorced last year. It was a mutual decision." She gives him another once-over, this one more subtle. "You've been taking care of yourself."

Greg lifts an eyebrow. "You always were a fast worker," he says. Stacy chuckles wryly.

"Not that fast." She takes her drink when it's brought to her, sips it. "I'm just asking how you're doing."

"Fantastic," he lies, and shoots a quick look at the place where Dana disappeared; no sign of her yet.

"You're here with someone?" There's a slight lilt of interest in Stacy's tone. He knows it well.

"You're not," he says, and takes his whiskey in hand.

"Combining business with pleasure. I'm working with several hospitals to shape up their malpractice protocols. PPTH is one of them."

"Slumming, for a Constitutional lawyer," he points out. "You're wasting your talents here when you should be arguing in front of a bunch of ancient stiffs in black robes down in DC."

"They're my talents to waste." She glances out at the room. "Care to dance?"

It's a bad idea, a very bad idea. "Why not?" he says, to Stacy's evident surprise. He downs his shot—false courage never hurts-and follows her to the small open area near the band. She fits into his arms the way she always did; she hasn't gained weight, and her moves are as confident and elegant as ever, though constrained by his inability to do much more than shuffle.

"Whatever technique your therapist is using, it's working," Stacy says. "I'm so glad things are better for you, Greg. It's been a long time since you—" She hesitates as she tries to find the right words. "Since you've looked this good," she finishes. He says nothing, just continues to move with her. It brings back old memories, to hold her like this—the days when they had everything ahead of them, successful careers, shared interests and outlook; he was whole and pain-free and in love . . . He draws a startled breath as the truth force-breaks its way into his mind at last, a truth he's ignored for weeks now. He has all those things with Dana, but he's about to lose them because of his blind obsession with one sticking point, and his need to destroy any happiness that comes his way. If he's truthful, he can live with the sex therapy aspect of her work; he won't ever like it, but if he really wants to, he can set it aside. Instead he's turned it into an ultimatum, and for nothing more than his own ego's gratification. And to satisfy his own self-fulfilling prophecy that he ruins the good things that come into his life. It's a stupid act worthy of Wilson at his most manipulative and irrational.

"Dammit," he says, disgusted with his never-ending capability for disaster. He's managed to fuck up everything the way he always does, but there's still a chance he can stop this train wreck if he acts now, if he finds Dana and says all the things he needs to say. He looks past Stacy's shoulder, even as she puts a hand to his cheek.

"What's wrong? Is it your leg?"

He sweeps the room with his gaze, searches the little groups of people, the doorways. He's about to give up when he sees Dana. She stands apart from everyone and looks across the room at him. The diamonds in her ears glitter and spark; she's pale, her expression impossible to read. He stares at her as terror swamps him. She'll walk out, he knows it. But to his astonishment, she comes toward them. Stacy turns to see what he looks at. Greg feels a quick little quiver go through her, and then Dana says "I don't believe we've met." Her tone is polite, respectful.

"No, we haven't," Stacy says. "Stacy Adler." A part of Greg notes she uses her maiden name. She extends her hand. Dana takes it and offers a firm shake.

"Dana Gardener," she says, and looks at Greg. "I'm not feeling well. If you don't mind, I'm going to call it an evening and go home."

"I drove you here," he says, as he fights panic. She's slipping away and he can't stop it, and it's his fault, his own damn idiotic fault. "I'll—I'll take you back."

Dana gives him a quick glance—checking to see if he's lying. "All right," she says, and turns to Stacy. She smiles slightly. The sight of it strikes deep into Greg's heart; he knows that one simple gesture has caused her more pain than he's ever felt in his entire life. "It's been good to meet you at last, Ms Adler. Please enjoy your evening." She looks at Greg again. "I'll meet you at the car." With that she nods at them both and walks away. Stacy slaps his arm, a sharp little angry smack.

"You idiot," she hisses, "you're with her and you said she was just your therapist!"

Without answering he pushes away from Stacy and plunges into the crowd, ignores the fear that swells up inside. He shoves past knots of people, oblivious to his disruption of their groups, and arrives at the entrance to find Dana talking to the valet.

The return trip to Philadelphia seems endless. Dana sits beside him with her head tipped back against the rest, eyes closed. For once Greg doesn't give in to the urge to talk or argue; he doesn't know what to say that won't make things worse, if that's possible. Maybe once they're home he can salvage the situation somehow.

When they reach Dana's home she walks in with him, goes into the back. He follows her to their bedroom. She doesn't ignore him, but she goes about the business of undressing just as she always does—jewelry removed and put away, clothes off and bathrobe on, a few minutes in the bathroom to wash. When she emerges she looks tired and sad and even worse, resigned. He knows that expression, he's seen it before in other faces, and it always means sooner or later he'll be kicked out.

Without a word she leads the way to the terrace. There's a single lamp to provide light. Dana takes her usual seat, but he remains standing and glowers at her. He has to tell her what he's understood finally, but he doesn't know how to do it.

"Gregory, do you trust me?" she asks after a brief silence, her voice neutral, quiet.

"I could ask you the same thing," he snaps.

"You may ask me anything you like, after you answer my question."

He passes a hand over his face. "Of course I trust you."

Dana leans forward just a little. "Liar." Her gaze is steady, direct. He can't hold it; he looks away.

