Medicine Man

“Can we get started?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.

Without lifting his face, he shifts his gaze to me. I wish I was good at reading people but I’m not and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. But I do notice that his eyes are glinting. Or maybe it’s the light shafting through the windows. Today’s a bit sunnier than yesterday; I hate it. But at least I might get to go outside and feed my pigeons.

He nods and walks to the desk. “Sure.”

I nod back, wiping my hand on my black yoga pants. My t-shirt says, “Snuggle this muggle.” I thought I needed something cozy today.

I’m about to take my seat when I notice something at the desk. Something green and in a plastic cup, placed exactly where I’m supposed to sit.

My lips part on a small breath and I look up at him, standing by his chair, composed as ever.

“Is that… a lime jello?” I manage to ask in a hoarse, compressed voice.

“That is what the label says, yes,” he replies, coolly.

I narrow my eyes. “Why’s there a lime jello where I’m supposed to sit?”

At this, I notice something twitch. His lips.

There’s a very, very small smile on his lips as he bows his head again before looking back up, and his hair gets caught up in the sunrays. I’m almost stunned to see that it isn’t all black; there are slices of rich chocolate brown in there.

“Are you always this suspicious of snacks?” he asks.

“Only when they are given to me for no reason. And by a doctor, no less.”

“You have something against doctors?”

Say no. Say no. Say no.

I offer him a tight smile. “Yes. Especially psychiatrists. Not to mention, psychologists too. I think they’re wacked.”

Then the sound I heard yesterday echoes around the room. His chuckle. It’s short and sharp. Such a burst of bright sound that I don’t even regret outing my true feelings about people like him.

Dr. Blackwood shakes his head once, a small lopsided smile lingering on that soft mouth. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“They spend their days figuring out the crazy. It’s clearly not because they want to help people.”

“Clearly.”

I let his sarcasm go. “It’s because there’s something wrong with them. Who wants to spend hours upon hours sitting on a couch, analyzing the shit out of insanity? Insane people.”

“I sit in a chair.”

I throw him a mock smile. “Whatever. Doesn’t make you any less wacked.”

“Noted.” Then he shrugs, keeping his eyes on me. “Well, I owed you, and your friend – Rachel, is it? – said lime jello is the way to go.”

Right.

Stupid, freaking Renn. I still haven’t forgiven her for throwing me under the bus yesterday.

But that’s not important right now. What’s important is that he forgot Renn’s name. I mean, I knew he would. I knew it. And it pisses me off. How dare he forget my BFF’s name?

“Renn.”

“Excuse me?”

“Her name’s Renn,” I inform him.

“Right. I apologize. I’m not very good with names, apparently,” he says in a tone that’s laced with both self-deprecation and arrogance, somehow. Like he’s apologizing but not really apologizing.

“You remembered my name.”

As soon as I blurt it out, I wanna take it back. I wanna find those words in the air – the thick, scented air – and shove them back inside my mouth.

This is what happens when you talk too much. You say the wrong things. I was supposed to be calm and cool and a cucumber.

Now I can’t stop thinking about the fact that he did remember my name. In fact, I still can’t get over the way he said it, like that name really suited me. Not to mention, he remembered the whole nonsensical conversation from yesterday.

For an unknown reason, all of this makes me flush and I look away from his penetrating eyes.

He’s not supposed to affect me this much. I’ve always hated doctors with their judgmental looks and God complexes. But not like this.

“I had a weeping willow in my backyard while I was growing up,” he says after a few seconds, and I shift my focus back to him. “Broke my leg on it when I was ten. Not an easy thing to forget.”

“What were you doing up on the tree?” I ask, despite myself.

It’s so hard to imagine Dr. Blackwood doing something fun like climbing a tree. In fact, just by looking at him I can say that he never, ever did anything carefree or impulsive. He’s too severe, too intense for that.

Too straight-laced.

“Trying to impress someone with my athletic abilities,” he murmurs, his eyes somewhere off my shoulders. Like there’s a portal to the past behind me.

“A girl?”

His eyes come back to me. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Did you? Impress her, I mean.”

“I think so, yes.”

I want to ask if she was pretty. I don’t know why. It’s a stupid thought. Shouldn’t even enter my mind. But it did, and now I’m even more agitated.