Chapter 6
DR. DAWSON COLE
Emory’s late.
I glance down at my watch, noting that it’s almost ten minutes past our normal start time. She didn’t call in and say she wasn’t coming. Is it possible that she finally decided she’s no longer willing to be vulnerable with me?
My mind darts back to the sensation of her hand on my arm as I told her about my past. I shouldn’t have gone there, shouldn’t have crossed that line, but I saw the hope in her eyes afterward.
My goddamn heart grew two sizes in that moment.
I focus back on my computer screen and the program where I write my notes for each patient.
I review the information I typed in after our appointment last week.
She couldn’t get through the rest of the narrative portion of her visit, which isn’t surprising.
She’s still struggling with what happened to her and the anxiety it causes.
Most people have a hard time during the first try.
Trauma is a fickle thing and usually has to be handled with more care than the victim realizes. It guts me knowing that Emory is stuck in that place. That once upon a time, she was likely much livelier than when she’s sitting on my couch across from me.
There’s this intense need inside of me that wants to see a genuine smile cross her berry-stained lips. Somehow, I just know it’d be one hell of a reward.
You’re her counselor, dick. Keep your head on straight.
I click out of the program and glance at the time on the screen, wondering how long I’ll have. I open a browser and type her name into it—Emory Prescott—in hopes that there might be something there I can learn about her. Probably unlikely. Still, I try.
I scroll until I find a website that links back to her.
My eyes narrow on the link, and I click it.
It takes me to a photo gallery located right here in Coralhaven.
I go through the Artists page until I land on a photo of someone that looks like a happier version of the Emory I know, her eyes so much damn clearer than they are now.
There’s a short paragraph about her, and pictures of her pieces are listed below, a few of them priced close to a thousand dollars.
Damn.
There’s one similarity they all share. They’re all pictures of the ocean, the beach, and the like.
My attention settles on a specific picture that shows the peak of a small wave, water droplet splatters hovering above it with the sunset painting the horizon in yellows and golds.
The photo looks edited, like more contrast and filtering was added in to make the details of the image pop.
It’s…fucking breathtaking. No wonder they’re priced so high.
I click back to the search engine and do another quick scan, finding a newspaper listing for an engagement announcement. I read over it three times, my stomach lurching at the name of the man—Lance Bronson.
She hasn’t mentioned him yet. But I’m not necessarily expecting her to since we’re solely focused on her accident and the potential of suicidal ideation.
Which makes me realize all the fuck over again that I am a thirty-three-year-old man and should not be doing this—stalking my patient on the internet and wishing, for unknown reasons, there wasn’t a man for her to go home to at the end of the day.
I’m lonely, and this is nothing more than me recognizing a beautiful woman when I see one. A beautiful woman who has the ability to understand what you’ve been through, what you’ve felt, and that you’re desperate for a connection that runs deeper than the price of a coffee pod.
The door rushes open a second later, and I snap my laptop screen shut as a thrill races through me at almost getting caught. There’s no way she can know I was just fucking Googling her.
She’s breathless as she hurries in. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” I tell her, distracted by thoughts that shouldn’t even be on my mind. “Why don’t you get settled, and we’ll get started?”
She responds by removing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her arm free from the bandage I’ve seen her wear the last two weeks. Instead of a cottony substance covering her arm, I’m gifted with her pale flesh, an angry pinkish scar along it.
My eyes catch on a glimpse of—is that blood?
“Emory.”
“Yes,” she breathes out quickly, “I’m ready to talk about whatever it is you want to start with, even though I’d really rath—”
“No.” I shake my head, reaching back to set my laptop on my desk. “Your arm,” I point to it, “is bleeding.”
“It is?” She’s quick to look down at it, hissing out a muttered curse.
The scarlet liquid trails down her skin like a crack in cement, jagged and uneven. I grab a tissue out of the box on my desk and reach over to hand it to her. “Press that to it. I think I have Band-Aids in my desk.”
“Oh, it's, uh, it’s fine. I’m sure it’ll stop in a minute.”
I walk around the mahogany hunk of wood and pull open the top drawer.
My voice is rough when I say, “It’s not fine.
