Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Pathologizers
God, I'm in such a good mood at the thought of seeing Sarah again.
This week has been absolute shit, and my heart was racing out of control last night for some reason. I spent most of the night tossing and turning in discomfort, but I chalked it up to my excitement for our meeting today and got up a full two hours earlier than usual since I couldn’t sleep anyways.
Though I'm not one who normally has anxiety attacks, I also can't help but wonder if this shit with Hannah and my son is about to come to a nasty head, contributing to why I've been so off-kilter this past week.
But I put all that to the back of my mind because I'm about to see her after seven long days.
At the realization, my heart tingles, and all the other bullshit…it falls away with every step that brings me down the hallway and closer to her. My heart beats harder with every step, and I feel so crazy I might let her bite my head off over this client if that means I can be near her.
Floating on cloud nine, I can't exactly help the pep in my step as I round the corner into the lobby of my practice. Which is so not like me. I’ve been anxiously thinking about how our next visit is going to go all week, and to be honest, I'm a little surprised by how elated I am that it's now six o'clock.
Self-consciously yanking the lapels of my light gray suit, I pause at the sight of Sarah sitting in the same leather chair she was in last time. Except this time she looks much stiffer, and curled in on herself…
Hunched over legs that are not crossed...
In heels that are much lower than the ones she had last week…
Her fingers are clenched tight in her lap.
So tight, the skin at her knuckles are pale, and so lost in thought is she that she hasn't realized I've come in the lobby to join her.
I clench my jaw as my skin becomes hot, and my chest tightens with worry that I feel might be inappropriate, due to the fact I don't really know her, to be so concerned with her demeanor. However, my eyes narrow slightly, not caring for her posture.
Finding my legs again, I walk halfway through the lobby and stand patiently, waiting for her to notice me. But just like last week, she doesn’t.
“Ms. Johnson." I tilt my head as she unfolds her limbs and reaches down for her bag, still not looking up at me.. "Are you ready? Good to see you again,” I offer kindly, beginning to wonder if I’ve offended her beyond forgiveness.
My brow furrows as she continues to stare off to the side, and I take another step forward, doing a quick assessment across her body. That sensation from last night returns.
Something's wrong.
At her continued silence, my peppy mood begins to dissipate.
My jaw works, my good mood souring. Playing it safe, I'd masturbated this morning and felt I had a pretty good grip on my lust…
even feeling more mentally clear than I did last week.
But seeing her again, I'm wrong. I harden again as soon as my body realizes the source of its desire is but mere feet away.
Until she stands up, that is, and she's just moving…
wrong. It almost kills me to keep a neutral expression on my face.
"Hi," I say softly when she finally looks up, but refuses to meet my eye.
"Hi."
Shit. Her voice sounds tired and short. Full-bodied with stress.
My brows rise, and I frown as she begins to make her way to me. "May I take your bag?"
Sarah shakes her head. "No, thank you. I got it."
Nodding, I hold my arm out to usher her to my office, noticing her slight limp. She's incredibly stiff as well, her hips not having the same gentle sway they did last week. I tilt my head down curiously as she passes by me and can’t help but to take a deep inhale.
She might be moving oddly, but she smells delicious.
“Please, have a seat,” I offer once we're in my office, but Sarah's already two steps ahead of me, slowly lowering into a chair opposite mine like she’s scared to move too much.
Picking up on this action, I keep my gait controlled and my eyes sharp on her as I round my desk.
I also note her eerie silence as she begins to take items out of her bag one by one, staying quiet when she unceremoniously moves the wooden plaque that boasts my name over to hang out behind my monitor.
Noticing she really doesn’t seem to care for or be overly impressed by titles or formalities of status, I try not to let that bother me and instead get comfortable in my office chair.
I place an ankle across my knee and rotate my chair slightly side to side, amused when she slaps a folder down that's tied-up with twine, along with another folder, and wouldn’t you know it: the DSM-V.
The bible of the mental health field.
I chuckle because she's a very serious little thing, and that in itself is a turn on.
