Page 15 of Isabela

“Isabela, sit down before you fall over. Now,” he insists.

The door is open, so I slowly sink into a chair.

“Okay, okay,” I mutter. “I think I overdid it today. I don’t feel great.”

Dr. Murphy stares at me, and I wonder what I said or did to deserve this almost glare of his.

“Why do you think you have PTSD?” he asks instead and I sigh.

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud. It’s nothing. After the car crash?—”

I’m trying to save my ass after my mistake but he lifts his hand.

“I understand you and I have had our differences, but I do not deserve to be lied to,” he says, scowling. “You just had the beginnings of a panic attack over a closed fucking door. What?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, cutting him off. “Next topic, or I’m leaving.”

I’m only sitting here still so I can catch my breath. That’s it.

Frowning at me, he opens the door of a mini fridge and pulls out a water bottle. Handing it to me with a stern glare, he sits on the edge of his desk and waits.

Sighing, I open the bottle and take a sip, and I swear I hear him mutter, “Good girl.”

Forcing myself to swallow without showing I heard him, I gasp painfully as I take a breath. Damn, that hurt.

“You don’t want to talk about a lot of things,” Dr. Murphy sighs. “Have you even been to the doctor for your injuries?”

“No insurance.” I shrug. My uncle pays for the bare minimum of things. “No, I’m not going to the school health center like this. Next question?”

“How did you even manage to study for your exam this way?” he asks. He has a lot of fucking questions.

“I studied before… all of this,” I state vaguely. I spend so much time alone, it’s hard to censor myself sometimes. “I know I did well, though. Can I go now?”

“No,” he says simply. “Your lip needs to be sealed or it won’t heal properly. I have a tube of liquid stitches around here somewhere. Don’t move.”

Raising my hand, I wiggle my fingers to irritate him. The water is helping give me a bit of my spark back. Taking another sip of water as I enjoy Dr. Murphy’s annoyed sigh, I drop my hand in my lap.

I should tell him I hope I scar horribly and not to bother, right? Then the mayor won’t want me.

“What are you thinking about?” Dr. Murphy asks sharply. He’s in front of me with the tube, and I realize my eyes are filling with tears.

Fuck. I’m usually so much better at controlling my anxiety and thoughts.

“Nothing,” I rasp, blinking rapidly.

“You’re crying,” he says in disgust, and I swipe under my eyes as I shake my head.

“Not anymore,” I correct. “I can probably do that myself. I’ve been applying ointment and stuff on my cuts, but I didn’t think my lip was that bad.”

“Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Cohen?” Dr. Murphy asks, opening the tube and reading the back of the box quickly.

“No,” I tell him honestly. “I haven’t dated at all. No boyfriend.”

Tilting my head back, his fingers hold my chin still as he applies the liquid bandage. “Don’t move,” he warns me. It feels cool as he puts it on my lip, and he takes advantage of my inability to speak.

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said while you’ve been in my presence,” Dr. Murphy remarks. “I despise liars, but I think you’re lying to protect yourself, and that concerns me. What the fuck does a twenty-one year old have to worry about with a trust fund your size? You’re a fucking heiress with more money than God.”

Not remotely accurate, but please tell me all about my life.

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