“No. I was born with something else.”
“What’s that?”
My eyes feel grainy, heavy, and that pile of emotions in my chest moves up to my throat. “Something more than blood in my veins. That’s why my eyes are blue.” He frowns and I explain, “No one in my family has blue eyes. No one in my family is ill either, so I’m the odd one out.”
He’s watching me.
I know I’ve given him a lot to think about. He might be having one of the best days of his psychiatrist life. I’m fucked up. I know I’ve got issues. But it’s okay. As long as we’re not talking about The Roof Incident, I’m okay.
“Not that you’d know anything about it. About being the odd one out,” I say.
“And why wouldn’t I know that?” His voice sounds rusty, like he’s talking after ages.
“Because you’re a doctor. And your dad was a doctor too, wasn’t he?” I conclude, shrugging. “So you’re like him.”
Something freezes in him. Something subtle. But I catch it. I catch the instant stiffening of his shoulders and the fact that his chair was rocking from side to side. It’s not doing that anymore, and I honestly don’t know why.
Did I say something wrong? It wasn’t my intention. Honestly, I wasn’t saying it to throw my doctor – my enemy – off.
Then, as if it never happened, his tightening and rigidity, he goes back to normal. “Not like him. But yeah, he was a doctor.”
Okay, color me curious now.
“A good one, too. From what I hear. Penny, one of the patients, she said they teach his books in med school.”
“They do.”
“So, he’s like a genius or something.”
He studies me before lowering his eyes to his desk, rearranging his pen and nodding, “Yeah. He was definitely something.”
“I like his name, too,” I say, because obviously, I can’t say that I like his name, the man sitting in front of me. And I want to keep talking about this. It’s interesting. Mostly because I don’t think he wants to talk about it.
“Alistair Blackwood. Regal and, you know, old-fashioned.”
He whips his eyes up.
My heart is beating really fast. God, it was stupid to say that, wasn’t it?
Well, there’s no way that he can know that I’m talking about his name and not his dad’s. But there’s something in his look that makes me think that he can see right through me.
Which is dangerous, actually. I don’t want him to see the things inside me. I don’t want anyone to see.
“I’m glad you think so,” he murmurs.
“I actually –”
“As much as I enjoy talking about my father,” he cuts me off with a tight smile. “I’d love to talk more about you. Tell me what happened that night.”
Looking at him, I can’t say that he enjoyed talking about his father. In fact, he downright didn’t want to talk about his father at all.
So he doesn’t like the taste of his own medicine, does he?
Fine, I’ll feed him lies, then. I’ll weave such a story that he won’t know up from down.
I stare into his eyes, at his sculpted face. His stubble looks thicker than yesterday. Sunrays hit his jaw, making those bristles look warm, almost reddish. Appealing.
I don’t want it to be appealing.
“You wanna know what happened that night?” I begin. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It was my birthday and my family threw me a party at our house in the Hamptons. A party I never wanted to begin with. But hey, everyone was like, you only turn eighteen once. You need a party. So I was like, okay. Let’s do a party. I’ll be the one in the corner, getting bored out of my mind but who the fuck cares. At least my boyfriend will be there with me. So we were hanging out until I asked him if he could bring me something to drink. Like a good guy, he went. But he never came back.”
I emit out a sharp laugh. “Because he got stuck on someone’s lips. I caught him making out with one of my classmates. In my bedroom. His tongue was probably touching her tonsils. And she loved it. You know, with the way she was moaning. I got pissed, heartbroken. I thought nothing would ever be the same in my life. The angst of it almost killed me. No pun intended. So I got drunk and stupid, and I jumped.”
I don’t remember much about the jumping, itself. All I know is that one second I was on the roof and the next, I was in the air, my hair whipping against my face and wind punching my stomach. And then, nothing.
Raising my eyebrows, I keep talking. “When I woke up in the hospital, I told them everything. I told them I was heartbroken and devastated and whatnot. I told them it was spur of the moment. It wasn’t going to happen again.”
I roll my eyes. “But my mom got stressed out. There wasn’t any reason to be. There were very little scratches on my body. They’d kept me under observation overnight and I passed their tests with flying colors. The attending called it a miracle that I escaped unscathed. Instead of celebrating, my entire family looked at me like I’d been planning to kill myself for ages. For no reason whatsoever, they held me in their psych ward for forty-eight hours. So, I might have thrown a bit of a tantrum. And when I thought it was time for me to finally, go home, my mom said that the psychiatrist recommended I be sent here. Because I was unstable, and I’d benefit greatly from an in-patient program.”
Smiling tightly, I finish, “So see? I might be a drama queen and I might be ‘clinically depressed.’ But I’m hardly suicidal. What’d you guys call it? Suicidal ideation? Yeah, sorry. I don’t have any such ideation. I’m not crazy enough to take my own life. I’m not crazy enough to be here in the first place. So, if you’re half as good as they say you are, you’ll recognize the error in your judgment and let me go.”
During my fervent speech, Dr. Blackwood didn’t move at all. He didn’t even blink his eyes. He sat there, like a marble statue he reminds me of.
