4. Hanna
HANNA
“There she is, my beautiful best friend,” I hear Rae call out as I step inside the coffee shop. Turning to look at her, I see she’s recently taken her braids out and is now sporting a fantastic looking afro.
“Your hair!” I exclaim with wide eyes. It’s not often I see her natural curls out on display. She tends to keep it braided or wrapped in a protective scarf.
She tucks her chin into her shoulder playing coy. “You like? Got it done this weekend.”
“I love it. You are radiant.” I pull her into a hug and give her a squeeze.
“It’s in the name.” She winks, pulling away and taking a seat at the table she saved for us.
Rae and I have been friends since meeting one another in college.
She’s a few years older than me since I was so young when I got my degree but we connected on an almost cosmic level.
Meeting in one of our psychology classes, there were numerous times we would get together to study or write a paper and end up spending the whole night gabbing about life, movies, or the human development research paper we had recently read for fun.
We’re the type of friends who finish one another’s sentences and know what the other is thinking simply by looking at each other.
While we both started out to be psychiatrists, she decided to take her empathetic heart and nerves of steel to become a social worker instead.
And that line of work here in Charleston is the equivalent of becoming an angel and a superhero all wrapped up into one.
“Thanks for being willing to meet me earlier,” I say, sitting down in my own chair with my freshly ordered coffee.
“Of course, my love. Anything I can do to be able to see your smiling face. I would be sad if our weekly coffee dates didn’t happen anymore.”
We have been meeting up at the same coffee shop for the last year every Thursday morning as a little pre-weekend celebration.
Her work sometimes keeps her busy on the weekends making getting together when I’m not in the office hard.
After not seeing one another for nearly two months, we instituted our weekly coffee dates to make sure it didn’t happen again.
The only reason either of us can cancel is if we get pulled into a work thing or are no longer breathing.
Even if we’re sick, we’ve made it clear that it’s on the other to grab a coffee and come sit bedside with whichever one of us is sick.
“This might need to be our new meeting time unless my 9:00 a.m. wants to reschedule moving forward,” I say before taking a sip of my latte.
“They didn’t set this appointment time?” she asks, curling her brow at me.
“Not this time. Normally my patients set their own times but this appointment was made for the patient.” I’m careful about what I share so as to not break doctor patient confidentiality.
“Is this some sort of conservatorship thing?” Her voice is incredulous.
I tip my head to one side and shake my head at her. “No, it’s not. And I can’t say much but I know that this particular person might not even show up this morning. The way their chief sounded on the phone, I’m half expecting to be stood up and we would have met earlier for nothing.”
“Chief?”
I squeeze my eyes shut realizing what I said.
“Doctor, police officer, or firefighter?” She lists off the options based on the one single detail I accidentally let slip.
I take a breath and speak into my coffee cup before taking another sip. “Firefighter.”
“Ooooooh, the cutest one,” she jokingly exclaims, batting me on the arm with her hand. “Unfortunately not as wealthy as a doctor but we can forgive that.”
“What do I care how much money they make?”
“You’re right, you’re right. We don’t care about that.” She settles into her seat and looks at me with a soft smile. “Firefighter, huh? Those can be tough. They see a lot on the job.”
“Not as tough as social workers,” I quip, knocking shoulders with her. This earns me a laugh.
“You got that right.” When she gives me a sharp nod of her head her hair bounces with the movement.
She isn’t wrong in her assessment, though.
First responders see more in their day to day than most people see in their entire lives.
And then they’re expected to go home at the end of the day and pretend like the images and sounds from work don’t come home with them.
It’s a marvel so many of them work in the field as long as they do without consistent counseling.
The rise in mental health crises in the field is why I put my name on the shortlist of professionals in the area willing to work with the city’s unions to give these people affordable mental health care.
“You think they’ll come?” she asks, taking a sip and looking at me through her lashes over the brim of her coffee cup.
“I hope so. And if they stand me up, I’ll just do paperwork and prep for my session after.”
I smile to myself knowing that one of my favorite clients of the week comes to see me on Thursdays.
He might be grumpy and pretend like he hates coming to me, but I know he’s warming to me.
Conrad Miller might act like a hardened soul, but he’s more like a turtle than anything else.
Hard exterior with a soft inside you fall in love with once he pops his head out of his shell.
“Enough about me, tell me about you. How’s your week so far?” I lean back in my chair and look at my friend.
Then, we fall into our weekly rhythm of coffee and chatting before heading out to face another day of helping other people who need us most.
A soft chime goes off in my office that lets me know that someone has stepped into the waiting room.
After working hard to build a consistent client base, I’ve managed to rent a space in downtown Charleston that’s entirely my own.
A small waiting area allows patients to come in and sit down while my office is behind a door where I meet with them.
It’s small, but I’ve made it into something safe and comfortable.
More than that, it’s something I’m really proud of.
I close the file I’m taking notes in and press myself up from my desk to greet my newest client. Passing the small gold placard my dad gave me with my full professional name on it, I straighten it and smile to myself before stepping out into the waiting room.
“Miles Adler?” I ask to confirm the right person is waiting for me.
He quickly stands from the chair he’s dwarfing with the sheer size of his body.
My eyes scan him and quickly assess the facts I can take in without asking any questions.
Tall, at least six foot, broad shoulders and arms that looked like they could easily carry several heavy fire hoses without breaking a sweat.
He looks like he works out but isn’t ripped like some of the men I see when I actually make it to the gym.
Soft, yet sturdy, with gentle brown eyes and matching brown hair.
“Present and accounted for, doc,” he drags out the moniker and extends a hand. When he does, the firehouse insignia on his navy blue jacket catches the light and I can’t help but look at it.
