7. Julia
Julia
For my second appointment with Dr. Blackwood, I have accumulated thirty-seven instances of saying I’m fine, fourteen unnecessary apologies, nine occasions where I caught myself turning something emotional into a task, and enough sarcastic commentary in my notes app to make me seriously reconsider handing my phone to a licensed mental health professional.
Especially because the note is still titled BLACKWOOD’S BULLSHIT.
I considered changing it sometime around Friday, when it became increasingly obvious that the bullshit in question was unfortunately producing results.
Deleting the title now would feel suspiciously like admitting he had been right.
There are limits to how much personal growth one woman should reasonably be expected to demonstrate after a single therapy session.
Also, allowing Dr. Blackwood an imaginary victory he doesn’t even know he won feels comfortably beyond mine.
Mara looks up from behind her desk when I approach, her reading glasses sitting low enough on her nose that she peers at me over the frames instead of through them.
“Well, look who came back.”
The greeting is accompanied by a smile, but something about the way she says it makes me slow down in front of her desk and narrow my eyes.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says, returning her attention to the computer in front of her. “I just like acknowledging repeat customers.”
“That makes this place sound like a nail salon.”
Mara considers that for a second before nodding thoughtfully. “We should get punch cards. Ten sessions and your eleventh childhood trauma is free.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it, louder than anything I intended to produce inside a psychiatric clinic, and Mara looks entirely too pleased with herself.
There is something strangely comforting about her, though I noticed it during my first appointment only in passing because I was too busy trying not to crawl out of my own skin to appreciate it properly.
She has none of the careful softness I expected from someone working in a place where people routinely arrive carrying the worst things that have ever happened to them.
She doesn’t lower her voice when she asks how I’m doing or tilt her head with sympathetic concern because she knows why I’m here.
She talks to me like I’m a person who happens to have an appointment, which turns out to be considerably easier to tolerate than being treated like someone who might shatter if spoken to at normal volume.
“He’s running a few minutes behind,” she tells me, glancing toward the closed door of his office. “You can sit. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“That’s fine.” The words are already out before my brain catches up with my mouth.
I stop beside one of the chairs. Mara stops typing.
Slowly, I close my eyes and exhale through my nose. “Thirty-eight.”
There’s a brief silence before Mara asks, “Thirty-eight what?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded very much like a something.”
“It’s therapy-related.”
Her eyebrows rise above the frames of her glasses, but she seems to decide that whatever insanity Dr. Blackwood assigned me falls outside the responsibilities listed in her employment contract.
“Then I definitely don’t want to know.” She simply gestures toward the waiting area.
“Smart woman.”
“I’ve been working here for six years. Survival demanded adaptation.”
I’m still smiling when I sit down. Apparently that’s another thing therapy has accomplished in seven days. I’ve become suspicious of observant people and started discussing my emotional problems with receptionists through numerical codes. Peachy.
The door to Kai’s office opens a few minutes later, and the man responsible for my newly diagnosed inability to answer basic questions like a normal person steps into the reception area looking exactly as unnecessarily put together as he did last week.
The suit is pitch black this time, fitted across his shoulders with the same precision that made my phone conversation with Tessa deteriorate into accusations I continue to deny.
His white shirt is open at the throat today, without a tie beneath the dark vest, which shouldn’t register as noteworthy considering I’m here to discuss trauma rather than evaluate his wardrobe.
And yet, my brain apparently sees no reason the two activities can’t coexist. His glasses are on, his black hair falls slightly across his forehead, and there isn’t a single visible indication that this man has spent the last seven days haunting my kitchen through the medium of unsolicited self-awareness.
His eyes find me almost immediately. “Julia.”
There’s something about the way he says my name that makes it sound less like a greeting and more like confirmation, as though he expected me to be sitting there but still needed to see it for himself.
I stand and pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Dr. Blackwood.”
His gaze passes briefly over my face before dropping toward my hands, and irritation sparks quickly enough that I don’t bother pretending I haven’t noticed.
