Without my volition, my eyes flit over the contents of his desk. There are mountains of files on either side of his workspace. A pen holder. A closed laptop. His phone. A desk phone, again a throwback from the 90s. A crystal-clear paperweight.
The last one’s the most interesting one. It’s the object I can use to do the most damage. I blow on my bangs as I stare at it. If I snatched it off his desk and hurled it at him really quickly, what’s he gonna do? He wouldn’t have time to stop me. I’d be really fast.
And I’m already locked up. He can’t lock me up twice, can he?
As if he knows what I’m feeling, Dr. Blackwood picks up the paperweight and rolls it in his palm. There’s something on his face that’s meant to provoke me. That does provoke me. A slight arrogant, knowing smile as he plays with the object. Like he’s almost daring me to do something about it.
Fucking Voldemort. The lord of everything evil and dark, according to Harry Potter, of course.
“You like it?” he asks, watching me carefully with shrewd eyes.
“Yes. Very much.”
“Yeah? I got it as a present when I graduated med school.”
“How touching.”
His slight smile broadens, stretching his pink lips, making him look so classically handsome and appealing and… devilish, that I want to throttle him.
Happy thoughts.
Peaceful thoughts.
“It is.” He nods, setting it down, out of my reach. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone so interested in it before. But then again…”
He trails off and I know he’s done it on purpose. He wants me to ask. I decide that I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I won’t.
I will not.
My clasped hands are digging into my lap. My knuckles have probably formed dents on my thighs. I grit my teeth but still, the question flows out. “Then again, what?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
My breath catches in my throat. “I-I’m sorry?”
“It’s in your file.” He raises his eyebrows. “Your therapist at the state hospital wasn’t very happy with you.”
My cheeks heat up.
“Though, I really want to know something,” he says, thoughtfully.
Sniffing, I ask, “What?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Did you really destroy her charts?”
I squirm in my seat. Curse him for bringing it up. I’m pretty sure he’s going to judge me and be condescending. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Everyone has already lectured me about it, including my mom in her phone call yesterday. About my supposed refusal of treatment.
But the thing is, I’m not like that. I’m not aggressive or prone to fights. I’m not real proud of all the things I’ve done to avoid talking. All I want is to be left alone.
All I want is peace.
“Why?”
“People can exaggerate sometimes. I tend not to believe everything I hear. And everything I read.”
I wasn’t expecting him to say that. No one has said that to me or given me the benefit of the doubt. They just assumed I did it because that biatch therapist told on me. I did do it. That’s not the point, though.
The point is that he’s asking instead of assuming.
“Yes,” I tell him, feeling bad.
I’m searching for judgment or condescension. Maybe some sort of a reprimand. There’s nothing except genuine curiosity.
It throws me off. It kind of… relaxes me.
“How?”
The way he said it, how. Like he’s so baffled and he really wants to know and that just makes me want to smile. I bite my lip so I don’t give in. I don’t want to smile at the enemy. “I poured water on them.”
He presses his lips together as if he wants to smile too, but he’s not going to. “All of them?”
Damn it.
I didn’t want to have anything in common with him. But our desire to not give in to our smiles is poking holes in my hatred of him.
“All of them,” I confirm.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
Okay, I give in.
I smile, shaking my head. “You bet I am. But in my defense, I was going for her head.”
His lips twitch. “Were you?”
“Yes. She was annoying. I didn’t like her voice.”
Willow, how can I help you if you don’t help me?
College is hard. Don’t you want to go to college without the burdens of what happened and what you did?
Talk to me, Willow. I can help you.
But I like his voice. I’m not going to tell him that, though. Nope.
I shrug. “Anyway, I changed my mind and went for the charts.”
“What made you change your mind?” he asks.
He sits back in his chair and does something that I can’t look away from. He rubs his lower lip – his pillowy, dusky pink lip, with which he said my name in that enticing way – with his thumb, and despite myself, I follow the gesture.
Swallowing, I say, the words slipping out of my mouth, “My mom.”