He Says He's Just A Friend

Chapter 66 - What's On My Mind

- Clay -

As promised, after school on Wednesday, I made my way downtown to have an appointment with a new therapist. If this hadn't been a stipulation of getting my car back, I would've bailed. This was an hour I could spend with Emmett, rather than a stranger.

The shrink looked at his watch, then over at me. Beyond the basic introductory, hi-how-are-yous and such, I hadn't done much talking. I'd spent several minutes admiring his very impressive thick black beard, which he kept immaculately shaped and lined up. "We've been sitting here in silence for almost fifteen minutes, Clay. Don't you have anything you want to talk about? It doesn't even have to be relating to your anxiety."

He was getting paid regardless, so I didn't see why he cared. I doubted he had a genuine interest in my well-being. Maybe if I'd been a patient for more than twenty minutes. But he didn't know me. I was a name on a file to him.

"What else is there?" I asked. "That's why I'm here, right?"

My gaze bounced around the room. It looked like it belonged in someone's house, not the eighth floor of a random office building downtown. The view of downtown outside the large windows, framed by heavy brown curtains, did not match the interior. It felt like an optical illusion. All the furniture was comfortable, lived in—nothing like the stark modern decor of my last therapist. I suspected the comfy couch and the warm earth tones were meant to make people comfortable. To help them open up. Like they were talking to a friend in their living room.

"Your anxiety is not your whole life. You're a puzzle, and that's just one piece of the full picture," Dr. Singh said. "You could tell me about school, your friends, your family."

"I like your suit." I scanned the man's outfit. Burgundy trousers and a crisp pink button-down, with a fuchsia tie and suspenders. A matching burgundy coat hung on the back of his leather desk chair across the room. Emmett would love the ensemble.

"Thank you." He brushed a hand across his pants leg, as if to clear off lint. "I thought it was nice."

"You don't worry what people will think about you wearing that?"

"Not really. I liked it so I bought it." He looked me over. My tattered jeans—which I bought that way—my boring white t-shirt from Ralph Lauren with their signature polo player's silhouette, and my favorite Nikes. I was very boring in contrast with him. "Do you worry people will judge you for how you look?"

"Everyone judges everyone for how they look."

"Hmm." He nodded. "But you still did that." His eyes jumped to my silver hair. The only thing about me that stuck out.

"Maybe I'm sick of caring. They're just going to judge, anyway. It might as well be for something that makes me happy."

"That's a good way to look at it," Dr. Singh said.

"I guess."

"So, I read your file. A bit about your history. How this all started for you."

So much for not talking about my anxiety. Maybe he assumed I would open up now that he'd got me talking.

"No offense, Doc, but I don't want to talk about my dead dad. There's only one person I feel comfortable talking to about that outside my family, and you ain't him." I detested the word ain't—I heard it at least ten times a day—but I felt it worked better to get my point across.

Dr. Singh crossed his legs and leaned his head on his hand, framing his narrow face with his thumb and forefinger. "Do you mind if I ask who this mystery man is?"

I debated whether I should answer. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of letting a stranger know my sexuality right off the bat. Then again, once I implemented my plan, it wouldn't be a secret much longer, so why the hell not? As usual, I felt a sizable pit in my stomach. Surely the size of a golf ball, at least.