2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
~ZED~
Even though nobody’s making me be here, each time feels like I’m reporting for a court-ordered punishment.
The carpet swallows my footsteps as I walk through the lobby that smells like lemon disinfectant and magazines. Soft music crawls out of hidden speakers somewhere overhead.
It’s a clean place for ugly things.
The receptionist looks up. Her old, wrinkled expression does that thing—an attempt to smile at me, but it makes me feel exactly as welcome as a cockroach.
Top of the fucking morning to you, too.
I come here when I feel like it, which is almost never. When I want to see Simon, I call. If he can fit me in, I come. If he can’t, I don’t.
I don’t need someone to walk me through my feelings like I’m a house pet with a biting problem every Thursday at two.
I come when the pressure gets loud enough that I’d rather pay somebody to sit across from me and absorb it than risk letting it fly somewhere personal. It’s a transaction. I hand over money, and he listens. Nobody has to feel special about it.
I always show up right on time so I can walk straight into Simon’s office without having to spend time in the waiting room, surrounded by beige furniture and framed bullshit telling me healing isn’t linear.
No shit.
The receptionist is already halfway out of her chair as I reach his door.
“Mr. Mercer,” she calls, “Dr. Simon is still with someone.”
The door swings open fast enough that the person on the other side walks straight into me.
The impact is light. She’s small enough that most of it goes nowhere. Still, one of her hands comes up fast and lands flat against my chest as she catches herself. For a split second, she stays there, and I look down into a face I recognize immediately.
Well, I’ll be damned.
The girl from the rink. Still no name attached to that gorgeous little face. I still don’t know what the fuck came over me that day, stopping at the rink to watch her. All in white. White leggings, white top, blonde hair, and fair skin.
And she didn’t just look good out there. That girl can skate. It took me one look at her technique to know she’s no stranger to the ice.
She moved soft, but never aimless. Almost dainty at first, until you paid attention and caught the edge under it and the lean muscle on her thighs.
Every turn led into something I wasn’t expecting.
Every shift in direction felt too fluid to predict.
Elegant one second, sharper the next. Animated in a way that made it look less like skating and more like she was dancing with something only she could see.
Soft, unpredictable little thing. Like a snowflake caught in the wind on its way down.
Her hand slips off me as fast as it landed, and she takes a step back.
“Oh,” she huffs, looking up, and I watch recognition hit.
Hello again, snowflake.
Her lips part slightly before she closes them again, and she reins herself in.
Suddenly, Snowflake is no longer just the girl from the ice. Out of every rink in this city, she ends up on mine. Out of every damn shrink in Miami, she ends up in Simon’s office.
A laugh almost escapes me, but it dies before it makes it past my throat.
Isn’t the universe hilarious?
She steps aside to give me room, apology ready on her lips.
“Sorry,” she says in a soft, breathy voice. “I wasn’t looking.”
God, she even sounds like a snowflake.
“No harm done,” I tell her.
I feel the same awareness that had flashed between us at the rink before twenty screaming kids barged in and killed the moment dead.
“Have a good day,” she says, already moving around me.
I shift just enough to let her pass, but I don’t take my eyes off her. She walks quickly with her bag tucked close to her side.
She’s halfway down the hall before she looks back, and it’s only for a second, but it’s enough. Long enough to confirm that I’m not the only one feeling the pull of this. The overlap. The repetition.
Simon calls my name from inside, but I don’t move right away. I keep watching the girl until she disappears through the exit at the far end of the corridor, and by then, my day has already gotten a whole lot more interesting.
I don’t believe in fate. But I do believe in patterns, and I’ve learned not to ignore them when they start repeating. A woman catches my eye at the rink, and that would’ve been enough on its own. Then that same woman walks out of my therapist’s office two days later.
Whether it means something or not, I know myself well enough to understand one thing immediately.
She caught my attention before.
Now she has all of it.
I finally walk in, shooting the receptionist behind the desk a look as I close the door. Simon’s sitting in his chair with a notebook on one knee, wearing the same calm face he’s had for years. Nothing in the room changes. Same couch. Same lamp. Same goddamn tissue box on the table between us.
“Good morning, Zed.”
“Simon.”
I take the couch, spreading out, wondering where she sat before me.
He studies me for a second. “How have you been since last time?”
“Still breathtakingly stable.”
That gets the smallest flicker near his mouth. Not a smile. Simon doesn’t smile much with me.
