The next morning, I sit in my car outside her office, gripping the steering wheel like it might keep me from bolting.
This is stupid.
I don’t need this.
Still, I go in.
The waiting room is quiet. Too clean. Too calm. Sports magazines lay spread on every table, along with a few celebrity magazines. I check in with the receptionist, fill out eleven pages of paperwork, and give her my insurance card.
I flip through a few magazines, not reading a single article.
“Parker O’Ryan?”
I look up. The doctor’s gaze locks on mine.
Recognition hits.
Annika stands in the doorway with a black tablet tucked to her chest, hair pulled back, posture controlled. Same glaring eyes underneath her glasses. Same closed-off calm that always felt like a challenge.
My college tutor.
Who I swear hates me with a passion.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath.
Her lips press together. “I could say the same.” Then she locks back into professional mode. “Come on back.”
I follow her down the hall into an office that looks intentionally neutral—no sports posters, no motivational crap. Just space. Silence.
I stay standing.
She notices. “Have a seat.”
“I’m good.”
Her eyebrow arches. “You’re here because you’re not.”
She settles across from me with a tablet balanced on her knee. “Before we start—this is confidential, except for Sutton O’Ryan. You signed a release stating I could talk with her about your progress.”
“I know what I signed.”
I’m sitting across from Annika once again. She never bought my bullshit in college, and although I passed the class, she didn’t make it easy on me, quitting on me before finals.
“And I’m not here to relive senior year tutoring,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “You always reduce things when you’re uncomfortable.”
“And you always psychoanalyze when someone disagrees with you.”
Her eyes flash. “I was right about you back then.”
“Ha. And you were annoying,” I shoot back. “Always acting like you had me figured out.” My eyes dare her to kick me out.
She exhales, her breath stretching between us. “You didn’t make it difficult. Same old clichés. Jocks and party girls. Wasn’t much else to you.”
“Like I said back then. You don’t know me,” I scoff. “You got paid and I showed up.”
“Late.”
