Losing It

“Getting there.” He takes a step backward. Motions to the coffee. “Why you cutting back?”

“Is it not obvious?”

He shakes his head.

“I, um… caffeine isn’t great for my anxiety.”

“Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”

“Yeah… I do. A lot. I, um, I see a therapist sometimes. Well, I did.”

“Did it help?” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just casual acceptance. Like I told him I prefer my coffee without sugar.

It eases the knot in my stomach.

But it does something else too.

Makes everything light and airy.

Him accepting my weird…

I really want that.

“For a while. I… I didn’t handle my senior year so well. There was a lot. With work and studying and applying to med school. I guess…” I wanted to figure out my future. Then all that therapy and my shrink was sure I wanted to be a doctor. That it was just fear standing in the way of that. And when I tried to say no, it’s more, she’d argue with me. Remind me of all the other times fear got in my way.

It happened a lot.

But this…

I don’t know.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe it’s cold feet.

Maybe I don’t know myself enough to know what I want.

“You guess?” Wes takes another sip of tea.

“I had a lot to think about.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“I didn’t like my therapist. I fired her.” I sip my English Breakfast. Mmm, it’s good. But my brain has connected the taste with the caffeine boost. My thoughts are already moving a little faster. “Don’t tell Owen.”

“You talk about that shit?”

“Sometimes. He cares. But, um, he can be a know it all. He’s going into psychiatry.”

“And you?”

“Well, I did promise to fix your head.”

“That interest you?”

“Sure. People are fascinating. And the mind…” I reach for my prepared answer. The one I deliver to friends, family, teachers, coworkers. “It’s… It’s a great field.”

His head cocks to one side.

He nods with acceptance, but it’s written all over his face.

He knows I’m full of shit.

“It’s just… I don’t think I could actually do the shrink thing. It was exhausting scrutinizing myself, my thoughts, my patterns. Dealing with someone else this… neurotic all day—”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“No, I just—”

“You can’t help the way your brain works.”

“Well, sorta. You can’t fix a chemical imbalance with positive thinking. But the entire basis of cognitive behavioral therapy is that you can help the way your brain works. It’s all about making new habits and patterns. But that’s, um, that’s more a psychologist. Psychiatrists are in such high demand they rarely have time to see patients for therapy. They’re usually there to prescribe medication.”

“I get what you mean.” He sets his mug on the counter. Moves closer. “We all have shit we could do better.”

I nod. “You?”

“Fuck, how much time do you have?”

“You seem… well-adjusted.”

“Do I really?”

“Yeah.” I move closer. Close enough to touch him.

Then I do.

My fingers brush his chin. His jawline. His temple.

He stares down at me with those gorgeous blue eyes.

There’s this pain in them.

It’s barely there, but it is.

What the hell is it that hurts him?

He blinks, and it’s gone. He’s back to that devil-may-care playboy. “Your place is nice.”

“Oh, thanks.” I motion to the posters. “It’s not too much?”

He shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

“So, um…” I reach for a response. Something flirty. “What are we doing today?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I have to get dressed.”

“Yeah, but if I tell you what to wear, you might not invite me into your bedroom.”

Chapter Sixteen

Quinn

Wes’s eyes go wide as he steps into my bedroom.

I pull my arms over my chest. Let out a steady exhale.

The last time I had a guy here was… never.

“You okay?” Wes presses my door closed.

I do the same thing when I’m alone.

Why do I do the same thing?

This is my apartment. Why not leave the door open? Why not walk around naked for anyone to see?

Wait.

Sure, Wes has touched my boobs, but it’s not like I stripped naked for his viewing pleasure.

Though…

My sex clenches. There’s something hot about that thought. About imagining the low, demanding tone to his voice. The desire in his eyes. The hardness in his shorts.

I want that.

I don’t want to check off my bucket list.

I want to fuck him.

No, I do want to check off my bucket list.

And I want to fuck him.

Later.

Eventually.

Once I’m ready.

Which is totally happening.

Totally.

“Quinn?” Wes tilts his head to one side.

“Oh. Yeah. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“When I got this place. I work at the hospital on Twentieth.” I smooth my dress. “It’s nice being close to work, but traffic was so awful when I went to school.”

“Bet you won’t miss that.”

“Yeah.” There’s no enthusiasm in my voice. It’s like I’m going to war. “I mean, Chicago is no picnic. But I’m going to get a place near school. My parents want me to stay at home. But they’re so far out in the suburbs.” And the thought of sleeping in my old bedroom for a single night is suffocating. For four years? No way.