"Why'd you ask then, if you already know?"

She just watches him. "Ask your question."

"Do you trust me?" he says, defiant and sarcastic.

"I don't know now," she says simply. That stops him in his tracks. He stares at her, shocked. "The woman you were with tonight . . . she was the one with whom you shared the townhouse, wasn't she?"

It figures she'd remember that remark, goddammit. "Yes." He fidgets with his cane. "We lived together for a few years, before—" He stops.

"Before the blood clot," Dana says. She's so calm, so matter-of-fact. "Do you still love her?"

"I'm not having an affair with her, if that's what you're thinking." He limps to the doors that lead to the little container garden; the pots are empty now, ready for the killing cold of winter. Beyond them lies the Philly skyline, distant, glittering. "I can't love anyone." Even as he says it he knows it's not true.

"Another lie." He flinches. "What you mean is, you won't trust anyone. You don't trust me."

"That's—that's not—I-"

"You've been pushing me to give up an essential part of my work for weeks now because you won't trust me to be faithful to you, even when I've given you my promise several times. I've done my best to demonstrate my trustworthiness but it isn't enough, is it? It'll never be enough, because you've decided no one can be trusted, not even me." He doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. "I understand you've had many people break their word with you. They've hurt you, betrayed and rejected you. I am not one of them." Dana's soft voice holds absolute conviction.

"But you will be," he says. He doesn't want to say it; he wants to take her in his arms and tell her what he's discovered. Instead she's still slipping away, further and further.

She gets to her feet. "I think you just used the safe word. Time to stop."

He turns to her, his stomach sinking. "Gardener—Dana—"

"You can either take your things with you tonight, or I'll have them delivered. As for therapy, I can recommend someone, if you like."

He moves in front of her. "You—you're kicking me out."

"NoI'mnot." She turns on him, and at last she shows her anger and frustration. It's an impressive display. He cringes away from her, even as he knows he brought this on deliberately, and now he's about to pay for all the prodding he's done. "You're doing that yourself because you're a stubborn idiot! You've decided that because a thousand other people have hurt and betrayed you, I will too. Well, I haven't. And I won't." That last statement is flat, emphatic; she means it. "Believe me or not, that's your choice. But I won't live with someone who doesn't trust me."

"So I have to leave." He can't keep the bitterness from his words.

"I don't want you to," she says. He can barely hear her now. "I . . . I don't want to lose you, and what we've built together. It's precious, to me at least. But if there's no trust, it'll just get worse until we'll end up hating each other. And I couldn't—couldn't bear it if we . . ." Her voice trails off. She draws in a shaking breath and he realizes with a shock that she's one step away from a breakdown. He drops his cane, limps over, reaches out to grip her arms.

"Dana," he says hoarsely. She doesn't resist, won't look at him. "There's something else, there has been for some time."

She doesn't answer at first, and it nearly kills him that she's wary of telling him whatever it is, afraid he'll hurt her even more. Before he started this fight, she would have answered without hesitation. "Two years ago my father died on Halloween, after a very long struggle with illness and dependence," she says. The enormity of her pain is revealed for just a moment; then it's gone once more.

"You didn't trust me enough to let me know," he says sharply, distressed by her suffering.

"No, I do—did, but . . ." She hesitates. "It's my burden to carry, not yours. You've been through enough without my adding any more." Very gently she breaks his grip and moves back. "I'll get your things."

Half an hour later he's on his way back to Princeton, numb with disbelief and a growing fear he's never really felt before.

"Bonne chance, Gregory. Remember, if you change your mind my door is always open. Always," she'd said, and kissed his cheek. She'd trembled, and there were tears in her grey eyes. They'd spilled out to fall down her pale cheeks. And then she was gone.

When he gets to his place he goes into the kitchen and gets the bottle of bourbon out of the cupboard. He pours a shot, downs it and looks around. Dana's presence is everywhere, from the bright little sun-catchers in the window to the bag of croissants on the bread board. He refills the glass, takes the bottle and goes into the living room. She's here too; the soft, lavender-scented blanket-throw on the back of the sofa, an orderly pile of fruitwood on the hearth with her beloved pine cones in a basket next to it; dog-eared psychology journals, bedecked with wine and coffee rings, stacked on the end table . . . there are even some of her clothes in his closet, and her shampoo on a corner of the bathtub. He sits heavily on the sofa and listens to the quiet. After a moment he downs the shot and pours another, as he does his best to destroy his awareness of how very alone he is now.

He wakes much later to find he's crashed out face-down, as weak sunlight fights its way through the half-open blinds. It illuminates the inside of his head to reveal the start of a massive hangover. Slowly he sits up, winces as his leg gives a warning spasm; the TENS unit needs new batteries. He looks around with bleary eyes, spots the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. With unsteady hands he pours a shot into the glass, then brings it to his lips and dumps it in. A little later he'll make some coffee, but for now this is the best way to deal with the new day. And to make plans to get Dana back. He hasn't given up, not yet. Not ever. He might have been stupid enough to push too hard, but he'll do everything he can to regain her trust, no matter what it takes.

Because you love her, that small voice whispers—the same voice that told him to look through the coat pockets for food all those years ago, a true voice, and right. He listens to it at last, and knows what he has to do.