Page 117 of Offside Devil

Her smile tightens, but it doesn’t break. “Over and over and over again, I have parents walk their children through that door because they think something is wrong with them. Between you and me, ninety percent of the time, the child is exhibiting perfectly normal behavior in response to a stressful situation that is outside of their control.”

“You been talking to Peter Morris?” I growl. “I’m sure he told you all about my past. I bet there’s a tally of how many NA meetings I’ve been to in a secret manila folder somewhere. Maybe a list of theories of all the ways I’m going to ruin my kid.”

“This is Aiden’s file and it isn’t secret.” She points to a forest green folder on the corner of the desk. “It also isn’t about you. I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Whitaker, because you’ve never been a patient of mine.”

“I won’t be, either. I’m not going to sit here and divulge my shit to you so you can sell it to some gossip rag.”

She crosses one leg over the other. “Are you worried the people at the NA meetings are going to sell your secrets, too? Is there anyone you open up to?”

Mira.

Hers is the first face I see, and no matter how hard I shake it, the mental Etch-a-Sketch doesn’t budge.

I told her about my parents. One little scrap of information—a tiny sliver of a memory from when I was a kid. But it’s the most I’ve talked about them in years.

“Everyone at NA is in the same place I am. They don’t judge.”

“Neither do I,” she says. “If all I wanted to do was judge people, I wouldn’t have taken on so many student loans. I went into psychology because I wanted to help people. The same reason people become leaders and sponsors in NA.”

“NA isn’t therapy,” I snap. “It’s… It’s advice. It’s technical advice you can apply to your day-to-day life.”

When I was first trying to get clean, Owen walked me through a simple checklist: stay out of risky situations, surround myself with people I could trust, pick up a hobby I cared about, learn how to relax.

So I steered clear of bars and clubs, hung out with Jace and Daniel and Owen, gave everything I had to hockey, and killed myself in the gym everyday so I was too exhausted to do anything other than relax.

Simple. Technical. Applicable.

Not like this shit.

“Soooo, therapy,” Dr. Turner summarizes. When I match her smile with a grimace, she holds up her hands. “I’m not trying to argue with you—but I like to think that I also offer my patients applicable advice they can use in their day-to-day lives.”

“Yeah, well, NA has better chairs.” I shift in the yellow, plastic chair, but it’s hard when my knees are in my chest.

“I told you there are bigger folding chairs in the closet.” She points to the rainbow-colored door behind me. It looks like a box of crayons threw up in here.

“I won’t be here long enough for it to matter,” I snap. “Just ask me if I hate my mother and if my father was cold and distant and we can get on our way, yeah?”

Dr. Turner purses her lips and she kind of looks like my mother. Mostly because they have the same shoulder-length blonde hair and cat-eye glasses. At least, that’s what my mom looked like the last time I saw her.

“Do you hate your mother?” she asks.

“No.”

“Was your father cold and distant?”

It’s been years and I can still hear my father’s deep, booming laugh. “No.”

“Well, glad we got that settled, then.”

I fling my hands up. “Don’t act all high and mighty. That’s what therapists do. You blame everything on the parents. My parents somehow fucked me up so I’m going to fuck Aiden up. It’s the way it’s always been and the way it always will be. It’s the fucked-up circle of life.”

She stares at me. “I had great parents.”

“Do you want an award?” I grumble.

“Sure. If you have one.”

I drag a frustrated hand through my hair. “Okay, listen, I’m sorry. I’m being rude.”

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