I’d heard of the Monday/Thursday group. It was the only Rosen-group that met more than once a week. It was known as the “advanced” group. There was some pride at being invited. And there was also suspicion that Dr. Rosen just wanted my money—I was vulnerable and making six figures. He could be offering me a way to get where I wanted to go or using me as a cash cow to finance a sailboat. How could I know which it was?
And yet, of course I said yes. With three days a week of group, surely I would have everything I wanted in a less than a year.
Part 3
25
The temperature was well below freezing the third Monday in January, but I was too nervous to feel the burn of the wind on my face. When my feet went out from under me, I skidded on the fresh layer of ice blanketing the sidewalk, ass on concrete, two blocks from Dr. Rosen’s office. Was joining this new group a horrible idea? My throbbing hipbone suggested yes.
“What have you heard about us?” Max asked. He had tousled blond hair and perfect posture, and wore a blue blazer with the gold buttons. Midforties. Very country club. I’d heard of Max. The word on the Rosen-grapevine was that he had come to Dr. Rosen years earlier strung out on drugs and living in his car. I’d heard something about felony charges. But he’d cleaned up and risen through the ranks of a pharmaceutical company. Now he was a hotshot exec, served on the board of his daughters’ fancy private school, and summered in Snowmass. Something in his raised eyebrows and smirk told me he knew I’d heard the rumors.
“Nothing much.” My skin felt too tight.
“You’re lying.” Max stared at me. My eyes darted away from his. I glimpsed Dr. Rosen, who offered nothing but his goofball smile.
“Well.” I took a deep breath. “I heard you’re a recovering addict.”
“And?” My too-tight skin turning red.
“You used to party pretty hard.”
Max didn’t look away. He knew exactly what I wasn’t saying. It was a test, and I’d failed.
Here, there was no plum-headed Zenia describing her fan-fiction sex. No one was eating or screaming or bawling. Everyone had a briefcase or a dignified leather purse tucked beside their chair. “We’re the advanced group.” Max was clearly the spokesperson for this highly composed and civilized group of people.
Patrice from Tuesday morning was there. She’d graduated to this “advanced” group a year earlier, but hadn’t said much about it, other than that Max could be a handful. This morning, she smiled warmly but did not offer any tips on how to survive the next eighty-five minutes. The bruise on my hip pulsed with my heartbeat, but if I winced or rubbed it, I would draw attention to myself. No thank you.
Lorne was another familiar face. He was midforties and slightly disheveled—wrinkled khaki pants and frayed maroon sweater—but had an open smile that felt like a welcome. I’d met Lorne at his wedding, which I had attended as Jeremy’s date. Jeremy and Lorne were in the men’s group together. My left foot jangled as I considered what that meant.
“We’ve heard about you,” Brad said, as if he had read my mind. Brad was slightly older than Lorne, tall and thin like Ichabod Crane with salt-and-pepper hair. The only thing I’d heard about him was that he was obsessed with money.
“What’d you hear?”
He and Max exchanged a look. Both smiled.
“That you had anal sex with Blake,” Brad said with only a hint of sheepishness. Not what I was expecting, a memory from a relationship before I started group. My mouth twisted into a scowl. Whatever, Brad. I could own my sexual history.
“With Jeremy too, actually,” I said.
“I’d heard that too,” Brad said.
My stomach heaved with anxiety. Was I going to throw up? What was I doing, letting men I didn’t know quiz me about my sex life? This was the first moment in my three and a half years with Dr. Rosen that I wished desperately for confidentiality. All these years, I admired Dr. Rosen’s insistence that secrets were toxic. Now I saw the murky downside: I’d just joined a group full of people who knew everything there was to know about my anal sex résumé.
The group let me stew in my discomfort and went on to discuss Lorne’s unhinged ex-wife and Brad’s upcoming job interview for a position that would increase his base salary by 20 percent. When there was a lull in the conversation, I caught Dr. Rosen’s eye. “What makes this the advanced group?” I asked. Before he could answer, a woman with shoulder-length silver hair wearing a navy polyester pantsuit jumped in.
“Max and I are charter members of this group. Going back to the late eighties. I’m Maggie, by the way.” She was sitting right next to Dr. Rosen. “We knew Dr. Rosen back when—” She paused.
“When what?” I said.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say Dr. Rosen used
