Not Catching Love (Accidental Love #5)

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Xander

“Your couch is uncomfortable,” I tell Sherwin.

My psychologist smiles at me. “Feel free to move to another one, then.”

I glance at the armchair opposite me. “It’s offensively green.”

“You don’t like green couches?”

“Does it matter? It’s not like they’re a metaphor for my neglectful parents, who I don’t even remember.”

“Is that what you want to talk about?”

Fuck. I forgot I wasn’t supposed to be talking. That’s enough of that. I get up off the couch that feels like it’s made out of screws and pace to the bookshelf. Lines of fancy-looking books stare back at me with random nonsensical ornaments plonked in between. None of it tells me much of anything about Sherwin.

“Does your office depress you? ”

“No. I find it calming.”

That’s hard to believe. “It depresses me.”

“Actually depressed, or trying to engage me in negative emotions depressed?”

“Is there a difference?” I glance over, and he’s watching me. “ Don’t ask me if I think there’s a difference.”

Dr. Sherwin laughs. “I wasn’t going to. But I am getting the feeling that you don’t want to be here.”

“Your big ol’ framed certificate told me you were a smart one.”

“I am.” He nods slowly. “But if you don’t want to be here, I can’t help you.”

“You couldn’t help me even if I did want to be here.”

He’s still doing the annoying watching thing.

I scowl. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“But that’s what you’re here for.”

“No, I’m here so Seven will know that I love him and I’m willing to put myself through this shit to prove it.”

“Seven’s your boyfriend?”

I frown, hating that assumption. “My foster brother.”

“You’re close.”

“Duh.” I wouldn’t be here for just anyone.

“Well, you’ve proved that you love him by being here. Now, why don’t you prove you love yourself by letting me help you?”

That makes me pause. “But I don’t love myself. No one does. It’s no big deal. I’m not a very nice person.”

“Interesting you think that.”

“You’re telling me that you don’t?” I snort. “I’ve walked in here and insulted everything you have.”

“Not true. You haven’t said a thing about my desk yet.”

“Big and wooden. What a cliché.”

He goes on smiling at me. “We have a whole hour. Now, I get paid either way. Are you really going to waste your money by using this hour to talk about my decor? I have a lot of experience, and I’d like to put it to good use.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Your choice.” There’s a pause. “It’s very quiet in here though. If you don’t want to talk about yourself, tell me about Seven.”

“ He’s the one who goes to therapy.” I fold my arms and lean against the bookshelf. “Actual fucked-up things happened to him as a kid.”

“I’m sure he didn’t deserve that.”

He really didn’t. Who would he be if he’d never had to go through what he did? If he’d got to have an easy life, the type we both should have been allowed to experience. “People are assholes. Nothing will change that.”

“I’m a firm believer that anyone can change. If they want to.”

“It must be nice to be an optimist. Molly’s one too, though I probably would be if I had a DILF for a dad like he does.”

“You remember your parents?”

“Nope.” Not that it’s a real loss. “Better off without them though. I was taken as a toddler. They passed out high in the park, and someone called the cops because I was crying.”

“Where are they now?”

Sure, because I’ve really gone looking for them. “No clue. Maybe if I hadn’t cried that night, we’d still be one big, fucked-up family together.”

“Or maybe not.”

“Or maybe not.”

He watches me kindly. Eyes like Derek’s and also not like Derek’s. “Children cry, Xander. And adults make their own choices.”

I yawn, obnoxiously loud. “Gotta say, you made some shit choices along the line, having to listen to people whine all day.”

“I like talking to people. ”

“Are all your clients as big of a pain in the ass as me, or am I a special case?”

“I think you’re interesting.”

“Poor you.”

His cheeks dimple. “I also think you have a lot to say, if you’d let yourself say it.”

I clamp my mouth shut, uncomfortably aware that I’ve given him too much.

I talk all I need to. At home, especially. If Sherwin thinks I’m going to walk in here and trust him with every little thought I’ve ever had, he’s an idiot. He’s done nothing to gain access to that side of me, and it’s not something I like talking about anyway. He already knows more than most people.

“You’ve had to be strong your whole life, haven’t you?” he asks.

I hum, not willing to give much away. “Ah, that’s why my brain has cracked it.”

“Cracked it?”

“Gone fucking cuckoo.”

“Right. Tell me one thing you like about yourself.”

