Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Dr. Simon Blackwood.
If I thought he couldn’t get colder and more unapproachable than yesterday, then I was wrong. He’s even more distant than before in his horn-rimmed glasses. Big, square-shaped. Old-fashioned and timeless.
Kind of like him.
“Were you talking to someone?” he asks in his deep voice, his storm-colored eyes even more vivid from behind his specs. Which is totally ridiculous and nonsensical. A layer of barrier should lessen their effect, not enhance it.
“No.”
It’s not a lie. I mean, technically, I was talking to myself, not someone.
He looks up and down the hallway, which is pretty much empty except for the bustle at the nurses’ station at the end. His office is located in the area, which is not freely accessible to patients, unless they have a prior appointment.
“You sure?”
“Yes. There’s no one here but me.” And then, just because I can’t stop myself, I add, “Why, you think all crazy people talk to themselves?”
His sharp gaze finds mine. “Why, are you crazy?”
“Now is that a trick question, given where we are right now?” I fold my arms across my chest, mentally kicking myself.
Why the hell do I have to go and be defensive like that? Not everyone’s out to get me.
He studies me. His gray eyes flick across my face and my overgrown bangs. I blow on them and his jaw ticks. A slight, almost invisible tick. I probably wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t standing so close to him.
That’s the whole problem, actually. That I’m standing too close to him. I want to take a step back, be away. We should probably have a one-arm distance between us. Two-arm distance.
I’m about to inch back in a way that he doesn’t notice when he speaks, bringing my attention to his lips. “One thing you’ll learn about me, Willow, is that I don’t ask trick questions. And neither do I like trick answers. And I usually know when I’m getting one.”
My spine goes rigid, even as something very similar to flutters races down the length of it.
I should’ve moved away from him; I know that now.
Or at least not been so close to him when he said my name. First of all, his lips are the softest, most pillowy lips I’ve ever seen. They contrast so well with his face. So well and so effectively that it’s hard not to focus only on them.
And second of all, I’ve never seen anyone’s lips mold around my name the way his did. So carefully and so deliberately that the rest of the words almost disappeared.
But I ignore all of those things because they are inconsequential. Besides, the rest of the words almost disappeared. Almost. Meaning I did catch a few, and was that arrogance I heard in them?
“Are you saying that you’ve got a superpower or something? That sniffs out trick answers?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
He straightens his glasses with his long, manly fingers as he rumbles, “Or something.”
I swallow at the gesture and how stern it is. If this is his way of intimidating me, he’s kind of succeeding. I do have things to hide.
“Well, then.” I unfold my arms and sweep my bangs off my forehead. “Good thing you’ve got me for the next hour. I’m as straightforward and truthful as you can get.”
Nothing, not one thing changes on his face so I don’t know if he’s being sarcastic or what when he says, “Good thing.”
With that, he steps back and lets me in, and I enter with my heart lodged in my throat.
I’ve been inside this room once. The day I came here two weeks ago, when I had a meeting with Dr. Martin.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I walked in here, but it wasn’t the rich browns and greens and cozy leather couches that look like a throwback from the 90s. Most likely, this room used to be a study with the rows and rows of bookshelves, a nook for reading, complete with a fireplace and its own washroom. Dr. Martin has plants in every corner, making the room so welcoming and warm.
I remember being shocked. I remember thinking it was a trick to lull patients into a false sense of security, so they stay here forever or admit to things that aren’t true. Namely, that they are crazy. Now, I’m thankful for the warmth.
I turn around to face Dr. Blackwood when I hear the click of the door being shut. Suddenly, all the sounds, chatter and murmurs of the hospital, are gone. There’s complete silence. Like we’re in a bubble. A vacuum, maybe.
The air seems thicker in here, with a distinct scent. I can’t quite figure out what it is but it’s pleasant. Not like the moldy and bleach-y smell of the rest of the hospital.
It fills me with… happiness.
Dr. Blackwood is still by the door, standing tall and large, his hands inside his pockets, his rich, dark hair brushing against the collar of his shirt. I wonder what we’re waiting for when I realize his face is ducked and his eyes are glued to my bunny slippers. Inside the soft haven of my footwear, my toes curl.