Sarah throws me a rather filthy look, and I arch a haughty eyebrow at her in response, silently challenging her to say something. To be the first one to break the tension between us.
Not able to help it, my cock jerks in my pants at her expression, biting back a groan as she stiffly holds out a lithe arm and presents me with the most beautiful set of chocolate-tipped, almond fingernails.
“Just Sarah, by the way,” she snaps, obviously irritated at me staring.
My eyes keep hers as I reach forward and take her hand, not too firmly but not too soft either. I don’t really do anything but press my hand into hers, until I notice a small cut on the side of her right hand and frown.
What on Earth…
“Are you aware you’re hurt?” I ask, attempting to throw her off, not elaborating on the cut.
Don't get me wrong; it's not that she needs throwing off. I don’t know her and can tell something's blatantly wrong. I’ve been a psychiatrist too long to not know when something is off. And something is off with Sarah. Majorly.
“Of course I am, Mr. Richardson,” she replies in a subdued tone.
I tilt my head, wetting my lips as my gaze drops to her mouth. Looks like we're going to be here for a bit. “Doctor Richardson, please,” I respond, trying to get her riled up so she can say more than two words to me.
My mind races as I work hard to figure her out. I anxiously flick my eyes across her form with a pleased look at the sight of her heavy breasts straining against the fabric of her tank top under her cardigan.
Why is she moving like that? I wonder to myself, rotating my body a little more to the left and tilting my neck a little to try to see through her near sheer camisole at her delicate shoulder blade that's momentarily turned towards me. There's a shadow there.
A tattoo maybe?
Nah, she doesn't seem the type to get a tattoo. Though you'd never know. She turns back, facing me, to make room to open the folders, bringing my attention back to her mouth and seeing she’d been talking the whole time. Fuck.
My eyes rise back to hers, and I work like hell to get a grip over myself.
They narrow slightly as I stare with a carefully placed, impassive look on my face born from two decades of professionalism, forcing myself to listen.
Though it's the last thing I want to do, to be honest. She's explaining why she feels our client's diagnosis needs another review, but I hear it as if she's talking to me through a tunnel.
My gaze lowers back down as she rather harshly slaps a paper on the desk between us, clearly aggravated.
“This week’s log, showing my email to you saying what symptoms were present that indicated bipolar disorder.
” She slaps yet another paper on top of that one, amusing me as her dark nails click slightly as they tap it.
“And here's this week’s log showing another email to you saying what symptoms were present for a personality disorder.”
Seeing I don't need to respond yet, I stay quiet, just observing. Impressed that, though I can tell something is wrong outside of our professional bounds, and she's clearly upset at how I'd been handling things with this client so far, she keeps her speech professional.
Sarah slaps four more papers in front of me, one by one.
I know she deserves my undivided attention, but my sense of propriety and my usual iron-tight grip on my self-control has diminished considerably.
I can’t stop staring at her lips, the shape of her winged eyebrows, the little gold nose ring in her left nostril, how long and shiny her hair is; I tilt my head, wondering if it's naturally straight.
No. Of course it's not.
My eyes land on her teeth, which she's busy sucking air through.
“Doctor Richardson, are you listening to anything I am saying to you?” Sarah says before a pained grimace momentarily contorts her features. Her arm snaps around her stomach, and her lips form an “O” shape.
She tosses me an embarrassed look, forcing me to take pity on her.
I don't meet her eyes and acknowledge I saw this embarrassing-to-her moment, but rather busy myself reaching forward, slowly shuffling the papers together.
Propping an elbow on the arm of my chair, I hold them up between us, turning to give her my side profile and to get the vision of her out of my eyesight. Ah. That might explain it…
It’s not my business if she’s on her period or not.
I think to myself as I read the papers slow enough that I can thoroughly memorize every line of her notes and the slant of her writing. She likes a fine tip pen, which is nice. She's got elegant handwriting, and my eyes eat up the embellished calligraphy with pleasure.
Painfully aware I’ve said less than forty words since she's been here, I keep my eyes glued to the papers, not trusting myself to speak. This is not like me at all. I can speak in a room of thousands, in a room of one, and everything in between.