by Trisha Wolfe
I collect myself enough to verbalize a sentence. “I apologize, Mr. Hensley, but I think we need to reschedule this session.”
He drives a hand through his mop of dark hair, and that single action sets off an onslaught of emotions, sending a tidal wave of nostalgia crashing over me.
I’m sixteen all over again. Helplessly and naively drawn to the boy with a wicked smile.
“Sure,” he says, nonchalant. He starts to stand, then halts midway, those intense eyes pinning me. “Did I do something…?”
I release a weighty sigh. As much as his presence causes me pain, I can’t deny that the pain feels criminally good. Like the satisfaction that comes from scratching a rash of poison ivy. Keeping him close is a bad, bad idea—and yet: “No, absolutely not,” I say. “It’s my first day and—”
“And my file is too intense for a first day.” He raises his eyebrows knowingly. “I get it. I’m surprised they even let me in this school. My dad probably promised to build a new gym or library or some shit. Just so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.”
I tilt my head as I study him. He’s nothing like the boy who previously sat in that chair. I can see that Carter is articulate, and he’s willing to talk about his home life, something that takes most people more than one session to open up about.
“Are you sure you’re only eighteen?” I ask.
He chuckles, and the deep baritone of his voice slides pleasurably over my skin. “Yeah. Why? Is that going to be a problem?”
Shame settles in the pit of my stomach like a rock. I’m supposed to be listening to him, helping him. Not dissecting him.
I mute my phone and flip it over. My action states that I’m here for him; his time is important to me. “My lack of ability to deal with a first day has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”
He cocks his head, studying me just as intently. “This isn’t just your first day. It’s your first job. You’re new at this. I’d be nervous, too.”
A smile flits across my lips. “What makes you think I’m new at this?”
His gaze travels over me leisurely, deliberately. From the collar of my black blazer, to the breast pocket of my white blouse, down to my sleeve cuff. It’s too scrutinizing for a person of his age, and I feel as if his lingering stare is a physical touch branding my skin.
“You don’t look like a teacher.”
I clear my throat. “That’s an accurate assessment,” I say, “seeing as I’m not a teacher.”
“I mean, you’re young. Really young. Early twenties probably.” He leans back in the chair, confidence radiating off of him.
Every word…every action… I have to remind myself that he is not Jeremy Rivers.
His smile widens, revealing a pop of dimples in his cheeks. I avert my eyes to my laptop as heat flushes my face.
“You’re way too attractive also,” he says, raising his hands in mock innocence when my gaze darts his way. “I’m not trying to be…inappropriate? Is that the word?”
“That’s exactly the word,” I say, enforcing a hint of sternness in my voice.
“Political correctness aside, it’s obvious that you’re beautiful. I’ve seen my fair share of guidance counselors and psychologists, and none of them ever made me hot like you do.”
The floor beneath me all but disappears. I’m being swallowed by space and time, and reality ceases to make sense. I reach for some semblance of bearings to ground myself, and adopt an awkwardly forced smile.
One thing is clear: this boy is trouble. It takes a few seconds for his charms to subside before I see the play for what it is.
“Let’s talk about that,” I say, shifting the focus back onto him. “How long have you been in therapy, Mr. Hensley?”
There’s a fleeting moment where his smile falters, and he realizes I’m not so easily gamed. Then his bravado recovers. “Started freshman year. So, if it’s not too rude to ask, how old are you, Ms. Montgomery?”
He’s deflecting. Oddly enough, this is within my realm of normal, comfortable. I can handle—and prefer to handle—a young man deflecting his emotions. “I’m your elder,” I say, making a note on his digital file. “That’s old enough. Are you questioning my capabilities because of my age?”
“No, ma’am. I think you’re completely capable.” I watch him smirk from my peripheral. “I’m not trying to frazzle you—”
“Yes, you are.” I stop typing and turn toward him. “And that’s okay. I’m not upset, or frazzled. I understand why you’d try to make me feel uncomfortable. It’s probably worked on others before. So they’d drop your case. Kick you out. Stop trying to help you.”
His features shift, his mouth hardens into a thin line. He says nothing in response. Instead, he focuses on straightening his necktie.
“I’m not going to stop trying to help you,” I hear myself say, and realize I mean it. “No matter what. I’m new and fresh, as you’ve pointed out, and have many years ahead in this field before I’m worn down by young men like you.” I let a smug smile grace my lips.
He stops fidgeting with his tie and peeks up. “So, there is the possibility of wearing you down?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What if I come in here and ask you out every session?” he presses.
A laugh slips free, and I quickly recover. “I won’t cave,” I say, schooling my facial muscles. “That’s against school policy, obviously, and it’d be a gross misconduct on my part. You’re my patient. And a minor.”
“I’m eighteen,” he reminds me.
“And yet, that changes nothing.”
His gaze levels with mine. “If you don’t tell me your age, I’ll have to start guessing.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I’m flirting, my inner voice scolds. I need to stop this.
He sits forward in the chair, bracing his elbows on the arms. My gaze is drawn to his exposed forearms. “I’d say twenty-two…but that wouldn’t give you enough time to graduate college.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying not to give in to his deliberate attempt to unnerve me. “What were the fights about in your last school?”
