Chapter 22 #2
“I’m sure.” I nod. I pull out the chair in front of the black round pieces so she can take a seat before spinning my chair around so I’m sitting in it with the back against my chest.
“So, you mentioned something about being on call the last forty-eight hours. How was that?” She isn’t looking at me while she speaks. Her eyes are focused on the board, hand floating above her pieces, trying to determine which one to move first.
“It was fine, pretty slow, honestly,” I explain, suddenly yawning. She glances up at me over the brim of her glasses and smiles.
“But you had a call last night.”
“That we did.”
“Is everyone okay? What kind of call was it, if you don’t mind me asking?” She moves her piece finally and without thinking about it too hard, I move one of my own across the board.
“House fire. Everyone is fine, thankfully. Faulty electrical in the garage and the structure was older so a portion of the top floor was impacted.” She moves a piece, then I move my own. “Carter got attacked by the family cat, but in the end we managed to save her too.”
“Her?”
“Millie. Millie the cat,” I explain. A silence falls between us for a moment as we each take another turn.
Knowing where I want to move next, I reach across the board half a second too quickly causing our hands to brush against one another as she’s moving a piece of her own at the same time.
Quickly pulling her hand away, she tucks a stray hair behind her ear and presses her glasses up her nose.
“That’s a cute name for a cat,” she comments, not looking at me. After a beat, she seems to collect herself and leans back in her chair. “How’d it feel?”
“How’d what feel?” I ask.
“Being onsite at a house fire,” she responds directly. “Any unusual stress, anxiety, anything like that?”
My eyes furrow at her. I haven’t mentioned anything about anxiety or extra stress to her in our sessions. Why is she asking me about it now?
“Not any more than usual,” I lie. I know I should be honest with her but the last thing I need is for her to go back to the chief and tell him I’m struggling with PTSD. I’m managing in my own way and that’s all that matters.
“It’s okay if you’re dealing with those things. It’s very normal in the line of work you’re in. People deal with anxiety, flashbacks, sudden increased heart rate, even PTSD related symptoms. You see a lot on the job, dealing with these things is simply a byproduct of your work.”
She’s analytical in her explanation, almost detached. Breaking my eyes from hers, I look at the gameboard and move another piece.
“Your turn,” I say, ignoring what she just said.
“You know, Miles, I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.” When I look up at her, she has her head tipped to one side.
“You are helping me, doc. In more ways than one.” She doesn’t need to know all of the ways she’s helping me. I’m sure if she knew she wouldn’t want to see me anymore. I wave a hand at the board to encourage her to take her turn.
Reaching across the board, she jumps another one of my pieces, claiming it as her own.
“I’d love to believe that.” She sighs. “If I’m being honest, I’m worried about you.”
Sitting across from her, I feel the air shift into something more personal than professional. Is she worried about me as my therapist or worried about me for some other reason?
I lean on my elbows against the table and move one of my pieces in front of hers before speaking. “Can I take you somewhere tomorrow?”
She laughs and shakes her head. After jumping the piece I just moved, she looks at me. “That sounds almost ominous.”
“It’s not, I promise. You said you’re worried about me and I want to show you that you have nothing to worry about.”
Pressing her lips together, she screws up her eyes and studies me.
“Come on, doc. It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“I have two morning sessions I’m making up from when I was sick.” She exhales slowly and shakes her head at herself. “But we could meet up after if that works.”
Yes, I say internally with a mental fist bump.
“I’ll pick you up at your place. Wanna grab lunch before we go?”
“This is starting to sound an awful lot like a date, Mr. Adler,” she teases.
“Please, what kinda guy do you think I am?” I jest, bringing my hand to my chest for impact. “I am simply trying to show my therapist that I am of stable body and mind so she doesn’t have to worry about me. If lunch says ‘date’ to you, we can skip lunch.”
“No,” she objects a little too quickly. Trying to recover, she adjusts a piece of her hair and clears her throat. “We can do lunch. I love lunch.”
I can’t help but smile widely at her. “Then it’s a totally-not-date lunch and afternoon outing. I’ll text you when I’m on my way over.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She smiles back. “And Miles?” She tips her eyes up to me and when I look at her, she looks like trouble.
“Yeah, doc?”
With a final move of her piece, she sets the plastic circle down with a little more force than necessary and smirks at me proudly from her side of the table.
“I win.”