Chapter One
“W hat do you think it means?”
I hate when he asks me that. As if he isn’t fully aware of what it means already.
But he wants me to say it. Not even to find out if I’m smart enough to be on his shared wavelength… He knows that I am.
He wants to hear me say the words.
Pausing—for dramatic effect—I give him a taste of his own medicine. I wish I could say that it causes even the tiniest reaction from him, but it doesn’t. The bloke’s like stone . “I think it means that I wish I’d killed my parents.”
Dr. Love stares at me for a moment, giving me that blank robot-gaze, penetrating in its rigidness.
He taps his pen on his notebook. Twice. I try not to notice it because I rather enjoy holding his eyes.
It makes me feel like less of a head-case patient to one of the best clinical psychiatrists in the country.
Finally, he speaks, after a few heavy seconds that hang in the air like smoke. “How do you feel about the fact that you didn’t?”
I shrug, bored. Noncommittal.
He’s not buying it.
Releasing a slow breath, I shift in my seat. “Maybe a tad edgy. Knowing they’re still out there… Living. Breathing … when they don’t deserve to be.”
The amber in his eyes lights up a bit. It’s dazzling to witness, and even more captivating to know that I made it happen.
“How do you know they’re still alive? Have you checked?” he asks curiously, with the accompanied head tilt and everything.
“Well, no ,” I huff. He gives me a look. “But I can tell they are. If they were dead, I’d feel it. In my bones…”
He blinks, as if he finds this notion ridiculous. And of course he does. He’s a doctor; a researcher, a scientist . Things must always be black and white, a factual explanation for everything. It’s his one weakness.
Dr. Love sits back, crossing his left ankle over his right knee.
It lifts his tailored dress slacks enough that I can see his socks.
Navy blue to match his button-down shirt.
He’s not the type of bloke to wear socks with fancy patterns or comical depictions on them, as if one’s socks are an expression of their personality.
The Wall Street bankers in their Tom Ford suits, wearing socks with designs from Game of Thrones or Stranger Things to prove they’re more than what meets the immediate eye.
Hey, I’m not a boring corporate wanker! Look at my socks. That’s Patrick from SpongeBob !
Although, if we’re being honest, Dr. Love’s humorless dress socks might be exactly that. A look into his Post Raisin Bran personality, and a proud one, at that. He has no hidden eccentricities to show when his pants ride up.
He’s an organic individual. What you see is what you get. And what you see is a stoic, unsmiling enemy of the cheerful robot -person, whose only joy is derived from cracking open the skulls of deranged human beings like myself and poking around inside. Figuratively, of course.
Still… he makes it look good.
My eyes travel up from the drab sock, getting lost in how well his slacks fit the obviously muscular shape of his legs.
The same goes for his torso… Sometimes it looks like his clothes are painted onto his body.
As if he stands naked in his closet every morning and, like a tanning booth, has his expensive attire sprayed onto the curves and slopes of hardened definition that he undoubtedly works quite hard to craft.
And I’m drooling.
“Trevel,” he says my name the way he’s been saying it for the last three years; like he’s my doctor and I’m his patient . That’s all.
He’s only with me because he’s being paid to be, and thus any flutters that may occur when hearing him speak my name are completely one-sided and foolish.
I jump, startled out of the way I was ogling him— hopefully not too blatantly. “Hm?”
His eyes narrow. “I asked if you’ve thought any more about what we discussed.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “No, not really.”
“And why not?”
“Because I just…” I pause to consider another way to explain this to him, since it doesn’t seem to be registering. “I don’t want to scare her away.”
Dr. Love appears surprised by what I’m saying. As much as he’s able, anyway. Maybe fifteen percent. “Do you think what you have with Alice is that fickle?”
Yes. “No… Not necessarily.” My jaw tightens a bit, and I look down. “But we’re only still getting to know one another.”
“Isn’t sharing things like this a part of that?” he asks pointedly.
“I would say revealing my inner monster is more three-month anniversary material, don’t you think?” My lips quirk, and for all of his robotic tendencies, I get the reaction I’ve been craving. The most minor change to his face, from stone-serious to mildly amused.
It has me flying .
He scribbles something in his notebook before glancing back up at me. “I see you’re no longer referring to Alice as ‘they/them.’ That’s new.”
