Seven
Poppy
“It’s not that I don’t like Dr Harrison.OrDr Chang.” Janice sniffs, wiggling her toes where they’re propped on the edge of her sun lounger. The nail polish brush in her hand glistens sunset orange. “But all my big breakthroughs come with Dr Whitaker, you know?”
I do know. I slurp on my straw, gulping down cool mouthfuls of cucumber water, and push a stray lock of hair from my eyes.
Another day by the pool. Another day of drafting emails in my head, ready to send to reporters from the doctor’s office this evening, the two of us wincing in the awkward silence.
“He’s very perceptive,” I say when it becomes clear that Janice won’t keep going without input. The pool area is quiet, our hushed voices drifting on the breeze. It’s mid-morning, and all around us, patients nap on sun loungers. They’re like zonked-out extras on a movie battlefield.
I don’t want to think about Dr Whitaker. But I also don’t want to think about anything else, so.
“My Arthur was like that.” Janice looks dreamy, her voice sad. The brush is steady in her hand, painting glossy stripes of color on her toenails. “That man could read your mind at twenty paces.”
Gah. My heart. It’s a bloody lump in my chest.
“You must miss him.”
She waves a hand, a drop of orange nail polish splatting onto her shin. “Back to Dr Whitaker.” Damn. “He wants me to do group sessions, and to keep a journal.”
“That sounds… fine?”
“Yes,” Janice says, exasperation thick in her voice, “but I can do those things at home. At Honey Cove, I wanthim.I want him listening to me.”
I can confirm: it is very intoxicating when he does that. Nowhere near as world-ending as when he puts his hand on your bare knee, but still. Janice doesn’t know that.
“You could ask for more one-on-one sessions?”
She snorts, those poodle curls bouncing. “On and on until there are no more hours in the day? Oh, listen to me. That man could listen to my nonsense twenty-four seven, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
Same.
“He won’t do it, though,” she continues. “He won’t give me extra sessions. Dr Whitaker never plays favorites like that.”
No? I slurp hard on my straw, staring at the pool. There’s a hard knot in my stomach. Is that true?
Well, I guess I’m not his patient anymore, so our evenings in his office don’t count. But would I even feel guilty if they did—if I was still his patient? A snide voice in the back of my head whispers that no, I would not care an ounce about that. Sick little pervert that I am, I’d probably be into it.
Because I want to get my hands on his white coat. I want to sling a stethoscope around his neck and tug him down to kiss me. I want that deep voice asking me where it hurts.
I’m just as bad as Janice, panting after an extra ten minutes with Dr Whitaker. Thelookon his face when he touched my knee all those days ago…
I hope I committed every detail of that split second to memory, because it’s never gonna happen again.
“Of course, he likesyouwell enough—oh. Hi, Doc.” Janice grins over my shoulder, not guilty at all that we’ve been caught gossiping, and I know before I turn around that it’s him.
It’s the way shivers race over my skin. The way my belly tightens and my chest swoops. Even in the cool shadows by the pool, my blood rushes extra warm through my veins.
“A word, please, Poppy.”
It doesn’t matter how long I stay here. I’m never prepared.
* * *
This isn’t about The Knee Incident. That was four days ago, and Dr Whitaker has clearly opted for silence and denial about that. My sun lounger squeaks as I swing my legs around, the backs of my thighs sticking to the warm canvas, and ice rattles in my cup as I place it on the ground.
Two long legs encased in smart gray pants wait beside my lounger. His white coat is bright in the sunshine. Dr Whitaker is looming, and that means I don’t need to make eye contact yet.