I laugh a little. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because it’s your job to talk me out of jumping off a cliff?”
Dr. Nelson laughs too, nudging her glasses further up her nose. “No, I’m not just saying that. You’re a smart girl, Scarlett and you’re feeling a lot of things right now. The best advice I can give you until our next session is tofeelthose feelings. Don’t push them away because they’ll creep up on you and come crashing down when you least expect it.”
I do my best to take in what she says, to let it truly settle with me. It turns out that I’ve had this warped perception of therapy for so many years. I knew I had shit to figure out but saying it aloud really showcased just how deep those worries go.
As I leave the office, I make a promise to myself, the same thing I’ve been trying to tell my friends for years, but never thought of applying to myself.
I’m not going to downplay my feelings. If I feel something, I’m going to do just that; feel it. Ignoring it just leads to breakdowns in therapist’s offices on your first sessions and I really don’t want to do that again.
32
Evan
“You’re doing it wrong,” Scarlett warns.
We’ve been walking around the library at school for almost an hour, picking up books to use for references in our final report. Not only do we have to craft the app, but we also have to create a written report, outlining how we came up with the idea and how it would work, as well as another essay about the project as a whole and how it would function as a marketing device.
Scarlett came up with the idea of scouring through the business library and taking pictures of pages of books we’ll read later. She’s convinced this is the most foolproof way to find resources efficiently. Still, each time I pick up a book she has a problem with whichever I choose.
Each time she brushes past me, her soft silk shirt smooths against my skin, I feel her touch like electricity. We haven’t touched each other since that kiss in the rain outside of my house four weeks ago and I’m still confused as to where we stand.
Every time I look at her, I just want to catch her lips with mine, slip my tongue into her mouth while my hands do whatever they can to make her feel good. I just wish I could see into her brain if she’s feeling it too.
She leans against the bookshelf, looking all innocent again with that black shirt and matching skirt, her blouse unbuttoned enough for me to see the slight swell of her breasts. Her ankles are crossed, looking at me accusingly, her fuck-me eyes staring right into mine that I almost forget how to speak.
“What am I doing wrong?” I ask playfully, looking at the hardback book in my hand.
“Everything,” she says, stalking towards me and she pulls it out of my hand. “Move.”
And I do.
I step out of the way so she can look at the shelf I was scanning. She runs her slender fingers across the dusty books, the white ribbon in her hair bobbing as she pulls out a book to read the back. She slides it back into place, sighing.
?Love Is A Bitch - Two Feet
“When will you stop telling me what to do?”
“When you stop letting me,” she mutters. She moves down the aisle and I follow behind her. “Maybe learn how to read first and I’ll consider it.”
“I can read perfectly fine,” I retort, and she chuckles. I bet if I could see her face, she’d be rolling her eyes at me. “You’re just a perfectionist.”
She turns to me now, stopping, pressing her back to the bookshelf. She lifts her chin up. “Oh,I’mthe perfectionist?”
I step in closer to her and I watch the way her breathing goes shallow. The closer I walk into her; she backs up further into the shelf and it wobbles slightly with her weight.
“Yes,” I say, my voice still low. There’s basically no one here. The only people I’ve seen have noise cancelling headphones on, tucked into a darker corner of the library. More privacy for us. For what? I don’t know. But I’m dying to find out.
“You took two weeks to decide between crocodile green and pickle green even though they’re the same fucking colour,” she says, holding her gaze with mine, but I don’t miss the slight tremor in her voice. She’s trying not to be affected by my proximity, but I want to see her unravel.
“They’re not and you know they’re not,” I say sternly.
“They are.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
“They’re not.”
