Page 3 of Look, Don't Touch

I fold my hands in my lap and give him a minute to decide. It’s a quiet time in the cocoon of my office as the city bustles below.

“Since I didn’t hear the door, I suppose you’re still here.”

“Against my better judgment.”

My smile is big and out of place. Luckily, he can’t see it. “If we all utilized our better judgment?—”

“You’d be out of a job?”

“Hardly. My job is not based on a person’s inability to judge right and wrong or even adhere to the former. I have a job because the human condition is complex and resilient. I have a job despite people’s most dire situations. Because even in the darkest, coldest, quietest corners of our minds, we have hope.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

I should say no.

I should say It’s uplifting and why I do what I do.

“Not always, but sometimes,” I agree. “Enough about me and my job. Tell me your name.”

“You already know my name.”

“Indeed. I also know you’re here, and you’re pissed about it.” I know he has a wall around him that’s a mile high, and it’ll take a long-ass time to chisel the tiniest divot. If those divots are precisely placed, the wall will crumble, no matter how tall.

No matter how shy or closed off a client is in the real world, the promise of privacy and confidentiality and the potential to help unlock the worries and the words that have been held prisoner for years, maybe decades. Often, it only takes a question or two, and my clients spew their problems like a busted water main.

Mr. Judge isn’t one of those.

“What good will telling you my name, which you already know, do?”

I seriously consider charging him double. He’ll be that much work or more.

“Humor me.”

Not even a whisper.

“Hello, my name is Hailey Fitzpatrick. You may call me Dr. Fitzpatrick or Doc Fitz if you like.”

“But not Hay Bale?”

My chuckle catches me off guard. His comment is out of left field. I suspect he heard my assistant on the intercom. My reception area isn’t large by any means, but I’m surprised he’d mention it. Then again, if he’s trying to throw me off and get the upper hand, it’s a job well done.

I press my grin into a line. “Certainly not.”

“But your assistant can?”

“I’d fire her if I could.”

“But…good help is hard to find?”

“But…she’s my aunt.”

“Ah, Nettie Lou and Hay Bale. Did you grow up on a farm?”

“I’ll tell you what, you answer the remainder of my questions without cutting me off, and without subterfuge, and I’ll tell you where I grew up.”

“Fine.”

“Fabulous. Start with your name.”

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