Chapter Twenty-Four
Millie
Ifigured a hockey player would be pretty decent at dancing. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought all that footwork on the ice would translate onto the dance floor, but boy was I wrong.
Rowan Pierce is single-handedly the worst dancer I’ve ever seen. Granted, I haven’t seen a lot of people doing the two-step or swinging their hips, but I think it’s safe to say that Rowan would be top ten in the two-left-feet category.
He’s currently working on how to master the side step and has somehow managed to step on my shoes more times than not. Suddenly he spins, which is not at all what we are supposed to be practicing, and slams right into me because he went left instead of right.
Hmph. Scratch that, he’s definitely top five in the two-left-feet category.
“Shit. I’m sorry! Are you okay?” His eyebrows pull together with worry. All I want to do is reach out and smooth the creased skin between his eyes.
“I’m fine, Rowan. But why are you spinning? We’re supposed to be working on side steps and stepping backwards.”
His shoulders drop in defeat. “I thought maybe the spin would be easier.” He looks like a little boy who just got told he can’t have ice cream before dinner with how much he’s pouting. It would be adorable if my feet weren’t so sore from the heels and him stepping on them so much.
“I’m sorry I suck at this so bad.”
A giggle bubbles up and before I can stop it. Once it comes, I can’t seem to stop it or control it. It’s just so dang funny how bad he is at this.
“Damn, Millie. You don’t have to rub it in.” His tone is teasing.
Now I’m the one apologizing. “I’m sorry! I don’t mean it like that. You aren’t that bad.”
He sighs, like he appreciates the small white lie. “Oh, no. I’m fucking terrible.” Once he finally admits it, the tension he’s been holding in his shoulders finally releases, and then his whole body sags in relief.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been worse at something. Maybe that time my mom wanted me to learn how to crochet. But that was more self-sabotage than lack of skill.”
I throw my head back, my laughter bubbling up from the depths of my soul.
Did he just say crochet? I can just picture it now, the big, surly hockey player crocheting a blanket or a flower.
Ooh, maybe it was a hat! Or a scarf. I let my imagination run wild, picturing him with his needle and thread making all kinds of little creations.
Suddenly he pulls me into his chest, his warmth coating every inch of my body with his proximity. He leans down and whispers into my ear, “Want to know what I made?”
We both shuffle our feet back and forth in a dance move made more for slow dancing than the fast-paced and hypnotic salsa dance.
“Very much,” I whisper back, leaning into his touch and soaking up all that delicious warmth.
In moments like this, it’s hard to remember all the reasons why we should just be friends.
I want so badly to close the last few inches between us and place my lips gently on his.
I want to feel his tongue move against mine. My core clenches at the very thought.
And for a split second, I know that he’s thinking the exact same thing as me. I watch as his tongue darts out and glides across his top lip. I see the subtle tilt of his head, angled towards me.
Just as we both inch forward, a loud clap interrupts our little bubble we’ve created for ourselves.
I blink and the spell is broken. It’s not until I look around that I realize we’re standing in the middle of the room by ourselves, our fronts plastered to each other in what can only be described as intimate, and everyone else is standing off to the sides of the room.
It isn’t until the instructor clears her throat that we finally break apart, but he doesn’t completely let go. He clasps my hand as he leads us over to where we were standing when class began. He threads his fingers through mine, leaning down to whisper, “Mittens for my cat.”
I can’t help the smile that covers my face. Mittens for his cat, I repeat in my head, picturing it right along with my smile.
It isn’t until hours later when I’m tucked safely in my bed, after Rowan hugged me goodbye and promised to call tomorrow, that I think about just how full of surprises Rowan Pierce is and just how much I like being surprised.
“Dr. Richards’s office called this morning. They have an opening at ten. I told them we would take it.”
I’m mid-bite, the scrambled eggs I made this morning dangling precariously from my fork. “Oh!”
Mom stops midway to the sink and turns around with her dirty plate still in her hand. “You still want to go, right?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. Last night flashes through my mind. There were no weird tingles going up my spine, save for the ones Rowan gave me, no scary whispers of my name, and certainly no flashbacks that seem real but aren’t my memories.
But I know last night was only a brief reprieve from whatever the hell is going on with me. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I guess I was just surprised about how quickly they could see me.”
Mom’s face smooths out, the wrinkles around her eyes from worry settling. “They said something about a cancellation.”