“I’ll note that as sarcasm.” His pen moves.
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
I already want a cigarette. Another reason I don’t come that much. I don’t smoke often, but Simon’s the kind of prude that makes you want one.
He asks a couple more questions, and I answer them. I know the rhythm. He gives me room, waits for what I’ll hand over, and doesn’t push too hard until he thinks the pressure will get him somewhere useful.
Today it won’t.
Because I’m only half in the room.
The other half of me is still out in the hallway, looking at the girl.
He’s three sentences into whatever point he thinks he’s building when I cut across it.
“Who was that?”
His pen stops. “Who?”
“The girl.”
He doesn’t even pretend to think about it.
“I’m not discussing other patients with you, Zed.” He shuts the door in my face.
“Just a name.”
“No.”
I look at him for a second and feel a small, ugly spark in my chest.
“Scared I’ll eat her alive, doc?” I lean back into the couch. “Over a first name?”
His face stays flat. “I think you fixate when something hooks into your head, and I’m not helping you do that to a stranger.”
“Sounds to me like you want to keep her to yourself.” I tilt my head.
“It’s called confidentiality,” he corrects with a sigh.
Funny thing about being told no. A few minutes ago, she was a girl who’d caught my attention twice. Now she’s behind a locked door with his hand on the key, and suddenly, I want it broken open.
“Is that all it is?” I ask. “A woman that hot, sits in here vulnerable and crying, and I’m supposed to believe your mind never goes anywhere ugly with it?”
“Zed.”
“Come on, Simon. I’m supposed to think you’ve never once looked at one of your clients and wondered what they’d let you do if you pushed the right button?”
His jaw tightens. That’s better. I’m getting somewhere, but he needs more.
“You want to know what I think?” I tilt my head.
“Not on this topic, no.”
“I think you picture it. Her on her back, laid out on your desk, with her sweater pushed up so you can see her tits bounce while you pound into her little—”
“You’re wasting your own time and money right now, Zed.” He tries to interrupt.
“Pussy,” I finish.
“Oh, Christ.” He sighs, slapping his notepad on his desk.
“Touchy.” Then I smile again. “Hit a nerve, doc? Or did I nail the fantasy you’ve been jerking off to every Thursday after she leaves?”
He takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at me.
“What you’re doing right now,” he says, slow and even, “is projecting. You’re angry I said no, so you’re trying to drag me down into the gutter with you. It’s not going to work.”
“Did I get the position wrong?” I ask with a frown. “The desk is the obvious choice,” I say. “Maybe you’re a couch man.”
He stays silent, watching me with a bored expression.
Crack, you son of a bitch. Give me something.
“You’re either a saint,” I say quietly, “or you’re lying through your fucking teeth.”
I hold his gaze. Maybe on another day, that lands somewhere. Today, it slides right off.
“Okay.” He nods. “Here’s what’s happening, Zed. A woman caught your attention, I refused to help you get closer to her, and now you’re escalating because you don’t tolerate denied access well.” His stare goes hard. “You are not entitled to every woman who catches your eye.”
I look at him for a beat, then another.
“You think I can’t find her myself, Simon?”
“I’m saying I won’t help you.” He goes back to his notepad, sliding it into his lap again, already done with the conversation.
“I saw her at my rink the other day.”
That gets his attention.
“On my ice,” I go on. “Which has very restricted access. Which means she’s not a random, and she’ll come back. And you can’t do shit about that.”
“You’re proving my point right now.” Simon looks disappointed.
The room goes quiet.
I probably am, proving his point and the point of his endless notes, he’s scribbled onto his notepads about me. I can’t change who I am, not fundamentally, at least. Simon can’t stop an avalanche, but for his sake, I’ll pretend like he can. He’s a good man.
“Relax, Simon. You did your good deed. I’m not going to touch her. Sleep easy.”
“Good.” He watches me for a long second, knowing better.
Then he reaches for the notebook again and tries to steer us back toward the usual conversation.
Nightmares. Survivor’s guilt. I answer where it serves me and go quiet where it doesn’t.
Let him think I’ve stonewalled myself bored and the moment’s passed.
Not even close. Simon made the mistake of putting a no in front of her.
“So, you said you’ve been having nightmares again?” he asks.
“Yes.” I let him steer the conversation back to an old topic.
What else am I going to do, keep circling the same drain? He won’t give me her name. Fine. That doesn’t mean I’m done playing.
“Same one?” he asks.