“Don’t.”
He looks back at me, one dark eyebrow lifting behind his glasses. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Was I?”
“You looked at my hands.”
A hint of amusement moves through his expression. “I generally look at people when they walk toward me.”
“Not like that.”
Behind me, Mara makes a suspicious sound that could be a cough if it were allergy season, but it’s not. I turn my head toward her and find her suddenly fascinated by something on her monitor. Traitor.
When I look back at Kai, the amusement is still there, carefully contained around the edges of his mouth.
“Come in.”
I follow him through the doorway already regretting my decision to return, although the thought feels dishonest almost as soon as I have it. I don’t really regret coming back. That might be even more unsettling.
The office looks exactly as it did last week, but walking into it feels different now that I know what happens inside it.
During my first appointment, every object registered as part of an unfamiliar environment I needed to assess before I could settle.
I knew where the door was without looking at it and how much space separated me from the hallway.
Today, my attention doesn’t go to the exit.
I walk directly toward the lounge chair I used last week and sit without waiting for him to offer me a choice.
Kai notices. Of course he does. There’s no comment, but his eyes flick briefly toward the chair before he takes the one opposite me, and something about that tiny acknowledgment irritates me more than an actual observation probably would.
He rests his notepad against his thigh before looking at me. “How have you been since I saw you last?”
“I’m fine.”
His expression remains perfectly neutral. Mine doesn’t.
“Fuck.” The word comes out on a defeated breath as I drop my head back against the chair and stare at the ceiling.
There’s a beat of silence before I hear him ask, with far too much calm in his voice, “Problem?”
“Thirty-nine.”
When I look at him again, there’s a smile on his face.
An actual smile. It isn’t broad, and it disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, but for those few seconds the severe lines of his face soften enough to make me understand why the restrained version is probably safer for everyone involved.
Some men become warmer when they smile. More approachable.
Kai Blackwood somehow becomes considerably more dangerous.
I look down at my phone before my brain can develop that thought into something requiring another therapist.
“I’ve been keeping count.”
“I gathered that.”
“You look unbearably pleased with yourself.”
His voice carries the faintest trace of amusement when he answers. “I’m pleased you did the assignment.”
“You called it observation.”
“It was observation.”
“It was homework wearing a fake mustache.”
That earns me another brief pull at the corner of his mouth. “Did the disguise help?”
“Not even slightly, but apparently you accidentally assigned homework to an overachiever with control issues, so congratulations. I did it vigilantly.”
The words tumble out before I realize exactly what I’ve admitted, and the moment I do, Kai’s expression changes.
Not much. It doesn’t need to.
“Interesting.”
I point at him with my phone. “Don’t.”
A quiet laugh leaves him this time, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Julia, I still haven’t said anything.”
“You didn’t have to. That was a therapist interesting, and I already know those are dangerous.”
“You’ve developed an impressive ability to interpret my behavior after just one appointment.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo.”
The amusement disappears from his face so quickly that I almost wonder whether I imagined it. Something settles behind his eyes instead, heavier and more focused, but he doesn’t reach for the comment the way I expect him to. He simply shifts his attention toward the phone still in my hand.
“How did you keep track of everything?”
“Notes.”
“Would you rather walk me through them yourself, or would you prefer that I read what you wrote?”
The question catches me slightly off guard, mostly because he makes both options sound equally acceptable.
He doesn’t reach for the phone or hold out his hand, and there’s no expectation in his posture that I should surrender something simply because he asked about it.
I glance down at the screen. Letting him read it would be easier. Which probably means I shouldn’t.
“I’ll tell you.”
“Okay.”
I unlock the phone and open my notes, only to be confronted immediately by the title I should have changed while I still had the opportunity.
My thumb moves instinctively toward the top of the screen. Too late. Kai’s gaze has already dropped, his eyes remaining there for maybe two seconds before slowly lifting to mine. I know exactly what he saw. He knows I know but neither of us says anything. Heat creeps into my face.