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Her words fade into the background of my thoughts. Doris, though sweet, has no idea about the women in my life, or what they’ve put me through. A dress issue is so foreign compared to what I’ve dealt with.
Rapping my knuckles on the door, I clear my throat. Put my guard in place. Counselors—all counselors—no matter the type or their beliefs, have one thing in common: they probe the shit out of you. Trying to keep them out of your head and your emotions in check is exhausting.
The door opens, and an older woman with thick red frames and graying short hair eyes me closely. “Boone, I presume. Come on in.” She opens the door farther and motions toward the sofa against the wall.
Wow. She’s old school. I haven’t seen a shrink sofa since…never. Only in movies, with the distraught person lying down with a pillow covering their face. This feels pretty cliché already.
I take a seat. Prop my booted heel on my knee. Run my hands over my jeans. Look at the plaques and pictures on the walls. She’s in one, maybe twenty years back or so, on a cruise ship with a guy standing next to her. His arm around her shoulder. Smiling. Sunset. It screams happy couple.
Nice. I love it when a shrink’s office has constant reminders of how mentally healthy they are. A reminder to patients about how well adjusted we are not.
“My husband,” she says, nodding toward the picture. “Down on a cruise in the Keys.”
I nod slowly. Normally, I don’t mind listening to people tell their stories. I actually like it, like getting to know people. I’m not an outright asshole. Unlike my actions with Miata Guy the day before suggest. But she’s not some nice lady I met at the supermarket. She’s going to try to strip my walls down and tell me about myself. She wants to cause me pain.
I’ve had enough of that for the rest of my life. I just need to get through these meetings, make Jacquie happy again, and not fuck up. I’ve been mostly sober since about a month after the “incident.” That’s what Jacquie refers to it as. And that shit yesterday on the highway was just…blowing off pent-up steam.
My body showcases a few new bruises from last night, so the rage should stay checked for a while.
“So, Boone, Jacquie says you’re one of her special cases. I don’t usually treat people who aren’t admitted to Stoney Creek, but she’s a good friend, and I respect her opinion. She thinks maybe we can work through a few things before your court date.”
My attention perks up. “She already has a date?”
Her lips spread into a bright smile, but I can tell it’s forced. She’s dealt with all kinds of delinquents. I’m sure she’s used to them only being concerned about one thing: themselves. Probably doesn’t make her job any easier.
“Yes, but I’ll let her discuss that with you.” She smiles again, and I take the hint. We’re moving on to why I’m here.
“I’ve read some of your file.” She pats the manila folder in her lap. “But why don’t you tell me why you think you’re here.”
Straight to the point. It normally takes them a couple sessions to get to this question. However, the state’s not footing this bill. So I appreciate her not padding the tab.
“I lost control. Got angry at a driver, and let my emotions get the better of me.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the messily sculpted spikes bounce back into place. “Afterward, I felt awful. Like I knew what I was doing wasn’t right at the time, but I just lost my temper for that moment.” I smile wanly, lay on a bit of charm. “At court, I plan to apologize to the guy. I didn’t get the chance to do so before.”
The creases around her mouth deepen as she nods and smiles. The weathered lines on her face suggest she’s had a lifetime full of them, and she’s been smiling this whole time. “Well, it seems you’re very observant of your behavior.” I nod, agreeing. “And also plenty full of shit.”
My head jerks to a halt.
Her eyebrows raise as she opens the file and dives in. “I’m sure you’re quite the charmer, Boone. I’ve heard your speech here a couple of times, and I see how well you handle the nurses and the other counselors. You really know how to give people what they want.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Then, “I do understand what I did, Misses…”
“Just Carly. I don’t need the reminder of my age.” This time, I smile. “And yes, I believe you do understand. That’s why I’m not letting you slip right out of here so easily.” She thumbs through a couple of pages. “Since I’ve been at this for a long time”—she eyes me—“and you’ve had enough therapists to counter my years, let’s skip the beginner stuff and jump right into the fire, shall we?”
Although what she’s suggesting should scare me shitless, and it does, I can’t help but appreciate this feisty lady and her candor. “Shoot,” I tell her.
For the first time, her smile falls. And I know she’s going in for the kill.
“Tell me about Hunter.”
A hole has been punched into my chest. I’m bleeding all over the floor. My lungs are filled with blood. I’m suffocating, and the shredded pieces of the flesh splay from the hole, fall to the floor, splash the walls.
So when I see Melody, and she says, “Stalk much, creeper?” my insides bubble and rage. The hole grows and swallows me. I can’t stop it.
“Full of yourself, much?” I respond, then turn the corner down the hall, heading toward the side door. I need air.
“What the…?” I hear her say before her rapidly paced footsteps are catching up with mine.
I push through the doors leading to the outside courtyard. The heat smacks me in the face and steals the rest of the air from my lungs. “Fuck. I’m so goddamned sick of the heat.” I rear my fist back, aimed at the brick wall, and stop mid-punch. Jam my hand in my hair and grip at the roots.