This question throws him a bit, and he pushes back in the seat. “That was then,” he says. “I had a few issues with some guys, but that’s over. I’m here now. Fresh start. Same as you.”
His comment knocks me mentally off balance, and I catch myself staring at him, my hands shaking against the laptop keyboard. “Who did you hear that from?”
What does he know? Why is he here?
His features contort in confusion. “Hear what?”
Fresh start. An innocent remark. Of course, I’m overreacting. His attempt to get under my skin is working. I’m the adult. I’m the trained counselor.
I close my eyes, calm my breathing. “Nothing. I think we’re getting off to the wrong start.”
“You’re right. We should’ve met outside of school. Like a meet cute in a bookstore, or a coffee shop. Then I would’ve flirted with you there—and not inappropriately in your office—and I would have asked for your number.” He grins at me. “And you would’ve given it to me.”
I can’t help it; I laugh out right. “That is a very bold and cocky statement.”
He shrugs, then crosses his arms. “I feel it. Don’t you? That we have something between us, Ms. Montgomery?”
The air becomes dense, heavy with the weight of his stare. I don’t blink; I hold his deliberate gaze across the desk, and feel the moment the air crackles. A current of electricity travels between us, proving his statement true.
It takes all my willpower to look away. I focus on the laptop screen, not really seeing it. I’m the first to move, but only because I need to place my hand out of sight. I curl my fingers into a ball and press my nails into my palm. I feel my skin split.
I release a strained breath. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
His smile is back. Challenge sparks
in his eyes. “No, ma’am. I’m going to make it very, very hard.”
I arch an eyebrow. “All right. On that note, let’s tackle at least one of the questions on the questionnaire, so that we achieve something valuable during our first session. And I want you to answer it honestly.”
“I’ll give you anything you ask,” he says.
Right. I firm up my resolve and click open a new tab on his file. Years of study, schooling, training…and none of it prepared me for Carter Hensley. I have to regain control.
“To you,” I start, “what is the difference between aggression and violence?”
“Serious answer?” he asks.
I nod. “Please.”
He runs his palms over his slacks, ironing out the creases, as he considers the question. “Aggression is a response to an action, and violence is the action.”
I feel my forehead furrow as I chase my thoughts. I don’t know how to respond, or what to think. There’s a magnetic pull that tugs from the center of my chest, urging me toward him—a powerful draw that, no matter how badly I want to, I can’t ignore.
“Am I close?” he asks, a crooked smile tilting his mouth.
I clear my throat and break eye contact with him. “Yes. That was a very astute answer.”
“What do I win? Can I name my prize?”
I swivel my chair to the left and pull open a desk drawer. I rifle through my emergency stash and select my favorite, then toss him the candy bar. I smile smugly.
He holds it up. “This wasn’t the candy I had in mind.” Before I can respond, he stands and leans over the desk, his face too close to mine. “I have time, though. I’ll get what I want in the end.”
I’m not thinking clearly; I’ve lost all rational thought. That has to be the reason why I inch closer to him and say: “What if I get what I want first?”
His gaze lowers, long black lashes brush his cheeks, as his eyes settle on my lips, then rove slowly over my features to meet my gaze. “Then we’ll both be very satisfied.”
On impulse, I lick my lips—then immediately draw back. “I need to ask you about the incident last year.”
That pale-blue gaze rakes over my features ravenously. “I told you, I’ll give you anything you ask for, hot girl.”
He’s staring at me like a predator stares down its prey. One slight move from me could trigger the wrong course of action. I breathe evenly, every inhalation a burden for my constricted chest.
“I’m officially advising you to refer to me as Ms. Montgomery, Mr. Hensley.”
“Carter,” he says, stressing his point. He drags a thumb across his bottom lip as he moves back toward his seat. He tosses the candy bar on the desk. “Besides, I’m sure you read the report. What else is there to know?”
I inhale a shaky breath, my skin blazing. “Your side,” I say, finding my bearings. “There’s always two sides to a story. I want your version.”
He arches one dark eyebrow. “Version, or truth? They’re two different things.”
A cautious smile slips over my lips. “I happen to agree. So, are you going to tell me your truth?”
He chuckles. “You’re so clever.” He slaps the armchair, making a spectacle before he says, “Do you ever feel numb?”
I roll my shoulders to loosen the stiffness coiling my body, then lift my chin. “How do you mean?”
He cocks his head, dimples straining against his tense jawline. “Like there’s a layer covering you that, no matter what you do, you can’t feel anything fully. Then it becomes frustrating, that dullness, as if every interaction and every action you’re fighting some gauzy web that mutes the world.”
I stay silent, every fiber of my being tangled with his words and those troubled blue eyes.
“That’s what happened,” he says, shrugs. “I punched Jerad Harding for being a dick, then I kept punching him to beat away the dullness.”
Gaze steady with his, I don’t blink. “Did it work?” When his brow creases, I clarify: “Did nearly beating this boy to death make you feel?”
A crooked smile twists his mouth. “It didn’t make me feel any less.”
