Finding Obsidian

44 - A Long Story

Adrian peered at me from over a pair of reading glasses. "Hanna! What brings you here?"

The receptionist had let me in as soon as she'd heard my name, like I'd been expected at some point. The clinic was huge, but it was currently after hours and very empty. Which worked for me.

I sat down in the chair across from him, surveying his office with muted eyes. It was nicely furnished, with plush armchairs and a large oak table in the middle of the room that separated Adrian from his clients. A pretty barrier. 

"I wanted to talk," I answered, turning back to him. His frown betrayed his confusion.

"I thought you didn't want therapy?" he questioned, setting his notebook down on the table. He leaned forward, knotting his fingers. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Not really," I said, then I paused, considering. "Maybe. But today I'm here for information, plain and simple."

His brows raised in knowing realization. "Ah," he said with a mild grimace, "Rian."

"Yes, Rian."

"Did something happen between you two?" Concern was clear in the white of his fingers, the crease in his brow. 

"Nothing different than what you'd expect from us," I said, an uneasy smile drifting over my face. The words were true, sad as it was. "I don't think I can stop him from leaving. He's dead set on it."

Adrian blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair. "That's to be expected, I suppose," he acknowledged. "You weren't any easier to convince, three years ago. Before you jetted off for France."

I absentmindedly began twisting a strand of my hair around my finger. Which was strange, considering I'd never had that habit before. "Yes, well. That was a mistake," I admitted. "I shouldn't have run away."

"Run away?" Adrian mused. "Why put it like that?"

"Because that's what it was," I replied simply. My voice was monotonous, like I was saying something I'd said thousands of times before, even though this was the first. "My parents were—are dead. The nightmares wouldn't let me sleep. I couldn't sit still. And on top of all of that grief was guilt." 

Adrian said nothing. I continued, a hint of bitterness creeping into my otherwise bland tone. 

"Guilt, because my parents weren't the only casualties. Because I was stupid and hasty and I didn't think things through. Because I made my best friend an orphan. Because I destroyed our lives." I paused, taking a breath. "So yes, I ran away. France was an excuse. I just wanted to escape that look in Rian's eyes—the despair—and the knowledge that it was me that put it there."

Adrian rubbed his fingers together pensively. I chewed on my lip, realizing I'd revealed more about myself in three minutes than I had in three whole years. It wasn't an entirely uncomfortable feeling. 

"But all of that is beside the point," I said, rushing to fill the silence. "I didn't come here to learn about myself. I need to know why Rian is so bent on leaving."

Adrian shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

I shook my head back at him. "You have to, because he refuses to tell me himself."

The reading glasses slid down the bridge of Adrian's nose. "It would be a breach of his trust. I can't tell you that, Hanna."

I paused, glancing down at the floor before meeting Adrian's eyes again. My gaze was steely. "Then tell me about something I already know."

He blinked. "What?"

"Tell me about the day our parents died. The whole story."

He stared at me, taking in the set of my jaw, the way my eyes didn't flicker. "That's still personal to Rian," he said, but this argument was weaker than the last. He wanted to tell me, badly. I could see it.

"It's personal to me, too," I insisted, leaning forward. "I deserve to know everything that happened that day. All of it. If I draw any Rian-related conclusions from that," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "say, why he's so adamant on staying away, then that's on me."

After a moment, Adrian's shoulders lowered warily. "It's a long story, Hanna."

"I have nothing but time."

Another moment. Then the clatter of his reading glasses on the table, folded neatly. 

"Alright," he agreed. "I'll tell you. But . . . it might be difficult to listen to. Like you're living it all over again."

I smiled for the first time since I'd arrived in his office. "Did you not hear me when I mentioned the nightmares?"

He grimaced. "Right. In that case, why don't we begin?"