Roofers.

3. Nougat.

Scarlett POV.

I never liked therapy. The idea of sitting in front of someone, laying your brain on the table for someone to poke at and probe like some kind of roadkill experiment was unnerving. I'd read somewhere that when a therapist looks at you. They see more than what you tell them. They look at the way you walk in, take heed of the tightness of your grip when you shake hands. Then you sit down and they look at the way you do that too and write it all down on a notepad. 

I could feel when Genevieve, my therapist, was doing it. She would squint her eyes, turn her head ever so slightly. And when or if she was done she always took the time to write it down in red ink, leaving me to feel as though I was failing a test before even starting. Therapy felt more like a test than anything to me. It was always a familiar series of the same vague questions to which I'd always reply with a similarly stiff, vague answer. And then she'd frown and make a small "x" into some box on her notepad and she'd ask me another one, only to reap the same result. Again and again. That was our little dynamic. Our endless game of chess.

I wondered what she saw in the way I moved, if I moved with some sort of grace, like her and my mother. Or if I walked around the place like a dying hippo. I wondered if by that alone she could tell me the name of my favourite novel or movie. Deep, deep down. I prayed that she couldn't see right through me. I prayed my skin was not a giant looking glass meant for her to examine me from. I prayed she could not see the way my stomach tightened into a knot every time I was forced to meet with her.

After the game night incident, I got a call from my mother saying I had to see Genevieve again. She wasn't taking no for an answer, which was why I was here.

I'd never liked Genevieve, for a friend of my mother's she surely lived up to the image in my head. With a long, pale face she always seemed to be sucking in her cheeks, sticking out her rouged lips like some kind of modern day French seductress. The mole right above her lips was proof, and the way it stretched and contorted when she spoke made it hard to take her seriously. 

She wore a suit that made her shoulders seem too wide, like pyramids that shot out from either side. I'd always hated that suit, but it seemed to be her favourite. She wore some variation of it every time I saw her.

I sunk into the cold faux leather couch, stuffing my hands into my pockets as I waited for her to begin. Usually, my eyes would waltz around the room. Taking account of the harrowing bookshelf, filled with whatever it was that Genevieve indulged in. I'd pay attention to the spiralling designs in the shelves that had darkened with time. I'd look over her shoulder to make it seem as though I was paying attention, but really I was looking at the statue of a naked woman with no arms or legs — the one right next to the door. The door I would walk out of in an hour. Leaving was the highlight of therapy.

But today, I didn't look around. Today, I stared at the coffee table in front of me and at the bowl of caramels and nougats and other rich people candies that now sat in the centre. Genevieve noticed and I know she did because I could feel her eyes on me.

"How've you been lately, Scarlett?" She asked, finally.

My eyes flickered up to her.

"Have those always been there?" I asked her.

"Your mother said you had a sweet tooth," She offered me a small smile, but it disappeared quickly when I didn't return it. It's clear to me why she was my mother's friend. "Have one," she said.

"No thanks," I replied. She wasn't gonna win me over with sweets. I wasn't a kid anymore.

She cleared her throat and asked me how I was feeling again.