I almost want to reach out and touch him. See if his skin is warm like other living things or if he really is cold.
But then he moves. As if proving to me that he is, in fact, a living creature and not a museum relic.
“Crazy,” he murmurs. “You use that word a lot.”
“I didn’t know you could only use it a specified number of times.”
“I’m just wondering what you think it means. Crazy.”
“It means abnormal. Insane. Freak. Maybe you should take a look at a dictionary,” I say, licking my lip.
“It doesn’t mean anything. Not medically. Medically, it’s a waste of a word. Suffering from a mental disease does not automatically mean you’re crazy. And I don’t care about something that can’t be explained scientifically.” He tips his chin at me. “But thanks for educating me.”
A flush rises not on my cheeks but somewhere inside my body, under my clothes. I’m turning scarlet. I wanna get out of here.
I wanna get away from him.
Of course, I know crazy is a derogatory word. I’m aware of that. But I’m okay with calling myself that because if I don’t, then it means there’s something seriously wrong with me.
And that’s something I can’t accept.
“Can I go now?”
He scans my face again. “Where was your boyfriend? When you were at the hospital?”
“He never showed up. In case you don’t remember, the asshole cheated on me.”
“What was his name again?”
I take a moment to answer. I take a moment to adjust my tone, adjust my whole demeanor. “Lee. Lee Jordan.”
“Right,” he says thoughtfully, before nodding and getting up from his chair. “Thanks for your time.”
Slowly, on trembling legs, I stand up as well. I don’t reply or wait for him to say anything else. Although what he would say after dismissing me, I don’t know. Either way, I’m not taking a chance. I practically run to the door and open it.
But freeze when I feel him at my back.
His heat.
God, there’s
no way this ice king is cold to touch. No way.
His heat is radiating out of his body. In a wave, it reaches me, spans across my shoulders and spine, goes down to the back of my thighs. And that scent I’ve been breathing in ever since I stepped into this room?
That’s him, I realize.
It’s his smell. Rain, fresh and crisp, mixed in with his musk. It’s wafting around the room and all that time I spent in there was dangerous, because I think that scent has made a home in me.
“Willow.” He says my name and I have to bite my lip. Hard.
I’m going to ask him to call me by my last name. I have to. I don’t like how much I like the way he says my name. In fact, a flash of his soft lips shaping it streaks across my brain.
I whirl around to tell him exactly that, my bangs fluttering along my forehead. But my attention is snagged by the fact that he’s so tall. So freaking tall. So much so that even with my topknot, I only reach his stubborn chin.
His expression is neutral, professional. I wonder what my expression is.
“I want to see you again.”
I blink, all my systems have slowed down as I run his words through my mind.
He wants to see me. Again.
He wants to. See me.
Again.
“What?”
“In my office. Next week.”
Aren’t psychiatrists supposed to just write you prescriptions and then, send you on your way to a therapist? Why does he want to see me again so soon?
“W-why?” I ask my question, out loud.
“Because I think we have a lot to talk about.”
He’s staring at something, Dr. Blackwood.
The man who thinks we have a lot to talk about when I see him next week.
He’s by Beth’s office staring at the same collages as I did when I was trying to eavesdrop on his conversation with her the day he arrived here.
I’m standing at the mouth of the hallway, having just come down the stairs for breakfast, and there he is. All still with raindrops clinging to his hair and clothes.
It’s none of my business why he’s so stiff and tight while the world moves around him. Nurses are laughing. Techs are walking up and down the hallway with files. A few patients linger here and there. I see the girl from my floor, a pretty blonde, pacing up and down. A tech is trying to calm her. She gets agitated every morning before breakfast, but I don’t know why.
I should be avoiding all conversations with him, and yet, I find myself walking toward Dr. Blackwood.
Why? Because I’m curious. Super curious about him.
“Hi,” I greet him, facing the collages, trying to see what he was seeing. “Interesting photos, aren’t they?”
I feel him turning toward me. “Interesting shirt.”
I face him, then. All the earlier stiffness is gone from his body. He’s cool and unaffected. If I hadn’t seen him looking at the pictures with such severity, I wouldn’t ever have guessed that he was capable of such a reaction to something.
His eyes are on my t-shirt before he comes to look at my face. But I still feel his gaze there, on my chest, very close to where my heart is along with some… other things. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t focused on them. I mean, that would be ridiculous.
Right?
Even so, I feel like my lips are drying out and I’ve got this weird tingling in my chest.
“Were you looking at something in particular?” I ask.
He shoves his hands down his pockets. “Do you always wear t-shirts with one-liners?”
Something makes me fold my hands at my back, and my spine arches just a teeny-tiny bit. But he keeps his eyes firmly on my face. Not that I wanted him to move them or notice… my assets. But still.
“You don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?” I comment, remembering how fast he closed up when we were talking about his dad.
I’ve thought about it a lot in the past few days, actually, since we had our meeting. There isn’t much to do around here. And I’ve concluded that there’s something there, between him and his dad.
“You don’t like that either,” he responds, kind of drily.
I don’t fight the smile that comes on. “So what, are we kindred spirits?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that.”
