No. God decided to reward me with extra-flared hips and a waist that dipped in on the sides. And being a 34DD, I have larger breasts than I'd like.
Rounding the corner, I make my way to the glass door that leads to Dr. Richardson’s office.
Stopping for a second, I glance around shyly and experience a small pang of envy. He seems to be living the life I've wanted for myself: a tastefully decorated office in a big, swanky building with beautiful landscaping, and a parking lot that holds considerably more than four cars at a time.
Brushing the jealousy away, I breathe deeply through my diaphragm, reminding myself I sank my savings into my little office house and fixed it up into a beautiful, shining jewel. I have nothing to be ashamed of.Nothing.
I push through the glass doors and sink down into a buttery leather chair, trying to carefully sit without pressing my back to the seat. Looking over curiously, I see the receptionist's desk is empty, and I fight my hackles rising as it looks like they're presumably gone for the day. My eyes flit around nervously as my palms begin to sweat. Am I going to be alone with him?
I don't even know this man.
Glancing at my watch and seeing that I'm just a few minutes early, I force myself to sit patiently. Going over the words I want to say to get him to see our client needs a new diagnosis. He needs help.
My worries rise to the surface again, bringing my eyes back to the hall which seems to house the psychiatrists, according to the plaque on the wall. Surely Dr. Richardson won't hurt me.
He would never threaten the upstanding professional reputation he's curated for two decades.
Biting my lip, I strain to hear the sound of his footsteps. Do I call him Mr. Richardson or Dr. Richardson? My nose crinkles at having to choose. Being snarky in an email is one thing, but to say it to someone's face, especially someone such as he, is completely another thing. I decide on Dr. Richardson and then force myself to stop staring towards the hall. It won't help mycase if I look too desperate. I need to appear confident, and a touch aloof. Maybe he'll respect that since that seems to be what he knows, after all.
I anxiously brush my hair behind one ear as I look down at my knees, trying to hold my spine straight, and ignore the twinge in my vagina and the cramp in my lower abdomen. I just need to get through this meeting; then, I can go home and lay down. I can make it. I can.
I just need to meet with Dr. Richardson first, and then I will be okay.
I have to be.
Chapter ten
MD. meets LPC.
Beyondreadytogohome, I finish typing on my computer and take my glasses off for the day, abhorring my next meeting. Closing my patient’s chart, I leave the computer on, knowingthat I'll have to start it back up anyway when littleMs. I’m-going-to-tell-the-Ethics-board-on-yougets into my office.
In all my years of practice, no one has been able to get under my skin the way this woman has. And lately, my family has had me strung so tight that I question my sanity for agreeing to this impromptu meeting.
Needing a moment of peace, I sit for a second and rub my hand roughly down my face before pushing my keyboard in. When I'm ready, I briskly brush down the lapels of my suit as I stand up. I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror by my desk, arching a brow at my intense irises that are unfortunately more striking than they are calming and the permanent five o'clock shadow across my jaw.
Wait, why the hell am I worried about what this old woman thinks when she sees me?
Checking myself, I smile, convincing myself that Ms. Johnson can’t bother me. I'll get through this little appointment, then go stop for ice cream with Aurora to congratulate myself on yet another successful work week completed.
Taking long strides, I round the corner to the lobby and stop rather abruptly, seeing nothing but hair, a long, blue skirt with matching heels, and white-tipped toes sticking out underneath.
Huh.I tilt my head curiously.
Glancing around and not seeing any older ladies in any of the other chairs, I clear my throat, tamping down irritation that the therapist is late. I turn back to the woman sitting there quietly with her face turned away from me, seemingly so lost in thought that she hadn’t even turned her head when I walked into the lobby.
Keeping quiet, I take a few steps further into the waiting area, stopping by the receptionist desk to find our intake packet. I never turn away anyone. Ever. Even if it is after hours, the leastI can do is get her an intake information sheet and a business card.
“Excuse me, miss," I say loudly, "I apologize, but we’re closed for the day, and my receptionist is gone. You’ll have to wait until Monday if you would like to come and make an appointment for intake." I firm my voice. "Is this an emergency?”
"No,"she says as I'm looking down, reaching into Cathy's drawer for the packet. I grab it and round the desk, flipping through and making sure everything's there. Assured that it is, I raise my head, and suddenly the woman turns her face to look up at me, and I freeze.
It’s like my brain stops working as she begins to speak. Holy fuck. I feel the blood drain from my head.
She'sbeautiful.
Her deep brown eyes, lined with a soft-brown kohl, pierce mine, and I stand there, mute. Completely dumbstruck and suffering as my brain literally turns to mush inside of my skull. I can't even tell you how I understand what she's saying to me because I think I'm losing all control of my mental faculties.
I'm not so far gone, though, that I don't see her eyes widen a little when she gets a look at my face. However, she doesn't awkwardly stare like every other woman seems to.
