_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

“Come on,” he said, his voice businesslike—brusque, even. “Sit
down.”
I followed him into the middle of the room, put one hand on his waist,
the other against his chest. He held me by my wrists and moved away
from me.
“Don’t, Megan. You can’t . . . we can’t . . .” He turned away.
“Kamal,” I said, my voice catching. I hated the sound of it. “Please.”
“This . . . here. It’s not appropriate. It’s normal, believe me, but . . .”
I told him then that I wanted to be with him.
“It’s transference, Megan,” he said. “It happens from time to time. It
happens to me, too. I really should have introduced this topic last time.
I’m sorry.”
I wanted to scream then. He made it sound so banal, so bloodless, so
common.
“Are you telling me you feel nothing?” I asked him. “You’re saying
I’m imagining all this?”
He shook his head. “You have to understand, Megan, I shouldn’t have
let things get this far.”
I moved closer to him, put my hands on his hips and turned him
around. He took hold of my arms again, his long fingers locked around
my wrists. “I could lose my job,” he said, and then I really lost my
temper.
I pulled away angrily, violently. He tried to hold me, but he couldn’t. I
was yelling at him, telling him I didn’t give a shit about his job. He was
trying to quieten me—worried, I assume, about what the receptionist
thought, what the other patients thought. He grabbed hold of my
shoulders, his thumbs digging into the flesh at the tops of my arms, and
told me to calm down, to stop behaving like a child. He shook me, hard;
I thought for a moment he was going to slap my face.
I kissed him on the mouth, I bit his lower lip as hard as I could; I
could taste his blood in my mouth. He pushed me away.
I plotted revenge on my way home. I was thinking of all the things I
could do to him. I could get him fired, or worse. I won’t, though, because
I like him too much. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not even that upset
about the rejection anymore. What bothers me most is that I haven’t got
to the end of my story, and I can’t start over with someone else, it’s too
hard.
I don’t want to go home now, because I don’t know how I’m going to
be able to explain the bruises on my arms.