Page 6 of Dream Girl

“She’s Amelia.” I flatten my hands on my knees.

Amelia is Amelia. She’s brighter than the sun, kinder than a saint, and the sweetest touch to the bitterness in my heart. One look at her and I know that I would do anything for her; treason, espionage, and murder aren’t limits to the things I would be willing to commit with my bloodied hands.

Doctor Fulton smiles, disarming and supportive. “How do you feel about her?”

It’s a stupid question. My heart knows the answer, but Doctor Fulton is a professional at reading people even though I have put up many walls against her. She is well aware of the answer I have, but she still wants me to admit it with my own voice.

“Wouldn’t trade millions for her,” I answer truthfully.

Millions of dollars, millions of acres of land, millions of people—they can burn in Hell. I only care about keeping Amelia safe and out of harm’s away, and my body can be shredded to pieces if it means that she can smile at me with so much love.

Doctor Fulton smiles. “We have made great progress, Milo.”

In my humble opinion, but not really, I believe we’re still at square one as if it’s my first year seeing this therapist. I haven’t seen any progress being made, and any nonsense she writes down on her notes is for her professional opinion to the government.

My release from these court-ordered therapy sessions depends on her expert judgment.

“Alright.” Doctor Fulton stands up and finds her calendar on her desk before scanning over the dates.

“We will schedule you in for your next appointment a month from today. January fourteenth, it’s a Wednesday. Does ten o’clock in the morning work for you?”

I nod wordlessly. I have no plans for that far, and I can always postpone it to another date if something comes up.

At first, my appointments were a weekly thing, and then they turned into two weeks at a time until she deemed it suitable enough for me to only return to the sessions at a monthly rate.

She smiles again. A motherly presence drapes around her as she nods at me. “I will see you next month.”

The reinforcement is unnecessary, but I don’t point out that fact as it’s more of an opinion. She always does that as if it’s to establish a routine for me to remember and have a familiarity with these sessions.

I move out of her office as she’s organizing her notes. Space isn’t the biggest, but it leaves a sense of comfort and tranquility for anxious patients. The receptionist waves as I walk out and out of the building where the security guard only looks up at me.

I pull my coat closer to me as the winter breeze assaults my face. The iciness travels down my hands and onto my arms while I keep my focus on the street. It’s still early in the afternoon on a Saturday. People are wandering around while a group of runner jogs on the opposite side of the street near the park.

Stopping at a coffee shop, I almost regret going inside because of the people crowding there. I square my shoulders and force my legs to act. My mind is reeling in the image of Amelia welcoming me home with open arms and a smile that blinds me.

I want to spoil her a little on a sunny afternoon. My awareness of my surrounding heightens as I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, digging my nails into my palms and setting an impressive glare on my face while simultaneously deterring bystanders with a stoic expression.

As people are ordering and stepping to the side, more drinks are being given to those who ordered first, and they need to leave by pushing past the line of people at the cashier. A few have tried to come up to me, but my imposing presence made them think otherwise.

“What can I get you?” the man asks, lips twitching in a nervous smile.

I scan the menu on top, but I already know what I’m going to order while the man suggests a list of things.

“We have traditional black coffee, strong and bitterly delicious. You can’t go wrong with espresso or a latte with a sprinkle of sugar—”

The nervous babbling seizes when he watches my unchanging face, and his Adam’s apple bobs hesitantly. He sucks in a breath when the barista unintentionally bumps into him, and I hear a sharp inhale of breath from beside me.

“A mint caramel hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun.”

The cashier stammers and punches in my total before I take out the cash in my pocket. A burst of choked laughter beside me sounds familiar when the tune of the voice coughs out an ‘excuse me’ before a throat being cleared can be heard.

I hand the money to the cashier and watch the man who had contained his laugh in the back of his hand regain his composure.

He’s recognizable. He has a head full of blond hair and blue eyes, a grin stretching his cheeks and a yellow scarf around his neck.

“Here’s your change, sir.”

I jerk my attention to the shaking man in front of me. “Keep it.”

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