Like? About me? I don’t know how talking about that is supposed to solve all of my first-world issues, but I’ll humor him. “My hair.”

“And the second.”

It takes me slightly longer on that. “My eyes. No, my freckles. No. Eyes.”

He squints up into them. “They’re very purple.”

“Doc … are you hitting on me?” I pretend to curl my hair around my finger.

“It’s a fact, Xander. Is that your natural hair color?”

“Natural hair color. You’re so funny.”

He doesn’t bite.

“What do you like about your hair?”

“It’s bright. ”

“And your eyes?”

“People always comment on them.”

He takes a moment. “Do people comment on your hair?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you had any other color than blue?”

“Sometimes.”

“When was the last time it was your natural color?”

Before I met Seven, for sure. Maybe the foster family before him? No. It would have been the one before that. The family’s eldest daughter was always dying her hair black and did mine for me. I liked her. “Dunno. Maybe fourteen.”

“I applaud your dedication.” He runs a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. “I don’t have the same level of commitment, I’m afraid.”

“You should get Botox. It’s not too late.”

“Thank you for that advice.”

Something in his tone makes me smile before I catch myself. “You’re not going to take it, are you?”

“It’s unlikely. Sometimes I get insecure about things because I’m human. That’s part of us. But I’m generally happy with who I am, and if I have a few wrinkles, that’s all part of life.”

“Philosophical of you. You’d get along great with Madden.”

“Another foster brother?”

“Roommate. But he’s basically my brother. He’s a nudist.”

“Brave of him.”

“S’pose.”

Dr. Sherwin crosses his legs at the ankles. “Are you comfortable standing there, or did you want to try the green chair?”

I cast my eyes over the ugly color. “Fine. But I won’t like it.”

“That’s up to you.”

At least this chair doesn’t feel like I’m sitting on nails .

“Have you been in therapy before?”

“Yep.” I lean back and cross my hands over my stomach. “They told me I was crazy.”

“They said those exact words?”

Does it matter if they didn’t actually use the word “crazy”? It was implied, and I’m not an idiot. I knew what they were all thinking. “More or less.”

“So you don’t want to talk to me because you think I’ll think you’re crazy?”

“No. I don’t want to talk to you because I know it won’t work. Nothing personal, just some people can’t be helped.”

“Well, I don’t believe that at all. And out of the two of us, I’d say my experience makes me slightly more qualified.”

More quack talk. He’s the same as all of the shrinks I’ve ever met before him. They all think they’re smarter than me and that they know more about me than I do. They’re not the ones who have to live in my head; they’re not the ones who have to exist in this flesh packet day in and day out. Sherwin is slightly nerdy but still good-looking. He suits his old-person hair. And his wrinkles.

He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be so completely unloved and unwanted that even the sight of you irritates people. Including yourself.

“What’s next? Are you going to throw me on meds? Tell me what I can and can’t do? Diagnose me with a list of letters and call it a day?”

Dr. Sherwin uncrosses his ankles and stands. “Actually, I want to talk. Out of the two of us, you’re the one who’s an expert on Xander, but sometimes it helps to talk things over with someone who can get your thoughts into order. To see them from another point of view. The only thing I want to achieve out of these sessions is to help you help yourself, in whatever way you deem necessary. You’re the one in control here. ”

The words take a really fucking long time to sink in. If there’s one thing I’ve never had in my life, it’s control, and I’m too scared to believe I have it now. It’s a trick. It has to be.

“I don’t want to be here at all,” I say, testing him.

“Then it’s very possible you’re not ready. And that’s okay. Healing is something that can only be done on your own timeline, Xander, but your first step is accepting that you deserve it. Because you do.”

“I don’t deserve anything.”

“I’m sorry that you feel that way.”

I watch him, waiting for him to deny it or to go on. He doesn’t, and it’s like I accidentally skipped a step. Like the script in my mind wasn’t followed. Panic flares up in my mind, and I trip over what to say next.

He beats me to it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” I say, like I’m latching onto anything.

“Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

A rush of emotion prickles behind my nose. I can’t answer him.

“On your intake forms, you said the one thing you want to get out of therapy is Derek. Now, it’s up to you. If you’re not ready, you can leave. But if you are … do you want to tell me about him?”

This is my cue to go. The thing I’ve been waiting all session for. Something keeps me in that chair though. Something thick, and restricting, and annoying. And almost hopeful.