“How long have you been practicing therapy for?”
“About a year. And I’m a psychiatrist, which means I can prescribe medication for people who need the extra support.”
This gets him to scoff. “I wouldnever.”
Interesting response.
“Never what?” I probe.
He hesitates and I can see him calculating his response. “Not that there’s anything wrong with taking medication, I know some guys who do, for their nerves or whatever. But I prefer to steady my nerves in other ways.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I don’t know, like grabbing a beer or working out or?—”
“Running into burning buildings,” I finish. His eyes narrow in on me for a moment before he does something I don’t expect—he laughs.
“Yeah, like running into burning buildings.”
“How would you say your nerves have been recently?” I shift in my seat so I’m sitting on my feet with them tucked underneath me. He watches me closely, his hyperawareness on full alert since he’s in a situation that makes him uncomfortable. Even in a controlled environment like my office, he seems unsettled.
“They’re fine,” he answers promptly.
“Liar,” I shoot back quickly.
Something about me that I love is that I don’t sugar coat things, even with my patients. At least, the ones who I know can take the truth—the ones who I know don’t want me to sugar coat things for them. From the interactions I’ve had with him so far, I know he won’t appreciate me beating around the bush.
“Excuse me?” He raises a brow at me and tucks his chin towards his shoulder.
“I called you a liar. I can tell that your nerves, or better yet, your nervoussystemis anything but fine.”
He licks his lips and digs the pad of his thumb into his wrist, rubbing the soft bit of skin with a purpose. “And what makes you think that?”
“You do,” I say simply, peaking my eyebrows a fraction of an inch. This gets him to scowl at me. “You’ve been sitting on the edge of the couch as if it’s going to swallow you whole if you relax even a little. Your eyes have been scanning the room on high-alert ever since you walked in here. Even now, you’re trying to burn a spot into your wrist with your thumb. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”
When I jut my chin towards his hands, he pulls them apart and leans back on the couch, trying to act casual.
“Ten years in the Marines, five years as a firefighter. That’s a long time living in high-stress situations and I don’t even know what your childhood was like. That kind of life puts a lot of wear on a person, the kind of wear we don’t even realize we’re living with.”
“Like I said before, I’m fine.” He swallows hard.
I pause for a moment to let my words sink in and to give him a chance to add anything more. When he doesn’t, I set my feet back on the ground and sigh.
“Okay, you’re fine.” I clasp my hands together in front of me and give him a smile. “If you say you’re fine, you’re free to go.”
Without hesitation, he’s on his feet and heading for the door.
“But Miles,” I call out. He turns to face me, hand poised on the doorknob ready to bolt. “If you decide youaren’tfine, you have my number. I’ll leave this time open for you next week in case you decide you want to talk.”
“That’s very kind of you, doc, but I won’t be needing it.”
And with that, he slips out of my office and it isn’t long until I hear the lobby door close behind him.
5
MILES
Hot air puffs between my lips as I run down the sidewalk. It’s an unusually cool morning for October in Charleston but I’m not mad about it. The normal lowcountry humidity is starting to dissipate making my daily morning run a little more bearable. The sun is only starting to break over the waterline of the marina as I follow my standard five mile path. I’ve done this run daily for the last four months as a way to deal with the restlessness.
