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I don’t bother reading the paperwork. I sign my name and nudge the pile back to her. I trust James to have already scoured this thing. I’m still not entirely sure what his job entails, but I’m pretty sure it revolves around contracts and finding potential issues within them. Nothing gets by James.
The clerk simply nods at me and taps a button on her desk a few times before spinning around in her chair and filing my papers in the cabinet behind her. Her nameplate readsMrs. Abett.
My smile drops the second her chair swivels and I let out a long sigh. This place already sucks. If everyone here is aslovelyas Mrs. Abett, then I’m not sure I’ll make it through the week.
“Hello, Miss Coldfox. It’s nice to meet you.”
I look up and find a pair of green eyes staring back at me.
“My name is Jericho Melvich. I am your program counselor.” The man extends his hand to mine and I shake it stiffly.
“Nice to meet you,” I mumble. He has a lot of hope in his eyes, too bright for my liking. He looks maybe two years my senior, the kind of guy who’s sexier with glasses rather than contacts. His jaw is sharp but not as defined as Liam’s. I glance down at my bag, where the onyx stone and ring he gave me are tucked away.
Jericho grabs my duffle bag for me and leads the way down the large hall to the left side of the foyer. Old photos of people who look entirely too happy to have been clinically depressed line the walls.
“Dr. Prestin gave me your file so I could get a good feel for your case. Of course, I can’t get everything from paper though, so tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy? I’d like to integrate anything you like into your weekly treatment.” He looks back at me thoughtfully before adding: “I didn’t expect you to have pink hair. That’s a surprise.”
I roll my eyes behind Jericho’s back when we resume walking, though a grin pulls at my lips as I think of something I do actually enjoy. “I like sex.”
He stops and glances back at me with knitted brows. “I’ve worked here since I graduated college, Miss Coldfox. I assure you it’s not the first time I’ve heard that heinous answer.” His cold green eyes inspect me like he’s searching for something.
I can’t help but wonder if he’ll find it.
“Well, you asked what I enjoy.” I shrug and cross my arms. “Do you want me to lie to you and say I enjoy cooking or something stupid like that? Because I don’t fucking cook.”
Jericho’s gaze narrows. His ears are turning bright red. “Right. Well, not to let you down, but I won’t be addingsexto your treatment plan. I’ll be sure to not have them set you up with cooking either.” He jots something down on his clipboard before we continue down the dark hallway.
The sound of people talking flutters through the air as we come up to a gathering room. It’s filled with nice leather furniture, fancy coffee bars and counters, and a few black oak tables. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch the length of the room.
Men and women in normal street clothes lounge on the couches or lean over the railing that lines the porch outside, smoking cigarettes and breathing in the cold fall air. Everyone seems… happy. Or at least content enough to not have that blank stare or dark circles beneath their eyes.
My eyes widen at the gorgeous baby-grand piano facing the windows, against a background of sage-colored fields and a lush, dark green forest mixed with orange maple trees. Clouds mist the pale blue mountains in the distance.
My heart aches a bit at the nostalgic songs flowing through my soul just from looking at the beautiful black and white keys.
“You play?”
I flinch, having completely forgotten that Jericho was standing next to me. The room transported me to a place I hadn’t visited for a while. Somewhere filled with both resentment and deep, unsettling pain. The music there is somber and distant. Cold.
“Yeah… I did,” I mumble, fisting my trembling hands at my sides. “I don’t play anymore though.”
“I’d like to include it in your treatment plan if that’s okay. Even if it’s just sitting at the instrument.” Jericho brings out his clipboard again, jotting some notes down as I nod, eyes still locked on the piano. I wouldn’t mind staying in this room for a while and just existing for a tiny, insignificant moment.
We walk further down the hall, my eyes lingering on the gathering room until it’s no longer in sight. The west wing turns into a section of dorm rooms. The walls are painted a lovely shade of gray, reminding me of impasto-style paint that has big clumps of texture smoothed in. Jericho stops at an intersection in the hall and waves at a few staff members who are carrying some blankets to what looks like a storage room. Besides Mrs. Abett, the staff seem pretty friendly, unlike the workers at the hospital. I wonder if it’s out of pity or whether they truly care about people like us. They don’t carry the disconcerting look that dealing with people like me is a burden, and that makes my heart lighten considerably.
“My brother said that my bike was here. Are we allowed to leave the grounds?”
“Bike?” Jericho says. “Oh, you mean your crotch rocket? Yes, it’s parked in the garage. We have several lovely roads you can drive in the area. We find that driving can be very therapeutic for our patients and encourage getting outside and looking at the scenery here,” he states proudly. It sounds rehearsed.
I nod. “So those gates we passed through a few miles back, I’m guessing we can’t actually leave?”
He shrugs and continues down the hallway. “Of course you can. This isn’t a prison. Many of the patients take to Bakersville on the weekends to go shopping or to the bars. I think you will really enjoy it here, Coldfox.”
I hate when people address others by their last name. It feels like a distancing tactic.
“That’s not what I expected,” I mutter as I look at the framed photos down the next hallway.
“Yes, well, this institute is very much unorthodox.”
