Chapter 9
Chapter nine
I Have To Be Okay
“You took a nasty tumble down the stairs, huh?”
The doctor at the urgent care looks over every inch of my body, tsking at the bruising on my back that I hadn't been able to make myself look at since it happened.
Until now. It feels a lot worse than it actually looks.
I feel like I should be completely black and blue on my back and not able to see any of my light-brown skin amongst the shadows gracing my flesh.
He’d checked and made sure Bumpy was fine but told me I needed to rest for a few days, so that my body could start to return back to normal.
Stress is not good for babies, obviously.
I accept the prescription for pain medicine and get back in my car to head back home, wanting to clean up and make myself presentable for my meeting with Dr. Richardson. Knowing I have to be one hundred percent on my game for the stubborn man to take me seriously.
As I pull onto my street, my shoulders relax at the sight of the empty driveway. Parking, I inhale a shaky breath and turn off the car, thankful Brandon's gone for the day.
Once in the house, I try to ignore the slight, crampy burning in my stomach while taking extra care to brush out my hair.
I accessorize with some sensible earrings, my best tank watch, a flowy blue skirt, a simple white tank top, and an almost sheer, light-blue camisole.
Curiously, I turn my back to the little mirror in the bathroom and look over my shoulder, making sure my bruising can’t be seen.
My hair hangs in a long curtain down my back skimming across the top of my butt. Thankfully it hides everything.
Picking up my phone, I request a ride service, not feeling confident I can make the longer drive myself, and take a second to swallow an extra-strength pain pill before putting on some makeup so I look normal. I'm determined to advocate for my client even if it kills me.
After a while, my phone pings letting me know my ride has arrived, and I ignore the pain with every step, clutching my bag tight to my body and making my way to the front door.
Half an hour later I'm walking carefully through the marble lobby of the ultra-modern psychiatry building. I glance at the directory and quickly find Dr. Richardson’s name.
He's in an office suite on the fifth floor. Of course he is.
He's at the very top, much like his attitude.
Trying not to limp, I can't help but roll my eyes as I make my way into the elevator. Grimacing painfully as I move to get the folder housing my client’s information out, I commence to flipping through it once more in a fit of OCD.
Relieved, I nod, happy to see that I didn't forget any documents.
It took everything inside of me to make it to this meeting—this is how important it is to make sure my client gets what he needs.
I just need Dr. Richardson to see my side.
I shove the folder back into my bag, right next to the DSM-V that I brought.
I turn, anxious about my appearance, and work to smooth down my hair and tug at my cardigan anxiously.
It's human nature that when you're going through some life-changing event, or even something relatively minor, that we tend to think other people can see exactly what we're going through.
I pray that this is not the case with this guy.
This is an open and shut case, so I shouldn't even have to be here that long, unless he's trying to be a jerk.
When the elevator opens, I walk out slowly, trying to appear like I'm not in pain.
I press my hand briefly into my stomach over the slight swell of my tummy, right under my belly button that I've always detested, and blow out a breath to keep from the bad habit I have of sucking my stomach in.
I've always been curvier and could never manage to get that flat, willowy look that all the other girls seemed to effortlessly attain.
No. God decided to reward me with extra-flared hips and a waist that dipped in on the sides. And being a 34DD, I have larger breasts than I'd like.
Rounding the corner, I make my way to the glass door that leads to Dr. Richardson’s office.
Stopping for a second, I glance around shyly and experience a small pang of envy. He seems to be living the life I've wanted for myself: a tastefully decorated office in a big, swanky building with beautiful landscaping, and a parking lot that holds considerably more than four cars at a time.
Brushing the jealousy away, I breathe deeply through my diaphragm, reminding myself I sank my savings into my little office house and fixed it up into a beautiful, shining jewel. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing.
I push through the glass doors and sink down into a buttery leather chair, trying to carefully sit without pressing my back to the seat.
Looking over curiously, I see the receptionist's desk is empty, and I fight my hackles rising as it looks like they're presumably gone for the day.
My eyes flit around nervously as my palms begin to sweat. Am I going to be alone with him?
I don't even know this man.
Glancing at my watch and seeing that I'm just a few minutes early, I force myself to sit patiently. Going over the words I want to say to get him to see our client needs a new diagnosis. He needs help.
My worries rise to the surface again, bringing my eyes back to the hall which seems to house the psychiatrists, according to the plaque on the wall. Surely Dr. Richardson won't hurt me.
He would never threaten the upstanding professional reputation he's curated for two decades.
Biting my lip, I strain to hear the sound of his footsteps.
Do I call him Mr. Richardson or Dr. Richardson?
My nose crinkles at having to choose. Being snarky in an email is one thing, but to say it to someone's face, especially someone such as he, is completely another thing.
I decide on Dr. Richardson and then force myself to stop staring towards the hall.
It won't help my case if I look too desperate.
I need to appear confident, and a touch aloof.
Maybe he'll respect that since that seems to be what he knows, after all.
I anxiously brush my hair behind one ear as I look down at my knees, trying to hold my spine straight, and ignore the twinge in my vagina and the cramp in my lower abdomen. I just need to get through this meeting; then, I can go home and lay down. I can make it. I can.
I just need to meet with Dr. Richardson first, and then I will be okay.
I have to be.