“Good. Because I can’t imagine the horror.” I lean toward him, slightly. “Of us being similar, I mean.”
Squinting, he nods. “Right. Because you don’t want to be similar to someone who’s – what was it – wacked. And psychiatrists are that, aren’t they?”
“You know it.”
A small smile appears on his lips at my answer, and I already know that it’s a rare thing for him. Smiles and chuckles. Laughter.
Like they are for me.
God, he’s making it very hard for me to hate him.
I want to hate him. Trust me.
I’m aware he’s the enemy. I’m aware that with one signature, he can send me away, to the Outside. But he won’t. Because he’s like them, like all the other doctors I’ve known.
Although, he did fix my medicine-induced insomnia. He put me on sleep meds along with my regular anti-depressant and mood stabilizer. So at least I can sleep at night.
Not to mention, Renn loves everything about him and the way he handled her short meeting. I’ve heard nurses and techs talking about how nice he is. Some patients might still be wary of him, but I’ve seen him always be polite and courteous, opening doors, nodding, dragging out chairs. Not that he’s friendly or chatty but he’s well-mannered.
As I said, very hard – extremely hard – to hate someone who’s so fucking gentlemanly and makes me want to smile, and puts me to sleep.
Licking my lips, I look away from him and down at the t-shirt I’m wearing. It’s a light gray shirt with maroon lettering saying, On a scale of 1 to 10, I’m 9 ¾ obsessed with Harry Potter.
I tug at the hem and say, unnecessarily. “It’s from Harry Potter.”
“I figured.”
“You like Harry Potter?”
“I’m not into fiction.”
“I figured.”
He crosses his arms across his chest. “How?”
I look at him, his face, his put-together hair, his stubble. Then I move my eyes to his starched shirt, his pleated pants, his wingtips. I know I’m checking him out, unabashedly, but I have a good reason.
“You’ve got the wingtips, dude,” I say, smirking.
“Dude.”
“Man?”
“Why don’t we stick with Dr. Blackwood?”
“What if I don’t wanna call you Dr. Blackwood?” I say just to be contrary. “What if I get the urge to call you Simon?”
His name on my lips sounds fresh and new. I’ve never known a Simon before. He’s the first. I like that.
And therein lies the problem.
Just the fact that I want to say his name, means I shouldn’t ever say it.
“Well, then I’d advise counting to ten,” he responds. “That usually helps with the urges. But if not, we can talk about your urges next week.”
Urges.
Something about that word brings back the tingles in my chest and I clear my throat. “My point is that I can see my face in your shoes. They’re uber polished.”
“And that somehow doesn’t go with Harry Potter?”
“No, you don’t go with Harry Potter. I mean, look at you.” I wave my hand at him, up and down. “You’re dressed like you’re a hundred years old, even though you’re only thirty-three. All professional and uptight. No way are you cool enough for Harry Potter.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You look like some kind of a… I don’t know, old-fashioned medicine guy. Sorry, man. Medicine man.”
“Medicine man.”
“Yup. That could be your name.”
“You’ve got a thing for names, don’t you?”
My eyes w
iden fractionally. I’ve been caught out, haven’t I? He knows I was talking about his name rather than his dad’s at our meeting.
“Nope,” I lie.
“My mistake,” he says but doesn’t look like he believes me. “I’ve gotta get going. I’m late for Quidditch.”
With that, he turns around and walks away, leaving me wide-eyed in his wake.
Did he just say Quidditch?
How does he know Quidditch? He said he didn’t like Harry Potter. How does he know about their sport?
No. Wait.
He said he wasn’t into fiction. He never said he didn’t read the books.
Did he just trick me? After the whole don’t-give-me-your-trick-answers speech from the other day. I know I should be angry. I know it.
But I’m not.
I’m almost in admiration. He knows how to dodge all the questions. He’s a pro. Though I don’t understand what he could possibly be hiding about Harry Potter. Or his dad, for that matter.
Yup, super curious.
When he disappears from view, I face the collages. I stand where he stood. In the exact same place. I’m not as tall as he is so I have to crane my neck, get up on my tiptoes to look at the photos up top.
There are a bunch of pictures celebrating Christmas and some birthdays. I spy Beth, Hunter, Josie, Dr. Martin, and a few other people. Everyone’s grinning with happiness.
These photos don’t depict the gritty realities of staying at a psych ward. They don’t show the night sweats I suffered from during my first week because they weaned me off my old meds. They don’t show Renn’s sickly complexion when she had to purge her lunch last week, and they took her to a different room to do that. I don’t see the dark circles and hollowed out cheeks of the insomniacs, or puffy, red faces of the patients who can’t stop crying after a therapy session.
All these photos show is happiness.
In a place like this. It’s incomprehensible. Incredible.
It’s exhausting.
I’m exhausted just by looking at the enthusiasm on their faces. How do people even do it? How do people get happy and then, stay happy? It’s not supposed to be this hard, right? Life’s not supposed to be this hard.
But then, if I wasn’t clinically depressed, would I be happy all the time? Would I be positive? Would I never have bad days?
Medicine Man Page 7