We stay locked in this stare, neither one of us knowing the next move, until I break eye contact to glance at the clock above the door. “I think that concludes our first session.” I turn toward the laptop and type, making myself busy, so I won’t look at him again as he leaves the office. “Please schedule your follow up session with Ms. Jansen for next week.”
He rises from the seat silently. Then: “What if I want to see you before then?”
Hands hovering over the keys, I focus on the pulse in my palms, the fresh cuts from my nails. This is real. “You’re only required one session a week and—” I meet his eyes “—I feel that’s enough.”
He moves so quickly, I barely have time to push my chair away from the desk before he’s latched on to the arms, caging me in. “Just so we’re on the same page, Ms. Montgomery, there’s no gauzy web when I look at you.” He raises a hand to touch my face…but halts right before, letting the dare hang between us. “I hope that doesn’t scare you.”
The heat of his body rises like a current of electricity, his hand might as well be touching me. I feel seared. “I don’t frighten easily, Mr. Hensley.”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. My gaze is drawn to his mouth, and I’m acutely aware of the tender ache between my thighs. “I’ll see you soon.” He winks.
He says it like a promise, like a threat—and I let him walk out of the office without another word.
When the door clicks closed, I slump in my chair and exhale a forceful breath. My whole body is wound tight, on edge. I throb between my legs from having squeezed my thighs together so hard.
I pluck a tissue from the box on my desk and grip it in my hand, letting the blood absorb.
There is a level of wrong here that is very dangerous.
Whatever initial reaction I had toward Carter was in direct relation to his likeness to a boy I loved before—a very long time ago. Classic displacement. Jeremy and I left things between us so unfinished…
That’s over. It’s been over for seven and a half years. Yet the mind is cruel; I know this above all. The most painful memories never fade. Just like the scent of Carter’s cologne resurfaced a long-ago buried memory; like it was yesterday that Jeremy held my wrists trapped against a locker…
I breathe in the air, taste his lingering scent before it fades completely.
That’s where the similarities between the two end, however. This dangerous feeling for Carter has nothing to do with the past, and everything to do with the boy daring me to bite the forbidden apple.
With determined strength, I type up a deduction in Carter’s file.
Aggression versus violence. Which dominates this individual? Are his actions led by aggressive thoughts, or is he reactional to violence?
I write a lengthy comment, where I detail every word and action during our meeting…then delete it. Our interaction feels too personal, intimate, to be put on record. I replace the whole statement with one word: aggressive.
Carter is aggressive.
He is aggressively pursuing me.
And he’s going to be a problem.
Fixate
Ellis
It started out innocent enough.
A simple peek at social media. A quick Google search. A harmless glimpse into his life.
After Carter left my office, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That intense stare. The dare in his pale-blue eyes. The way the muscles in his forearms tensed when he gripped my chair.
The way he described his inability to feel. The way he declared I could change that.
I had to look, to know… Was it possible there was any relation to Jeremy Rivers?
Seven states separate the two. I knew it was unlikely—and yet, I couldn’t stop the compulsive thought. I needed to confirm it; that all Carter’s likeness to the boy from my past was an unfortunate coincidence. Then, my mind would be free of the
obsessive thought.
When I found the answer—of course, it was impossible—I wanted to stop looking…but I had opened a door into his life. The latch on Pandora’s box was broken. I had access to pictures, and posts, his thoughts. Carter enjoyed hiking the mountain trail. He started drum lessons over the summer. He’s into old-school eighties rock bands and appreciates the classics. He rides a mean dirt bike.
I had fallen down the rabbit hole. The more I learned about Carter, the more differences between he and Jeremy I could establish, further separating them. This was good. Making them distinctive in my mind. So that when Carter next entered my office, I wouldn’t be taken by surprise and I could give him the unique focus he deserves.
This study into Carter would make me a better psychologist for him.
Week two at BMA, and I’ve wandered into the faculty lounge. The room is quiet, almost stifling, actually. The atmosphere with its tranquil off-white, neutral tones is supposed to be soothing, as it attempts to camouflage the cinderblock walls. There’s a trendy little coffee area with shiplap boards and hooks converted into coffee mug holders and a black chalkboard that reads Welcome in handwritten cursive script. The few teachers here are preoccupied by their phones. Scrolling through social media, reading emails.
I seal the lid of my gray travel mug and move to the block wood table along the wall. The incessant impulse I’ve been trying to suppress all morning to pull up Carter’s social media page rises hot like a flame, but I tamp it down. I can’t give in to those old, familiar cravings.
It’s like a drug addiction. No matter how much time has passed, the hunger is always present. I’ve learned to curb the desire, but every once in a while, a strong urge to take a hit strikes like a thunderous bolt. It would be so easy to fall off the wagon and give in.
No. I’ve worked too hard, come too far, to lose control now.
“So, how was your first week?”
The interruption stirs a hot annoyance, and I almost snap at the woman. Instead, I force a sugary smile like I’ve practiced. Whenever irritation takes hold, I’ve learned to simply smile at people. This always disarms, and you can practically say anything with a smile and be excused.