I gave a slow nod and lukewarm smile but there was absolutely no way that was happening. Lunch with Sebastian was out of the question, but also, I couldn't even walk past the area where food trucks regularly parked in this neighborhood without my stomach turning. It drove me crazy that so much of everyday adult life revolved around eatingwithpeople. This setup wasn't designed for those of us with confrontational digestive systems.
Dr. Cuello shifted in her modern-style red wingback chair to glance at Stremmel, her long silver hair gleaming in the sun as a smile tugged at her lips. "That's a defensive posture if I've ever seen one, Dr. Stremmel."
He stood with his shoulders against the shelf and his arms crossed over his chest. His scrubs were the darkest, most saturated navy blue I'd ever seen, the color one would receive if they asked for black with the barest pulse of life beating inside it.
When Sebastian replied with nothing more than a slow blink, Dr. Cuello continued, "Ah. Well. It is time for us to begin."
I reached into my coat pockets to check that all my devices were set to vibrate. From the corner of my eye, I watched Sebastian inspect the device clipped to his hip and the phone in his pocket.
"How's this going to go?" he asked. "Are we supposed to prove that we're not a danger to each other or hospital property? If that's the case, I can probably leave now, seeing as Shapiro is the one who likes to live dangerously."
"In this space, I'll encourage you to speak to each other using first names—"
"Shapiro is fine," I said. My whole life, I'd been Sara Shap, Shap, Shappie. No one ever called me Sara. I doubted I'd even respond to it.
"Or is this going to be naming feelings and exploring trauma and that whole dumpster fire? Because if so, can we just raw dog this thing and move it all along? My father hasn't been in my life on a consistent basis, my parents divorced when I was four, and I haven't felt anything since then. Shap, you're on deck."
I deposited my devices back into one pocket beside the color-coded notecards I used to prepare for my cases, and grabbed this afternoon's snack from the other. "I feel plenty of things but I'd rather intellectualize those feelings and bottle them up until they explode."
"See Exhibit A, the exam room I like for charting," he said.
Dr. Cuello hummed to herself as she steepled her fingertips under her chin. "I understand now."
"What?" Sebastian asked. "Why you, as the Associate Director of Behavioral Health, got stuck with us instead of shipping us off to a doctoral student?"
She inclined her head toward him with a generous smile. "Yes, and why I was promised I'd enjoy it so much."
I pinched my lips together to keep myself from shouting that this wasn't a game to me. That I'd beenchastised for my behavior by my boss—which was the worst punishment in the world for any perfectionist, but especially this perfectionist, since it came coupled with a reminder that my fucking father would've been disappointed.
My entire professional life was spent defining myself as separate and distinct from my father and now…well, this wasn't a game to me. I wasn't going to let it be a game.
"I commend you both for being able to distill yourself down to, ahem, raw dog terms, as you say, though that's not how this is going to go, Sebastian," Dr. Cuello said. "If you're comfortable with it, you're welcome to call me Milana."
She glanced in my direction but I was too busy eating and organizing my pockets. Not for the first time, I observed that I could hide an entire kitten in one of these pockets.
"Our time together will be spent practicing de-escalation, social perspective-taking, and communication in high stress yet professional settings. I hope you'll view this as an opportunity rather than a punishment."
"Itisa punishment," I said, mostly to myself.
"What—what the hell are you eating?" Sebastian asked.
I replied with the same amount of exasperation with which he'd asked the question. "Croutons."
"Why?"
"Why," I repeated. "What kind of question is that? Do you go up to people in the cafeteria and ask them why they chose that sandwich?"
"No, because it's a fucking sandwich, not a bag of croutons that belong on top of a salad. That's weird." He looked to Milana. "That's weird."
She held up her hands and let them fall, silently choosing neutrality in this battle.
"My croutons are not subject to your approval."
He cocked his head to the side. "And yet my treatment plans are subject toyourapproval?"
"Yeah, when the plan is lazy. There are better options than sloppy staples, especially when we're talking about faces, especially when we're talking about younger patients who—"
"Then your primary concern is aesthetics," he interrupted, nodding to himself like this confirmed all his worst suspicions. "Should've guessed that. Plastics and all." He lifted his shoulders and I could hear the smugness vibrating off him. "My primary concern is saving lives."
