Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“This isn’t just about last night, Casey. Your emotions are all over the place. Waking up crying from nightmares one day, angry and insolent the next. Dr. Anthony can help you regulate—”
“Stop,” I order. “Just stop talking.”
The betrayal I’m feeling is enough to make my heart race. My hands are literally shaking as I press them flat against my thighs. I take a breath.
“You and Sloane are unbelievable,” I say flatly. “If I’m soft and show my feelings, there’s something wrong with me. If I’m hard and try to control my emotions, there’s something wrong with me.” I exhale in a sharp gust. “Just let me be me.”
He glances at me, sheer frustration darkening his face. “I’m trying to do that, sweetheart. But you’re not being you. This isn’t you. You don’t get detention—”
“Sometimes I do,” I interrupt. “Sometimes I get tired of being bullied and called a suicidal freak who drove into a lake—can you really blame me for that?”
“No, but…” He trails off, returning his gaze to the road ahead. “Let’s see what Dr. Anthony says.”
Dr. Anthony ushers me into her office thirty minutes later. Her practice is on the third floor of a brick building in Parsons, the second largest town within driving distance of Sandover. Calden, our nearest offering of civilization, does have a tiny medical practice and a vet clinic, but they’re a bit behind the times when it comes to psychiatrists.
She towers over me as she gestures for me to sit. She’s close to six feet tall, with the figure of a reed, no curves in sight. Her hair is cut short and streaked with gray. And though her face is angular, which ought to give her a severe vibe, she exudes warmth.
“It’s good to see you,” she tells me once we’re settled on the two plush armchairs facing each other. She’s not a please lie on the sofa kind of shrink. “How have you been?”
“You mean my father hasn’t filled you in on my total mental breakdown?” I ask wryly.
Dr. Anthony’s lips twitch in a faint smile. “Are you in the midst of one?” she counters.
“I didn’t think so. But the way he and Sloane are going on about it, you’d think I need to be committed.”
I lean back in the chair and draw my knees up to my chest, resting my socked feet on the edge of the chair. Dr. Anthony always asks you to remove your shoes in the reception area before coming into her office. I don’t mind it. It’s cozy.
“So, it’s been about seven weeks since I saw you last,” she says, watching me with those shrewd yet soft eyes. “Catch me up. Are you still being bullied at school?”
“Nope. They stopped once I started fighting back.”
She nods. “I see.”
“What?” I give a defiant look. “You don’t approve? Shouldn’t you be happy I don’t care what they think about me anymore?”
She responds with a gentle smile. “It’s not my job to approve or disapprove, Casey. It’s not my place to judge. But, going by our previous sessions, you did used to care what they thought about you. What they said about you. You cared very much.”
“Well, I don’t anymore.”
“I see.” She reaches for the yellow legal pad from the table next to her chair and uncaps her pen. “What do you think changed?”
“I changed,” I say simply.
Dr. Anthony watches me. Waiting for me to continue. It’s one of her tactics—wait the other person out until they cave and spill their secrets. I watched a documentary on police interrogations once where one of the detectives interviewed said that silence was the greatest tool in his kit. People don’t like stewing in silence. It’s too awkward, and our instinct is to make it stop. Fill the silence. And the more someone talks, the more details they let slip.
Apparently I’m no different, because I keep talking. “I’m developing a thicker skin. The new and improved Casey. The strong one.”
“I see.”
“Could you please stop saying that?” I grumble. There’s no condescension in her tone, only genuine understanding, but it still grates. “Look, you want me to catch you up? Here, let’s catch you up. I still have the nightmares, but not as often. I still can’t remember what happened at prom. Oh, but great news!” Sarcasm burns my tongue. “I found out who pulled me from the car that night. It was my best friend, Fenn, who, by the way, I started dating a few weeks ago.” I laugh darkly. “Didn’t work out, obviously.”
Her eyes widen. “Well. That is a lot to process.”
I hug my knees, ignoring the ripples of pain in my stomach. Every time I say Fenn’s name out loud, it causes a visceral reaction. It physically hurts.
“Would it be helpful to discuss it in more detail?” she prompts. “How it felt to discover your friend was involved that night?”