You’re bleeding when you shouldn’t be.” My eyes flick up to hers, gold on green, as my body thrums with the need to care for her, to protect her, even from herself. “There’s nothing okay about that.”
I disregard the reverent nod she gives me and sort through a few items until I land on a small collection of bandages freely floating around. I grab one, along with a random alcohol pad I find.
My legs take me straight to the couch where I settle in next to her, not giving a single damn if I’m sitting too close.
A flash of blood on my own skin pops into my mind.
It only adds to the restlessness that consumes me when I think about what came from that disastrous night.
How I didn’t just lose an ungodly amount of blood, but also an organ—my kidney.
“I can do it myself,” she says, holding a hand out in hopes I’ll give her the supplies. Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m not going to sit here and watch her clean herself up.
I gently take her arm and angle it so I can see better but also so the blood doesn’t run and drip down her skin when she pulls the tissue away.
I’m fully aware of how cool her skin feels against mine.
How it chills me like stepping outside into a snowstorm but heats me like a million-degree furnace.
Nothing but the idea of stripping her down just to build her back up into the strongest version of herself formulates in my mind.
How fucking beautiful it’d be to witness that.
For her but also for me.
I hold her wrist with my right hand, my left trailing along the underside of her arm, my thumb softly skimming close to the wounded skin.
“Dr. Cole,” she exhales, trying to pull her arm away from me. “Please. I got it.”
I don’t let her retreat so easily. Why the hell would I?
My eyes lock on hers, my left hand still holding her arm. My tone is thick and unwavering. “I’m not someone who’s okay with seeing others struggle. I can help you, so let me.”
“I can put on the Band-Aid myself,” she argues, an argumentative hitch in her tone.
“You can but it’ll be a lot easier and quicker if I do it.”
Don’t make me sit here and watch you struggle.
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, her teeth cutting into the soft flesh. I damn near reach up and pull it free, part of me very tempted to imagine what it would be like to run my thumb over every inch of her delicate skin.
But then a voice inside my head reminds me that I’m her therapist. My job is to help her, not make things worse, so I roll that thumb over an imaginary lighter and set the thought on fire.
She’s quiet while I pull the tab of the bandage open and rest it on my leg. I don’t dare look at her face, knowing that my weak walls will crumble if I do. “Seems like it was your turn to be late this time. Is everything okay?”
I don’t know why her fiancé pops up in my head, but he does. He's nobody to me, just a name without a face. But he reaches into my goddamn mind and reminds me that Emory is his and nowhere close to being available.
“Everything’s fine.”
For a reason I can’t explain, I don’t believe her. I finally relent and glance at her face as I rip the alcohol pad open and smooth it over the edge of her scar. Blood smears into the wet cloth, and while I should care that some of it gets on my finger, I don’t.
She winces at the sting of the disinfectant, and I lean down to blow cool air on it, my lips inches from her skin.
“It’ll feel better in a minute,” I tell her as we wait for her skin to fully dry.
“Is this supposed to happen?” I ask, referring to her laceration.
Anyone would be able to tell the skin is still fresh from being stitched shut, but I don’t think any part of it should be opening up, especially with the sutures gone. At least, I never had that problem.
“I had an issue with one of the stitches. A little piece of it was stuck inside my skin. There was a bump there, and I could feel it. My doctor told me it was normal and that typically they’re pretty easy to press out.”
“So you started picking at it.”
“Only to see if I could get my skin to spit the stitch. I ended up irritating my skin more than anything, and a small scab formed. My bag strap must have caught on it when I rushed in…”
I press the sticky ends of the bandage to her skin. “You should keep it covered until it heals fully, so you don’t go bleeding all over everything.”
The small joke cracks a tiny grin from her, and I love every second it lasts.
I ball up the trash in my hand and figure it’s time to get back to my side of the room.
I drop the wrappers into the trash bin on the way and settle in my chair across from her, wanting to return to the previous topic while also wanting to still be next to her.
Like last time, she pulls one of the pillows onto her lap and rests her hands on top of it. I watch her for a moment as she fumbles with her fingers, quickly succumbing to picking at her cuticles.