“Please, call me Hanna,” I correct, meeting his hand and giving it a shake. I have to tip my head up to look at him. My hardly above five foot three frame is no match for his towering height.
“Hanna. I’m Miles,” he introduces himself.
“I know,” I can’t help but tease with a smirk.
I can sense he’s uncomfortable being here but also get the sense that he can take a little teasing.
I’ve always had a heightened awareness of other people’s emotions ever since I was little.
I get it from my dad which is why I went into psychology in the first place.
I pull my hand from his and motion towards my office. “This way, please.”
We walk back into my office and I wait for him to step in before closing the door behind us.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, soda?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you though.” His head is on a swivel, taking in the new space and assessing the situation.
Hyperawareness at its finest. Makes sense for a first responder.
His fight or flight senses tell him it’s safe to get comfortable and he slips off the jacket he’s wearing.
As he does, his muscles contract and I make note of the two very distinct tattoos on his toned arms.
‘The cutest ones!’ Rae’s words ring out in my head as I reach for a fresh notepad and a pen from my desk. I take a quick breath before turning around to face him.
“Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. This space is just as much yours now as it is mine,” I direct, nodding towards the couch I keep in my office.
He audibly exhales as he lowers himself down. “You know having all this extra stuff on the walls increases the fire hazard of this room. And the bookshelf in front of the window blocks a critical emergency exit,” he comments, looking around seriously as he speaks.
My head looks at the bookshelf that’s halfway covering the window. Turning back to look at him, I give him a soft smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sitting on the edge of the couch, he crosses his arms defensively in front of his chest and finally brings his gaze back to me.
“So.”
“So,” I repeat, keeping my tone light and open.
My glasses have slipped down my nose so I reach up to press them back into place.
He watches me diligently, keeping his eyes fixated to my fingers as they press the round silver frames I’ve needed to have adjusted for months now back into their rightful place.
Vigilant. Pays attention to details. Makes sense for someone who’s in the line of work he’s in.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time today, Ms. Smith, but I really don’t think I need to be here,” he says with an upright palm.
“Please, just call me Hanna,” I correct, intentionally skipping over his comment about not needing to be here.
“Okay…Hanna.” He wrings his hands in front of him as his eyes dart around the room.
“So you were in the Navy?” I ask, trying to not rush into why he’s really here. His captain had been a little more forthcoming on the phone than I’m sure he would appreciate, but I’m not going to tell him that. When he gives me a perplexed look, I nod my head towards the tattoo on his arm.
“Marines, actually.” When his shoulders drop I know I’ve found a soft spot in his otherwise tough exterior.
“How long did you serve?” I ask.
“Ten years.”
Instead of replying, I sit and wait. Watching him with a smile, I get comfortable in the silence and know that, eventually, he’ll say more simply to fill the void.
It’s a tactic I use on clients who aren’t particularly chatty but I want to encourage them to open up.
We stare at one another for several long, silent seconds before he can’t take it anymore.
“How long have you been practicing therapy for?”
“About a year. And I’m a psychiatrist, which means I can prescribe medication for people who need the extra support.”
This gets him to scoff. “I would never.”
Interesting response.
“Never what?” I probe.
He hesitates and I can see him calculating his response. “Not that there’s anything wrong with taking medication, I know some guys who do, for their nerves or whatever. But I prefer to steady my nerves in other ways.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I don’t know, like grabbing a beer or working out or—”
“Running into burning buildings,” I finish. His eyes narrow in on me for a moment before he does something I don’t expect—he laughs.
“Yeah, like running into burning buildings.”
“How would you say your nerves have been recently?” I shift in my seat so I’m sitting on my feet with them tucked underneath me.
He watches me closely, his hyperawareness on full alert since he’s in a situation that makes him uncomfortable.
Even in a controlled environment like my office, he seems unsettled.
“They’re fine,” he answers promptly.
“Liar,” I shoot back quickly.
Something about me that I love is that I don’t sugar coat things, even with my patients.
At least, the ones who I know can take the truth—the ones who I know don’t want me to sugar coat things for them.
From the interactions I’ve had with him so far, I know he won’t appreciate me beating around the bush.
“Excuse me?” He raises a brow at me and tucks his chin towards his shoulder.
“I called you a liar. I can tell that your nerves, or better yet, your nervous system is anything but fine.”
He licks his lips and digs the pad of his thumb into his wrist, rubbing the soft bit of skin with a purpose. “And what makes you think that?”
“You do,” I say simply, peaking my eyebrows a fraction of an inch.
This gets him to scowl at me. “You’ve been sitting on the edge of the couch as if it’s going to swallow you whole if you relax even a little.
Your eyes have been scanning the room on high-alert ever since you walked in here.
Even now, you’re trying to burn a spot into your wrist with your thumb. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”
When I jut my chin towards his hands, he pulls them apart and leans back on the couch, trying to act casual.
“Ten years in the Marines, five years as a firefighter. That’s a long time living in high-stress situations and I don’t even know what your childhood was like. That kind of life puts a lot of wear on a person, the kind of wear we don’t even realize we’re living with.”
“Like I said before, I’m fine.” He swallows hard.
I pause for a moment to let my words sink in and to give him a chance to add anything more. When he doesn’t, I set my feet back on the ground and sigh.
“Okay, you’re fine.” I clasp my hands together in front of me and give him a smile. “If you say you’re fine, you’re free to go.”
Without hesitation, he’s on his feet and heading for the door.
“But Miles,” I call out. He turns to face me, hand poised on the doorknob ready to bolt. “If you decide you aren’t fine, you have my number. I’ll leave this time open for you next week in case you decide you want to talk.”
“That’s very kind of you, doc, but I won’t be needing it.”
And with that, he slips out of my office and it isn’t long until I hear the lobby door close behind him.