The line clicks and I’m given some seriously depressing music to listen to for a few seconds before the line clicks again.
“Chloe. You missed your session.” Dr. Lawson’s blunt voice states the obvious.
“I know,” I murmur, biting back a sarcastic remark. “I…had an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
I pause, pressing my lips together, not sure what to say. The last thing I want to do is tell him I was attacked in case he picks apart my story, but I know the questions will keep coming unless I have a big enough reason for missing that session. Besides, I know that Sam will back up my story if I need him to.
“I was assaulted while walking home from school,” I explain. “I’m okay, but still a little shaken up.”
“Did you call the police?” he asks. I’m not sure if he believes my story or not.
“I called my teacher. He’s helping me make a report later today,” I fib, knowing I have no intention of going to the police. “I’m really sorry I missed the appointment. If I can make it up—”
“You can make it up right now,” he interrupts. “It just so happens I have a cancellation.”
“But what about school?” I blurt out.
“I’m sure your teacher will understand that you need to talk this through, Chloe. I can call them and explain the situation if you’d like.”
God, that’s the last thing I want.
“No, it’s fine,” I mutter, giving in. “I’ll be there soon.”
* * *
Two tram ridesand twenty minutes later, I’m standing out the front of an old brick building in Richmond, summoning up the courage to go inside. I hate these appointments so much. Talking about my problems is something I’ve always struggled with and today is no different. Every tragedy I suffer pushes me further into my shell and talking about it never helps. If anything, it makes the pain worse, like I’m ripping open old wounds I thought had healed years ago.
When I was on the inside, I learned quickly the key to survival was to tell them what they wanted to hear. If they think they’re helping, nine times out of ten, they’ll back off and pat themselves on the back for saving yet another messed-up mind from a path of self-destruction. My strategy worked well until Dr. Lawson came onto the scene. It was like he could see through my lies and he wasn’t afraid to call me out on them. Maybe that’s why I hate him, because he’s the only person who can really get through to me.
Dr. Lawson’s assistant tells me to wait in the waiting area, so I choose the seat closest to the window. The view isn’t much but being closer to the outside makes me feel like I at least have a way to escape if I need to.
After a few minutes, the door creaks open and Dr. Lawson peers out. With his warm eyes, surrounded by soft crinkles and his salt-and-pepper hair, he looks like someone’s sweet, old grandfather. It’s hard not to feel at ease around him until he starts firing questions at you, then he’s more like a narky old headmaster.
I follow him into the room and sink down into the large armchair while he sits opposite me. He never sits at his desk during our sessions. He’s always close to me. His proximity makes me feel uncomfortable—not that he’s ever been inappropriate with me. I just have a thing about people being in my space, especially when I’m being forced to ‘open up.’
“That looks nasty.” He nods at my face. And here I was thinking I had done a decent job covering it up. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” He asks.
“I was attacked,” I explain, only because I don’t think ‘no’ would be an acceptable response. I consider downplaying what happened, but I decide not to, because the more detail I give him, the less likely he is to figure out I’m lying. “It was late and I was walking through the park, heading back to my aunt’s place, when some guy jumped me out of nowhere.”
“You said it happened after school?”
I nod, my gaze steady on his. “I stayed back at the library to work on an assignment. It’s easier doing my homework there than at home right now,” I add. “Anyway, he came out of nowhere, punched me, I hit the ground, he kicked me a few times…” I swallow, wondering how far I need to take the lies. Should I show him my bruising?
Dr. Lawson studies me closely. “That must have been terrifying for you.”
“It was.” I nod, forcing a weak smile, then I stare down at my fidgeting hands. “Then he stole my purse, and then he ran. The joke was on him, though, because I’m broke as hell.”
“Tell me, Chloe,” the doctor muses. “Why did you call your teacher instead of the police?”
His question takes me by surprise because it’s a valid one. The real answer is I called Sam because I needed to gain his trust so I can screw him over, but I obviously can’t tell Dr. Lawson that.
“Because he was nice to me at school, and because I trust him more than I do a cop.”
My answer surprises me because there is actually some truth to it. I really do trust the man I hate with a vengeance more than I trust the police. How fucked up is that?
“Do you feel comfortable around your teacher?”