Page 8 of Look, Don't Touch

When I close out Zhan's video call, a zing that ingesting jet fuel can’t produce runs through me. It has nothing to do with the ultimatum she gave her girlfriend ending with an invite to move in together. It really should. What a step for the two, who’d been in a playful holding pattern for more than two years, acting more like a het couple than some het couples I’ve counseled.

I close my laptop, hurry to the hulking chair, and shuffle with it discordantly until it’s facing the windows once more. Instead of taking the few minutes to dictate notes, I grab my phone, turn on the best riff from Trey Azagthoth, and let the vicious chords take me away.

Death metal isn’t my everyday music, not anymore. But it’s my go-to when I need a quick release. It blanks the slate like no other. It had been the only thing that worked for me for a while. It’s better than drugs. Unless you ask an evangelical Christian. They’d probably rather you shoot up while praising God than like songs named “Incipit Satan” or “Let the Horror and Chaos Come.” And let’s face it, those are the mild titles.

My anxiety melts through my limbs and soaks into the floor. I manage to keep from moshing because my fiery red hair already looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet or, more accurately, slept intermittently crisscross apple sauce while leaning against a hospital wall.

It’s boisterous. It’s deviant. It’s transcendent.

The intercom beeps, stunning me still because, of course, I moshed. To hell with my hair.

“Hailey?” My aunt’s concerned voice filters in among the crushing of priests and the feeble church. Metaphorically speaking.

“Yep?” I scramble to the chair where I’d thrown my phone in a fit of flailing arms and bouncing. The stupid screen refuses to produce the quick pause button. I’m forced to show it my face before I can stop the respectably loud screams. “Sorry about that.”

“Mr. Judge has arrived.”

“Right. Sixty seconds and send him in.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I grumble and run to my private bathroom just to the right of the exit from my office. “Sweet mercy.” My usually milky-white skin is blotchy, and my cheeks are so red, I look like I’ve sustained a slap to the face, turned, and offered the other cheek. Luckily, he won’t see that. But my hair. “Ugh!” The gently heated curls I’d put in my tit-length locks yesterday have been overtaken by the beast, as I call it. Some clumps are corkscrewed in tight curls, others are frizzed out and fighting for freedom, while others are still stick straight.

I swipe at the drooping mascara under my eyes, grab a banana clip from the cabinet, and do my best to twist a presentable hairstyle. It looks like the last Christmas tree left on the lot is sprouting out of my head. I fold it down, clip it in as well, and bolt for my chair. Not five seconds later, the door opens quietly and closes even more so.

“Mr. Judge?” It’s then I notice that I’m sitting on my phone. As demurely as I can, I fish it out from under my ass, hoping beyond hope that he’s watching where he’s walking or getting situated in his seat. I leave it next to my thigh because I can’t put it in my desk drawer, where I usually keep it during sessions.

“Hailey,” he rasps from his seat.

I’m so relieved that he might not have seen me sticking my hand under my butt that it takes more than a second to register what he called me. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

“‘Chapel of Ghouls.’ I would have never pegged you as a Morbid Angel fan.”

My jaw detaches from my body and lands on my lap. Most people don’t know death metal. Even those who think they do are under the impression that Pantera and Iron Maiden are among them. This man picked out a rather obscure track from the late eighties after only hearing a few seconds of the song.

“I’m equal parts embarrassed that you heard it, intrigued that you recognized it, shocked that you knew it was death metal, and relieved that you know I wasn’t in here performing ritual sacrifice.”

“I’m not fully convinced that you weren’t performing a ritual sacrifice. You’re breathing heavily and your nape is damp, which makes your red hair look a bit like blood. Let me see your hands.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” So I lift my hands on either side of my head and show him the backs and my palms.

“Me neither. But you’re all clear.”

I drop my hands onto my thighs. “You know metal?”

“For a while, a long time ago, death metal was my lifeline. My therapy before I could afford therapy or cared to explore it.”

I nod in understanding.

“Do we need to cancel so you can continue your session?” His husky voice is so different from others I’ve heard, and I’ve heard a lot.

“You wish.” I chuckle. “Serotonin balances the mood and promotes sleep, digestion, wound healing, nausea, blood clotting, bone health, and sexual desire. Dopamine is part of the brain’s reward system. It makes us feel good but is also involved in learning, mood, heart rate, kidney and blood vessel function, sleep once more, and pain processing. Oxytocin reduces stress, fear, and inflammation, increases trust, and promotes social bonds. Endorphins are natural pain relievers and mood boosters.”

“Is the science lesson extra?”

“Last session, I decided to charge you triple. So I’ll throw the science lesson in for free.”

His laughter is so warm. It toasts my insides and stretches a grin over my lips.

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