“Enough about me, tell me about you. How’s your week so far?” I lean back in my chair and look at my friend.
Then, we fall into our weekly rhythm of coffee and chatting before heading out to face another day of helping other people who need us most.
A soft chimegoes off in my office that lets me know that someone has stepped into the waiting room. After working hard to build a consistent client base, I’ve managed to rent a space in downtown Charleston that’s entirely my own. A small waiting area allows patients to come in and sit down while my office is behind a door where I meet with them. It’s small, but I’ve made it into something safe andcomfortable. More than that, it’s something I’m really proud of.
I close the file I’m taking notes in and press myself up from my desk to greet my newest client. Passing the small gold placard my dad gave me with my full professional name on it, I straighten it and smile to myself before stepping out into the waiting room.
“Miles Adler?” I ask to confirm the right person is waiting for me.
He quickly stands from the chair he’s dwarfing with the sheer size of his body. My eyes scan him and quickly assess the facts I can take in without asking any questions. Tall, at least six foot, broad shoulders and arms that looked like they could easily carry several heavy fire hoses without breaking a sweat. He looks like he works out but isn’t ripped like some of the men I see when I actually make it to the gym. Soft, yet sturdy, with gentle brown eyes and matching brown hair.
“Present and accounted for,doc,” he drags out the moniker and extends a hand. When he does, the firehouse insignia on his navy blue jacket catches the light and I can’t help but look at it.
“Please, call me Hanna,” I correct, meeting his hand and giving it a shake. I have to tip my head up to look at him. My hardly above five foot three frame is no match for his towering height.
“Hanna. I’m Miles,” he introduces himself.
“I know,” I can’t help but tease with a smirk. I can sense he’s uncomfortable being here but also get the sense that he can take a little teasing. I’ve always had a heightened awareness of other people’s emotions ever since I was little. I get it from my dad which is why I went into psychology in the first place.
I pullmy hand from his and motion towards my office. “This way, please.”
We walk back into my office and I wait for him to step in before closing the door behind us.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, soda?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you though.” His head is on a swivel, taking in the new space and assessing the situation. Hyperawareness at its finest. Makes sense for a first responder. His fight or flight senses tell him it’s safe to get comfortable and he slips off the jacket he’s wearing. As he does, his muscles contract and I make note of the two very distinct tattoos on his toned arms.
‘The cutest ones!’Rae’s words ring out in my head as I reach for a fresh notepad and a pen from my desk. I take a quick breath before turning around to face him.
“Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. This space is just as much yours now as it is mine,” I direct, nodding towards the couch I keep in my office.
He audibly exhales as he lowers himself down. “You know having all this extra stuff on the walls increases the fire hazard of this room. And the bookshelf in front of the window blocks a critical emergency exit,” he comments, looking around seriously as he speaks.
My head looks at the bookshelf that’s halfway covering the window. Turning back to look at him, I give him a soft smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sitting on the edge of the couch, he crosses his arms defensively in front of his chest and finally brings his gaze back to me.
“So.”
“So,” I repeat, keeping my tone light and open. My glasses have slipped down my nose so I reach up to press them back into place. He watches me diligently, keeping hiseyes fixated to my fingers as they press the round silver frames I’ve needed to have adjusted for months now back into their rightful place.
Vigilant. Pays attention to details. Makes sense for someone who’s in the line of work he’s in.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time today, Ms. Smith, but I really don’t think I need to be here,” he says with an upright palm.
“Please, just call me Hanna,” I correct, intentionally skipping over his comment about not needing to be here.
“Okay…Hanna.” He wrings his hands in front of him as his eyes dart around the room.
“So you were in the Navy?” I ask, trying to not rush into why he’s really here. His captain had been a little more forthcoming on the phone than I’m sure he would appreciate, but I’m not going to tell him that. When he gives me a perplexed look, I nod my head towards the tattoo on his arm.
“Marines, actually.” When his shoulders drop I know I’ve found a soft spot in his otherwise tough exterior.
“How long did you serve?” I ask.
“Ten years.”
Instead of replying, I sit and wait. Watching him with a smile, I get comfortable in the silence and know that, eventually, he’ll say more simply to fill the void. It’s a tactic I use on clients who aren’t particularly chatty but I want to encourage them to open up. We stare at one another for several long, silent seconds before he can’t take it anymore.
