The girl I'd brought home last night left – snuck out in the middle of the night. And yeah, that made me feel like shit. Not that I'd expected anything more than a one-night stand with her, but some breakfast – and maybe even getting her name – would have been nice. But she snuck out at some point, leaving me alone in my bed, making me wonder if I'd imagined fucking her in some elaborate masturbatory fantasy.
Except, I knew it wasn't a dream. It had been too good and I hadn't been fucked up enough to dream up something like that.
Nah, she'd just snuck out in the middle of the night. Not that I blamed her. It was usually pretty awkward to wake up and look your one-night stand in the eye. Sharing conversation over breakfast? Probably too much to ask.
I took a piss and stared at myself in the mirror, not liking what I saw. The scruff on my face getting a little out of control and I looked exhausted. I should shave before my appointment, but I didn't feel like it. Not that it mattered anyway. Not like I had a job to go to or anyone to meet. Besides, I was just meeting this Dr. Emerson dude, and who the fuck cared what he thought? He was just giving me a psych evil. Hell, maybe the scruff on my dishevelled appearance would help my case some – so I left it.
After a quick shower, I let my hair go wild too. It was short to my head, almost military cut but with a little length on the top. Now that I didn't need to keep my hair cropped close, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with it. And letting it grow out sounded good to me. Again, it just added to the stereotype a bit more. Rugged vet, down on his luck, haunted by the demons of war.
Yeah, since I was pretty much a poster boy for the anti-war crowd, I might as well look the part.
A pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt I'd been given as a parting gift after leaving the Navy was my signature look these days. I wasn't dressing to impress anyone after all. A quick run into the city, meet with the good doctor and then back here for a nap before God knew what later in the evening. Maybe some video games. Maybe see if the pussy whipped guys who called themselves my buddies could get together again tonight, to make up for being lame asses the night before.
I sighed, unable to avoid the reality that my life was a shitshow. If it wasn't for the fact that my parents had money, I'd have been one of those homeless vets on the street. Or worse. Probably dead in a gutter somewhere.
I was one of the lucky ones, that was for sure. Which was another reason I didn't want to blow the appointment for my evil – even though I didn't think it would do any fucking good anyway.
ooo000ooo
“I'm here to see Dr. Emerson.”
“Oh, she's running a little behind today,” the friendly receptionist said flashing me a smile that was blindingly bright – her teeth far too white to be real. “But she will see you in just a moment.”
She. My therapist was a woman? For some reason, I pictured a balding older man with glasses. Maybe a little on the overweight side wearing an ugly sweater vest. But Dr. Emerson was a woman. I would be telling my entire life story and deepest problems to a woman. I didn't consider myself a sexist by any stretch of the imagination, but honestly, I wasn't sure how comfortable I was about that. There was some dark shit in my head and I wasn't sure about
having a woman opening up that Pandora's Box.
Hell, maybe I was a little sexist after all. But in my defence, I would feel the same way about a woman giving me a hernia check. There was some shit only guys could relate to. Or so I thought.
I consoled myself with the idea that I could always request a change in doctors – which I might do after today, depending on how it went. But I was going to be fair and give the lady a chance. I told myself that I wasn't going to be a sexist pig about it. And I kept telling myself that as I took the forms and started filling them out in the waiting room.
I read through all of the questions and just shook my head. Did I drink? Hell, yeah, I had a few pops now and then. But I wasn't an alcoholic or anything like that. I always hated answering shit like this, there was hardly ever any wiggle room and I always got the feeling people were judging me based on my answers. I had a drink now and then, but I didn't spend every night all fucked up. But the only answer I could give was a yes or no. There was no maybe or chance to explain.
Yes, I drank. How much? I had a beer or so almost every day. But it wasn't as bad as it sounded, so I fudged a bit and checked the box that said a couple times a week. I'd make my own wiggle room.
Drugs? No. That one was easy. Well – except for smoking pot now and then back in the day. I'd had to be clean in the service and I'd pretty much stayed that way. Even now. I couldn't remember the last time I'd fired up a joint.
I went down the checklist, ticking the box that said no to most of the health issues. I had no heart problems, no vision issues. My cholesterol and blood pressure were normal.
Anxiety? Ehhh – maybe. But anyone who'd been through what I had in the service would probably have some anxiety, right? That wasn't abnormal?
Depression? Define feeling depressed.
“Fuck this,” I said, just marking no to everything on the list.
I came here to be diagnosed, I didn't need to tell them my mental issues. It was their job to give me the psych evil, not make me do all the work. I'd never been diagnosed with anything, so that helped. This would be a first.
I handed over the paperwork and sat back down to wait. The television in the waiting room kept playing the same medical information over and over again. Why even have a television for your clients if you're not going to let us watch something good while we wait?
I sighed and flipped open a magazine – some entertainment rag – and saw a photo spread from a new movie with Brad Pitt. A war movie, of course. And as I stared at the photos of the beautiful holiday celebrities decked out in military garb, I cursed to myself about how much they got wrong. Except, of course, there was some unknown actor in the back, behind Pitt, and I couldn't stop staring at him.
He reminded me of Mason.
In that moment, as I looked at the man's face, the air was sucked straight out of my lungs and all I could do was stare. The actors in the photos weren't even SEALs – they were in typical Army uniforms. But still, I felt my pulse quicken as panic set in while I stared down at the man who looked like my best friend.
“Drew Hunter?” The receptionist called my name, pulling me from the abyss of my own mind.
I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Yes?”