I try to pretend like I’m not suddenly consumed with worry and anxiety. How do I explain what I’ve been feeling, hearing? I’m going to sound like a complete crazy person; just the thought has my blood pressure rising.
I reach for my pulse point, and as soon as my fingers glide over the sensitive skin, I close my eyes and start counting.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
My eyes open, and my mother is right in front of me, those worry lines back with a vengeance around her eyes.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just got anxious, is all.
” I plaster on a small smile, “You know how nervous I get sometimes in doctor’s offices.
” I play it off like it’s just run-of-the-mill anxiety that I have from years of doctor’s visits, that’s turned into PTSD of sorts, but deep down I know it’s more than that.
I have to give a voice to the thoughts and feelings that don’t feel like they belong to me.
What was I thinking?
“I hear you’ve been experiencing some symptoms that you’re concerned about?” Dr. Richards takes off his readers and places them down on the papers sitting on his desk. He steeples his fingers and places them just below his chin.
I gulp. Even though I thought about how to answer this question all the way here, I still haven’t come up with a way to not sound crazy.
Mom squeezes my hand reassuringly, waiting patiently for me to answer. When I don’t say anything, she gives me an encouraging smile and says, “Tell him how you’ve been feeling, Millie.”
My throat feels dry, and my hands are cold, clammy almost. When I look back at Dr. Richards, I find him watching me carefully, a gentle smile on his face. It’s enough to get me talking, at least a little bit. “I’ve just been feeling off.”
Dr. Richards nods his head. “Like before?”
I’m already shaking my head because it’s not like it was before, not like the beginning. “No, it’s different, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
His bushy eyebrows furrow together in concentration, and he reaches for a pen in front of him like he’s going to take notes or something. That somehow makes me even more nervous. “I see. How about we just start at the beginning. When’s the first time you felt… off?”
“Shortly after our last appointment.” I keep my answer short because I’m scared that if I open my mouth they are going to want to lock me up in the loony bin.
“And what did you feel exactly?” He hasn’t written anything down yet. Maybe that’s a good sign.
I swallow thickly, deciding right then and there to just lay it all out in front of him.
Worst case, I end up in the psych ward for a few days; best case, I get a reasonable explanation for all the weird shit that’s been happening to me.
“Tingling up my spine, like someone was there but there was no one.”
When his eyes don’t bug out of his head from how crazy I sound, I continue.
“Then there was this weird episode in an ice cream parlor where I smelled orange cream soda and it was like I was transported to a different time and place. Weird dreams that feel real but aren’t my own, and the other night—”
I feel like I’m rambling, spilling secrets that I shouldn’t, and when the doctor’s eyebrows do raise and he drops his pen onto the desk, I know I need to stop. To somehow suck it all back in, take back every word spoken, but that’s not what I do. No, I continue like an idiot.
“I heard a voice. A female’s voice, one that was panicked and loud. She demanded my attention, but here’s the kicker: I was alone.”
My mother gasps, and Dr. Richards looks shocked. Like well and truly shocked from what just came out of my mouth.
“Millie! What in the—” A nervous gasp leaves her lips before she turns her attention to the doctor. Her grip on my hand tightens ever so slightly. “My apologies, I didn’t realize the amount of stress my daughter must be under.”
Dr. Richards’s mouth hangs open slightly, like he’s at a loss for words, before quickly recovering and nodding his head vigorously.
“Yes, yes, of course. That’s totally understandable.
” Then he reaches for his pen once more and starts scribbling on a piece of paper.
“I know a great psychologist. He can definitely help with these feelings of being overwhelmed.”
Once he’s done scribbling on the paper, he looks up.
Worry glints across his face for a split second, but it’s long enough for me to catch it.
A gnawing pit grows in my stomach. Maybe something really is wrong with me.
From the looks of it, Dr. Richards is more than a little concerned.
“It’s imperative that you speak with him, Millie.
These feelings that you are having can grow into something much bigger, and less manageable. ”
When my mother shifts in discomfort, the doctor hurries to continue. “But rest assured, this is all still perfectly normal. Millie has gone through an instrumental change, and sometimes those changes are more than we can process on our own.”
His words seem to comfort my mother but do little to comfort me. His pacifying smile only reinforces my unease.
We leave the doctor’s office in silence. My mom is probably still reeling from all the shit I just metaphorically dumped in front of a medical professional instead of coming to her first, which in hindsight I should have done.
Now I’m stuck seeing a shrink, and my mom is going into full-blown protective mode.
Like they say, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.