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Like they are for me.
God, he’s making it very hard for me to hate him.
I want to hate him. Trust me.
I’m aware he’s the enemy. I’m aware that with one signature, he can send me away, to the Outside. But he won’t. Because he’s like them, like all the other doctors I’ve known.
Although, he did fix my medicine-induced insomnia. He put me on sleep meds along with my regular anti-depressant and mood stabilizer. So at least I can sleep at night.
Not to mention, Renn loves everything about him and the way he handled her short meeting. I’ve heard nurses and techs talking about how nice he is. Some patients might still be wary of him, but I’ve seen him always be polite and courteous, opening doors, nodding, dragging out chairs. Not that he’s friendly or chatty but he’s well-mannered.
As I said, very hard – extremely hard – to hate someone who’s so fucking gentlemanly and makes me want to smile, and puts me to sleep.
Licking my lips, I look away from him and down at the t-shirt I’m wearing. It’s a light gray shirt with maroon lettering saying, On a scale of 1 to 10, I’m 9 ¾ obsessed with Harry Potter.
I tug at the hem and say, unnecessarily. “It’s from Harry Potter.”
“I figured.”
“You like Harry Potter?”
“I’m not into fiction.”
“I figured.”
He crosses his arms across his chest. “How?”
I look at him, his face, his put-together hair, his stubble. Then I move my eyes to his starched shirt, his pleated pants, his wingtips. I know I’m checking him out, unabashedly, but I have a good reason.
“You’ve got the wingtips, dude,” I say, smirking.
“Dude.”
“Man?”
“Why don’t we stick with Dr. Blackwood?”
“What if I don’t wanna call you Dr. Blackwood?” I say just to be contrary. “What if I get the urge to call you Simon?”
His name on my lips sounds fresh and new. I’ve never known a Simon before. He’s the first. I like that.
And therein lies the problem.
Just the fact that I want to say his name, means I shouldn’t ever say it.
“Well, then I’d advise counting to ten,” he responds. “That usually helps with the urges. But if not, we can talk about your urges next week.”
Urges.
Something about that word brings back the tingles in my chest and I clear my throat. “My point is that I can see my face in your shoes. They’re uber polished.”
“And that somehow doesn’t go with Harry Potter?”
“No, you don’t go with Harry Potter. I mean, look at you.” I wave my hand at him, up and down. “You’re dressed like you’re a hundred years old, even though you’re only thirty-three. All professional and uptight. No way are you cool enough for Harry Potter.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You look like some kind of a… I don’t know, old-fashioned medicine guy. Sorry, man. Medicine man.”
“Medicine man.”
“Yup. That could be your name.”
“You’ve got a thing for names, don’t you?”
My eyes widen fractionally. I’ve been caught out, haven’t I? He knows I was talking about his name rather than his dad’s at our meeting.
“Nope,” I lie.
“My mistake,” he says but doesn’t look like he believes me. “I’ve gotta get going. I’m late for Quidditch.”
With that, he turns around and walks away, leaving me wide-eyed in his wake.
Did he just say Quidditch?
How does he know Quidditch? He said he didn’t like Harry Potter. How does he know about their sport?
No. Wait.
He said he wasn’t into fiction. He never said he didn’t read the books.
Did he just trick me? After the whole don’t-give-me-your-trick-answers speech from the other day. I know I should be angry. I know it.
But I’m not.
I’m almost in admiration. He knows how to dodge all the questions. He’s a pro. Though I don’t understand what he could possibly be hiding about Harry Potter. Or his dad, for that matter.
Yup, super curious.
When he disappears from view, I face the collages. I stand where he stood. In the exact same place. I’m not as tall as he is so I have to crane my neck, get up on my tiptoes to look at the photos up top.
There are a bunch of pictures celebrating Christmas and some birthdays. I spy Beth, Hunter, Josie, Dr. Martin, and a few other people. Everyone’s grinning with happiness.
These photos don’t depict the gritty realities of staying at a psych ward. They don’t show the night sweats I suffered from during my first week because they weaned me off my old meds. They don’t show Renn’s sickly complexion when she had to purge her lunch last week, and they took her to a different room to do that. I don’t see the dark circles and hollowed out cheeks of the insomniacs, or puffy, red faces of the patients who can’t stop crying after a therapy session.
All these photos show is happiness.
In a place like this. It’s incomprehensible. Incredible.