I nod. “She’s decided to use pronouns that make her more comfortable.”
“Good. I’m sure that’s helpful for her.”
“It is.” My mind reflects to a few months ago, when I first met Alice. “She said that she was using ‘they/them’ in the early stages of her transition, but that she’s always wanted ‘she.’ I’m happy to give her whatever makes her feel happy and respected.”
He stares at me for a moment before asserting, “This relationship is clearly growing more serious for you, Trevel.” Uh-huh…
and? “It’s interesting to me that you have no problem accepting Alice and supporting her emotionally, but when it comes to opening up yourself, you’re afraid she won’t accept you. ”
My head tips back and I stare at the ceiling. “That’s not the same thing.”
“I believe it is.” The gruffness in his voice causes my chin to drop, our eyes meeting once more. “This is a part of you, Trevel. This is who you are. If you ever want to move forward in your personal relationships, you’ll need to let people see the real you.”
My stomach twists into a knot as I blink at him. “What if she hates it? What if she… runs screaming?”
Honestly, who wouldn’t?
He gives me a bit of a patronizing look that reminds me of Riverwoods. White walls, fluorescent lights, little paper cups full of pills and the gurneys with the straps… “If someone isn’t willing to accept you for who you are, then they’re not the right person for you.”
Sighing harshly, I rub my eyes. We’ve been having this conversation for nearly a year, since I left Riverwoods—the psychiatric facility I’d been confined to following… my crimes.
Dr. Lemuel Love, PhD, has been my doctor for long enough to know pretty much everything there is to know about me. He knows all about what I’ve done, what I’ve experienced, and who I am as a result of those things.
He knows exactly how fucked up I am; how broken and jaded inside. And he’s also seen how far I’ve come. From lashing out in the early days at Riverwoods—screaming and crying and throwing fits—to existing as a productive member of society. More or less.
I have a job that I enjoy, a small apartment here in downtown Atlanta that’s more than enough for just me, and a few acquaintances, though more often than not, I choose to spend time alone. That is, until Alice.
Part of me thinks I liked Alice more before we started dating. Another part of me thinks that’s an excuse.
Because of how well Dr. Love knows me, he’s more than aware of how much stock I put into finding love. Then again, that’s also the most obvious thing about me. I never had love growing up, so I search desperately for it now as an adult.
It’s so axiomatic, it borders on cliché.
The difficult part comes with the idea of a real relationship. Something more than just the superficial. It’s human nature to hide our faults in order to get people to like us… But to Dr. Love’s point, is that sustainable?
Do I really want a relationship with someone I have to hide things from? Would my partner want that?
I think we all know the answer to these questions, which is why my doctor won’t let it go. But still… when I consider the darkness that lurks in the corners of my mind…
Scream.
Thud.
Pain.
Slap slap slap.
Tears.
Slice.
Twist, drag.
Blood. Everywhere.
“In all honesty, this could be the reason you’re hesitating so much when it comes to getting physical with Alice,” he goes on, yanking me, almost brutally, out of the depths of my thoughts. “You feel like you’re being dishonest.”
I swallow thickly. “I’ve had physical relationships with people since Riverwoods…” My voice trails, though I don’t mean for it to. So I roll my eyes to seem extra adamant. “It’s not like I tell people I meet on Tinder about all my issues before sleeping with them.”
“Those relationships are strictly physical,” he counters. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but with Alice, it’s different, is it not?” When are you ever wrong, Dr. Genius? I nod hesitantly. “You’ve been invested in making this relationship work for weeks, despite not having been physical yet.”
Petulantly, I pout. “We’ve done some things…”
“And in showing your support for Alice with her struggles,” he goes on, ignoring my stubborn little comment, “comforting her through her family troubles, being an ear and a shoulder for her, you’ve aided in her bringing down her walls.
” He stares at me for a moment before murmuring, “What about yours?”
Fucking hell… The bloke is good.
Sometimes I resent it. How he’s able to make the things I grapple with seem so cut-and-dry. But then I remember that he has my best interests at heart. He’s been the only one on my side for years…
He’s the only one who knows the real me.
Maybe I like that fact…
In lieu of accidentally blurting this out, or making some face that allows him to read me, I look down at my hands, wringing them in my lap. “I suppose I could… speak to her about it.”