An older man with salt and pepper hair walked out from a hallway with a woman. They walked close to one another and spoke quietly as they approached the counter.Was this who I was supposed to talk to?He looked like the stuffy psychologist type.
“Thank you, Dr. Keith. I’ll see you next week,” the woman said to the man.
Okay, he was a doctor, but not mine. Mom sat beside me and texted back and forth with Thomas, mumbling to me about what I wanted for dinner. As we carried on a quiet conversation, I tried to pay attention to everything going on around me without being obvious that I was gazing around.
Another man—a drop-dead handsome man—appeared at the front desk. He wore a long-sleeved light blue button-down dress shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up. He placed his hand flat on the receptionist’s desk, leaned over it, and craned his neck to look at something on the monitor. His forearms were well defined, and the fabric of his shirt snuggly hugged his large biceps. If I were still talking to Selena, I would have definitely sent her a picture of this fine man. If there is a God, please let this man be a little gift to me. Please let this be Dr. Hamilton.
The man laughed quietly with the receptionist and then he stood up straight. He reached behind his back, causing the shirt to press against his muscular chest. I could tell he was re-tucking his shirttails into his slacks. Mmm. Sweet Jesus. This man could pop my cherry now while my mom waited in the lobby.
“Salem.” My name rolled off his sexy tongue like silk. I smiled, as if suddenly perfectly fine with talking to a therapist … or counselor … or psychologist … or whatever the fuck he was. He could be Jack the Ripper, and I’d be okay.
Without saying a word to my mom, or even looking her way, I stood and walked toward the muscular god in the blue shirt. I slowed my pace as I neared the counter as he came around to greet me. His eyes warmly cradled mine while a friendly smile spread across his face. Oh my God … that five o’clock shadow that only men get and not the stupid, lame boys at school. I felt my cheeks burn as I imagined his rough, abrasive face rubbing my delicate skin between my—
“Hi, Salem. I’m Dr. Hamilton.”
His official greeting was delivered with an outstretched hand, one that I enthusiastically took hold of. True to my word that I gave my mother before entering the office suite, I politely smiled before and after I said, “Hello.”
Dr. Hamilton gestured with his left hand toward a short hallway. There was an open door on the right side that he guided me into. Once inside, I stepped to the side and waited for him to enter. There were two black leather chairs sitting across from one another and a matching loveseat that sat between the two chairs off to the side. He closed the door with a quiet click and walked toward the seat closest to the door.
“Please, have a seat,” he said. “Would you like some water or tea?”
“No, thank you, Dr. Hamilton,” I replied, loving the way his name sounded when I finally said it out loud. I sat in the chair across from the chair he stood beside and then he took his seat.
“Please, feel free to call me Elijah, Eli, or Dr. Hamilton. Whatever you’re most comfortable calling me, Salem, please freely use that. We’ll be spending some time together each week for a while, so I’d like for us to be comfortable,” he said.
Elijah.
I nodded at his request for us to be comfortable and let my eyes wander to some pictures on a side table with other kids who looked about my age.Elijah.
“Are you a miracle worker?” I asked him.
Elijah cocked his head to the side slightly, and his hands rested calmly on his lap. He appeared to be lost, most likely. But because of his good looks, I wouldn’t hold it against him. At least, not yet.
“Your name. Elijah means miracle worker. It’s Hebrew but became widely popular in England during the Middle Ages. It’s a strong and refined name,” I said and smiled.
“I’d like to think of myself as someone who helps others. I’m not sure about being called a miracle worker, but I’ll take it.”
We laughed for a moment and then he reached for his pen and pad of paper. He set the pad on his leg that was crossed and propped up his knee. He slid the clip of the pen over a few sheets of paper, holding the pen in place, then he relaxed his arms on the armrests of the chair.
“Out of curiosity, how did you know what my name meant?” he asked.
“My hobby is genealogy. I love learning about my family and heritage. And while I learn about it, I pick up lots of other little tidbits too.”
“That’s a wonderful hobby.”
“Thank you,” I said. I made an upward gesture toward the closed door. “I’m glad someone thinks so.”
“Your mother doesn’t approve of it?”
I shook my head.
“I really like your name. Salem. It has a feisty sound to it. What does your name mean?” he asked.
I smiled and even laughed a little. I was sure I’d even blushed.
“What? Why the giggle and the red cheeks?” he playfully asked and leaned back in his chair.
Though I was slightly embarrassed by his comment about the red cheeks, I still responded honestly. I realized it probably wasn’t a good idea to attempt to lie to a psychologist. He could probably detect that sort of thing.
